The Clue at Black Creek Farm (Nancy Drew Diaries #9)(10)

Sam shook his head. “It’s . . . no big deal,” he said. “Just unusual. Yes, girls, if you’re finished, perhaps we can head out?”

I glanced at my friends. They made murmurs of agreement and pushed back from the table. Sam rose and led us to a screen door off the back of the kitchen. We followed him out and onto another low porch, down a ramp, and out toward the fields of crops.

Sam looked up at the sun and let out a satisfied sigh. “What a day, what a day,” he murmured. “You don’t get weather like this on the twenty-sixth floor of an office high-rise, I’ll tell you that.”

“Why don’t you tell us about how you built the farm?” George suggested. “Last night Holly told me that this was all an unused field before you bought it and started building Black Creek Farm. How did you plan it? How did you figure out what to do?”

Sam smiled, surveying the farm with a look of contentment. “Oh,” he said. “Well . . .”

He went on to tell us a complicated story about agricultural research, irrigation theory, nutritional optimization, and a bunch of other terms I didn’t fully understand. But as Sam spoke and lovingly pointed out his fields of greens, corn, peas, eggplants, summer squash, zucchini, and tomatoes, one thing was clear: Sam really loved farming and, despite what Jack had said the night of the buffet, had put a lot of thought into how his farm would work best. When George asked a throwaway question about why he’d planted greens in a certain field, and not closer to the house, Sam went into a long explanation about hours of direct sunlight, evaporation levels, and soil composition. He really knows what he’s doing, I realized. I remembered my conversation with Ned the day before: Isn’t it likely that this guy just screwed up and put something on his plants that he wasn’t supposed to?

Sorry, Ned, but I don’t think Occam’s razor holds up in this case. I watched Sam’s eyes light up as he plucked a perfect red tomato from a plant that snaked up a crosshatch of wire.

That’s the thing about solving mysteries. It’s not always the simplest solution that turns out to be true.

“Sam, can you tell us more about what happened yesterday?” I asked.

Sam’s face fell as he handed the tomato to George. “Take that home,” he encouraged her. “Just . . . be sure to wash it thoroughly.”

George nodded, raising her eyebrows at me.

Sam cleared his throat. “The incident, if you could call it that . . . it happened over here.”

We followed obediently as Sam led us through the tomatoes, up a small hill, past the barn and chicken coop (filled with the trilling, clucking sounds of birds), and toward a large glass greenhouse.

“Oh, you have a greenhouse!” George observed happily. “Does that mean you can grow crops all year long?”

Sam waved his hand to indicate more or less. “Almost. Hearty plants like kale and cabbage, beets and parsnips, those do best. But yes, the greenhouse is very helpful. With it, we can produce cucumbers and tomatoes in the spring, and going well into the fall. We can start seeds in a safe, nurturing environment. It was an excellent investment.”

He pulled a key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock in the door, twisting and pushing the door open. He walked in, gesturing for us to follow, and I entered first, followed by Bess and then George.

“Oh . . . oh no!” George cried. I looked around and realized what my friend was reacting to: the greenhouse had been trashed. Dirt, uprooted plants, pots, and trays littered the floor, and it looked like someone had taken the time to carefully rip each plant apart. There were even broken panes in the greenhouse’s glass walls.

Bess and I gasped. “When did this happen?” I asked.

Sam shrugged. “Sometime between seven a.m. and three p.m. yesterday,” he said. “It was stupid—I always keep this locked, but yesterday morning I forgot. Guess my mind was on other things.”

I stepped farther into the greenhouse, trying to take in every detail. As I picked my way through the dirt and shattered pots to the far wall, I caught sight of something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Oh my gosh!” I pointed, and Bess and George ran up behind me to take a look.

Someone had used dirt to scrawl a message on the floor: KILL THE FARM!

George’s mouth dropped open. “Sam,” she called, “did you see this?”

Sam, who was lingering by the door, moved forward, climbing through the overturned pots to the spot where George was standing. He surveyed the words with a stunned expression. “I’ll be . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “No,” he said to George. “I didn’t see that yesterday.”

“It seems like a pretty clear message,” I said, stating the obvious.

Sam nodded slowly. “I . . .” He gave a nervous laugh. “It’s strange. Of course it makes me angry, seeing this. But it also makes me feel . . .”

“Scared?” asked Bess. I noticed then that she looked a little alarmed. Her blue eyes were wide, her brows raised.

Sam thought a moment. “Not scared, though maybe I should be. No . . . I feel relieved.” He chuckled again. “Because this proves it, doesn’t it? It proves that I’m not crazy. Someone out there is trying to sabotage me. Someone out there wants to destroy Black Creek Farm!” He brought his hand down, slapping at the table beside him, strewn with torn-up pepper plants.