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

I shook my head, realizing that made no sense. “No, let’s just knock again,” I said, frowning. “I don’t think they heard us before. And I have a feeling this could go on awhile.”

George nodded and lifted her hand to rap sharply on the door: four precise knocks. When we didn’t immediately hear footsteps coming toward us, she knocked again, a little louder. There was silence for a moment, and then the scrambling sound of someone rushing to the door. Somebody pulled back the curtain that blocked most of the window in the door, let it fall back, and quickly swung the door open.

“Nancy!”

It was Abby, pink-cheeked and dressed in a neat button-down and jeans.

“I’m so glad you made it! Thank you for stopping by, girls. Please, come on in.”

We cautiously followed Abby into the foyer. It was a small, neat, wood-paneled room, holding a table decorated with family photos and ceramic animals. Abby saw me looking at the animals and smiled.

“Those are our farm animals,” she said kindly. “I think Sam was a little disappointed that we decided to raise only chickens on the farm. So we got some miniature cows, pigs, and sheep for him to tend.”

“Hello, Nancy.” At the mention of his name, Sam’s booming voice sprang from the doorway that led to the kitchen. “And your friends, Jess and—?”

“Bess,” Bess said with a smile, holding out her hand. Sam nodded and shook it.

“And George,” George added. “Your farm is beautiful,” she said as she and Sam shook hands.

“Thank you very much,” he replied. “Yes, it’s our own little piece of paradise. Speaking of which, can I offer you some of my famous sweet potato—”

There was a loud groan from the kitchen. Jack.

“Dad, just throw them away!” Jack suddenly appeared behind his father, his dark eyes shining. He glanced at us but didn’t acknowledge us. “I didn’t just mean they’re unsafe for Julie to eat. I meant they’re unsafe for everyone.”

Sam sighed, his face reddening. He looked uncomfortable.

He wants to throttle Jack, I realized. But not in front of the three of us.

“That’s a shame,” I said quickly, wanting to speak up before Sam or Abby changed the subject. “Sweet potatoes are my favorite vegetable. What’s wrong with the . . . What kind of dish is it, Sam?”

Sam spoke without taking his eyes off his son. “Pancakes,” he replied. “My own recipe. The sweet potatoes are from the farm, of course.”

“Which makes them unsafe,” Jack added, a crimson color spreading over his ears and cheeks. I could make out a vein throbbing in his neck. “Come on, Dad. It isn’t rocket science.”

“What makes them unsafe?” Sam shot back. I recognized the same hardness in his dark eyes that I’d seen in Jack’s the night of the buffet. They’re both stubborn, I realized.

“The fact that they’re crawling with some kind of contaminant?” Jack replied. “The fact that they made my wife so sick she had to be brought to the ER? Dad, really.”

“I washed them thoroughly,” Sam insisted. “And I cooked them well.”

“It’s still a risk!” Jack’s voice rose to a yelp.

Abby cleared her throat. All eyes turned to her.

“Why don’t we set this subject aside for the moment and invite our guests into the kitchen to sit down?” she asked. “Pancakes or no, we have plenty of coffee and fresh blueberry muffins—made with blueberries I bought, I should add.”

There was silence for a moment, and Bess smiled eagerly. “That sounds great,” she said. “Blueberries are my favorite vegetable.”

Sam chuckled, and Abby and Jack soon joined in. I felt relieved. Bess always seemed to know the right thing to say to lighten the mood.

But Jack glared at Sam as we departed for the kitchen and shook his head. “I’m going out,” he muttered. He walked out the front door, and a few seconds later I could hear a car starting up, and then driving down the driveway.

We settled in the kitchen, where Julie, looking much healthier than the last time I had seen her, sat sipping from a mug at the table. There was a plate near the stove piled high with orange pancakes, and a plate sat near the sink, swiped clean, dripping with syrup. I noted a small pile of pancakes in the sink. The pancakes Sam tried to serve Julie, I figured.

Julie gestured to a blueberry muffin sitting on a saucer in front of her. “If it’s all the same to you guys, I’ll just eat this,” she said with a wry smile. “Hello, girls.”

“How are you feeling?” Bess asked, moving forward and taking a seat at the table next to Julie.

“Much better,” Julie replied. “The hospital did a great job of stopping the nausea and keeping me hydrated. But I was still feeling tired until this morning. Now I just feel . . . well, as tired as an eight-months-pregnant woman should feel.”

I laughed quietly, along with my friends. George and I took seats at the table, and Abby served us coffee, tea, and warm muffins with butter. The conversation turned to gentler topics, like the weather and what we were studying in school. After a few minutes, Abby turned to Sam. “Why don’t you take the girls outside?” she asked. “Show them around. Show them what happened.”

I glanced at Sam. “Yes, what is it that happened yesterday?” I asked. Abby hadn’t given me many details on the phone and had told me it was nothing to worry about, but of course I was worried. Under the circumstances, anything unusual that happened at Black Creek Farm seemed like something to worry about.