Confessions of a Teen Sleuth (6 page)

"Which means that he's bound to have the evidence under lock and key in the vice presidential residence!" Frank gushed. "The
only safe in the residence is in the first-floor den."

"We could use my hydraulic jackscrew!" Tom suggested inventively.

"But how do we get in the house?" mused Bud fretfully.

Tom's eyes lit up. "We don't," he declared. A broad smile spread across the face of the lanky young inventor. "We send a robot!"

As soon as night fell, we huddled in Tom's atomic-powered hovercraft on a quiet street near the vice presidential residence
and set about recovering the evidence that could force a presidential coup.

Tom's eyes lit up. "We don't. We send a robot!"

Tom manipulated the robot using two levers on an instrument panel inside the hovercraft. A binocular camera was mounted on
the robot's head, allowing us to view its progress on a monitor. The robot was two feet tall and had two extendable arms on
each side of its boxy torso.

"It's the first robot ever powered by Swiftonium," Tom explained mechanically. "That's the radioactive isotope we discovered
in South America. Of course, his shell is made of Tomasite, for heat resistance and to absorb gamma rays, but I've taken the
extra step of covering the Tomasite with a coat of black Swiftonite paint, so the fellow can move unnoticed at night through
populated areas." As if to illustrate his point, we watched on the monitor as the robot passed several Secret Service agents
who remained unaware of its presence.

The robot approached the front door of the residence, and we watched entranced as it reached an extendable arm up, picked
the lock, turned the doorknob, and entered the home of the vice president of the United States. We breathed a collective sigh
of relief when the robot was safely inside, only to have that sigh turn to a gasp when an enormous racket exploded over the
speakers on either side of the monitor. Tom expertly spun the robot around to face the source of the noise. We all immediately
recognized Checkers, the Nixon family's cocker spaniel, who now stood snarling and barking at the invading robot.

"Quick," Frank demanded. "Steer the robot into the den before someone comes to check on the dog!"

With lightning reflexes, Tom guided the machine from the foyer to the den, using an extendable arm to quickly shut the door
behind him, locking the crazed canine in the hallway.

"Nice job, old man!" complimented Bud.

"We're not done yet," Tom cautioned.

Our eyes were glued to the monitor as Tom guided the robot over to the wall safe behind the desk. Frank knew about the safe
from the day he had come to the residence to break the news to Truman that Roosevelt was dead. Truman had removed some important
papers before Frank drove him to the White House.

"The reception is good enough to activate the sonic inter-ferer," Tom announced. He pulled a lever in the hovercraft. "That
should absorb the noise of the hydraulic jack." He manipulated several other controls, and the robot retrieved the jack from
its hollow body and began drilling into the lock on the safe's door. After several long moments, the door swung open. Tom
activated a penlight on one of the robot's arms, and we examined the contents in the safe on the grainy monitor. We could
see a metal lockbox, several bundles of Cuban pesos, and a stack of files. The top file was labeled "Hannah Gruen."

"That's it!" I exclaimed.

Tom directed the robot to pick up the file and insert it and the jack into its torso compartment. With steady motions, he
guided the machine back to the hallway, past a wall display of framed photographs of Tricia and Pat, around the corner to
the foyer, and back out the front door, just as Checkers, alert again to the intruder, came scrambling from his resting spot
at the base of the stairs.

We waited until we were all safely aboard the Sky Queen to examine the file. Inside was a Communist Party meeting log that
showed that a Miss Hannah Gruen had attended three party meetings in 1913. Affixed to the log with a paper clip was a smiling
photograph of Hannah Gruen and Dwight David Eisenhower at the 1915 Sam Houston Sweetheart's Dance & Rodeo.

Frank used the Sky Queen's radiotyper to send a coded message to the White House, informing the president of our success.
A few minutes later, the instrument picked up and decoded a response.

"What does it say?" demanded Bud.

Frank read the message aloud: " 'Good job, team. Leave the rest to me.'"

"What do you think he's going to do?" I asked Frank.

"They should lock Nixon up!" Tom suggested arrestingly.

Frank looked thoughtful. "If I know the president," he murmured, "he'll find a way to turn the tables on Nixon. It may take
years, but he'll find a way to make sure Nixon gets exactly what he deserves."

Tom, Bud, and Frank flew me home in the Sky Queen. Tom and Bud stayed below in the pilot's compartment, and Frank and I rode
in the astrodome.

"Back to River Heights," Frank declared.

"Yes," I replied.

"How is Ted?"

"Ned."

"Sorry."

"He's fine. He's a vice president now at R.H. Mutual."

"And your son?"

I reached up and smoothed a piece of Frank's dark hair into place underneath his jaunty army cap. "He looks just like his
father," I whispered. My voice caught and I turned away. "Sometimes it breaks my heart to look at him."

Frank's voice was small. "I ought to be getting back. The president needs me."

I gave him a brave smile. "It's what I love about you."

Tom poked his blond head into the astrodome. "I'm afraid the wind's too strong to land," he announced. "We'll have to lower
you down." I held Frank's gaze for a moment longer and then followed Tom down to the bay of the craft, where the young scientist
lowered me with a swaying magnetic cable into dark expanse of my own backyard.

I could see my father and Ned through the kitchen window as I approached the back door. Hannah Gruen would be home soon. My
own true aunt. (Eloise Drew, my supposed spinster aunt who lived in New York City, was a complete fabrication constructed
by Carolyn Keene. In fact my father was an only child.) I used to think that I had not lived enough. I had a few great summers
pursuing mysteries as a teenager, and I had been chasing them ever since. It was at that that moment, standing in our backyard
looking at my family behind the glass, that I finally accepted that those summers were over. One morning you wake up and realize
that the world has moved on. It was time to grow up. It was time to stop sleuthing and embrace my life as a mother and as
a wife. Perhaps, I told myself, embracing domesticity would prove to be my greatest adventure yet.

It turned out to be my most harrowing.

VI THE MYSTERY OF THE CONGOLESE PUPPET, 1959

T
his is strictly dullsville," my pretty chum Bess Marvin sighed, adjusting the Moroccan tunic she had brought back from
the trip to Tangier that had followed her third divorce. "Dig?"

"Dig?"

"Hoo-boy, Sister," Bess exclaimed. "You're one real gone chick." She stretched out on my davenport and went back to reading
Exodus,
which she had just been assigned to condense for
Reader's Digest.
Bess's perceived weight problem, thanks to Carolyn Keene's character assassination, had led her to a life spent trawling for
men in search of affirmation. Her most recent husband, a beatnik poet, had abandoned Bess at a North Beach coffee house after
telling her that she had been "weighing him down." He had immediately gone on to publish a well-received chapbook of poetry
titled
"Pretty, Plump Blond."
Still heartbroken, Bess flew to River Heights after her trip to Tangier and had been staying with us for almost six weeks.
Fast approaching fifty, Bess held stubbornly to her youth and had coped with her breakup by adopting the jive talk of the
current youth culture. It was getting on my nerves.

"I have no idea what you just said," I sighed, returning to my dishes.

Hannah Gruen had died two years before. Though I had investigated her demise in great detail for several months, even I had
to admit, finally, that it was due to natural causes. She had kept my secret to the end. And I had kept hers. What's more,
per my backyard promise, I had committed to the life of a dutiful housewife. I was not good at it and was often distracted
by my ongoing pursuit of missing socks and waylaid keys. My greatest memories of those days revolve around a missing hamster.
Sadly, we did not recover him alive. But it was still thrilling.

The back door burst open and in flew Ned, followed closely by teenage Ned Junior. Their clothes were caked with mud and their
eyes were wild. My back tensed reflexively at their approach.

"Wipe your feet," I cautioned.

Ned grinned excitedly. "I think we're making real progress!"

He and Ned Junior had been building a bomb shelter in the backyard for several months. Ned had gotten it in his head that
I wanted one after I had made a passing comment after reading an article in
Ladies' Home Journal
about the A-bomb. He could not be dissuaded.

"That's nice, dear," I remarked.

"Want to see the fallout minibar we built?" Ned asked, eyes bright. "If you huddle under it, it doubles as protection against
atomic radiation. I painted it blue, your favorite color."

The phone rang. I picked it up and immediately recognized the urgent voice of my father, Carson Drew, the world-renowned attorney-turned-judge-turned-losing-city-council-candidate.
While he had grown more wizened, he maintained his healthy spirits.

"Nancy!" he croaked. "Can you come over right away? I've come across something you'll want to see."

I hesitated only for a moment. "Sure, Dad," I agreed, with a sideways look at the Neds. "I'm on my way."

I sped to my stately childhood home behind the wheel of my blue 1958 Ford Ranch Wagon. I had traded in my latest roadster
two years before, after Ned decided that it wasn't practical for a woman my age. I checked my appearance in the rearview
mirror. My hair had started to gray and I now dyed it. At first I had tried blond, but it didn't suit me, so I had finally
gone back to titian. I had grown accustomed to my aging features. I was still a handsome woman. My breasts were just a little
lower and my hips a little wider. Cherry Ames, I happened to know, had gotten quite fat. Beside me, Bess twirled a piece of
her silver blond mane and looked bored in the passenger seat. She was tanned and bedecked with beaded jewelry from her travels.
I envied her freedom, if not her insecurities.

The house was the same as it always had been: a comfortable, three-story brick Colonial with a large front yard planted with
rosebushes. How many eavesdroppers had we caught behind those rosebushes over the years? How many times had my father's study
been burgled? But now a moving van sat outside. I stared at it gloomily. I had lived the happiest days of my life in that
house. Now my teenage years would finally be truly lost to me. The acute passage of time seized me with despair.

Bess, seeming to sense my difficulties, straightened up. "Well, are we going to make the scene or what?" she demanded.

I sighed and tried to think of something pleasant like hula hoops and coonskin caps. "Let's go," I replied, forcing a smile.

My stepmother, Marty Drew, nee King, and I had never gotten along, though I had made an effort to remain civil toward her.
Now she had convinced my father, who was retiring, to sell my childhood home and move to Flagstaff to be closer to her relatives.

When Bess and I walked inside, we found my spacious, comfortable former home stripped of the belongings I had known and instead
stacked full of moving boxes. Even the mantel, always a focal point of the living room, was bare. Marty had sold the old clock,
fan doll, and ivory charm that I had displayed there since high school at a garage sale a few weeks before.

My father, still distinguished looking though far less handsome, approached us from the living room with an excited expression.
He was slightly stooped and his hair had thinned to just a few wisps that seemed to tremble independently of his movements.

"Hello, girls," he wheezed. "You'll never believe what came in the mail."

He led us to the kitchen, where a strange wooden figurine sat propped next to the electric refrigerator.

"What's the beef, Daddy-o?" asked Bess.

"It's a Congolese puppet," my father explained. "A nice one, if I'm not mistaken."

"Where did it come from?" I quizzed him.

"It was delivered yesterday." He paused. "It was addressed to your mother!"

"My missing mother?" I asked, momentarily taken aback.

"Yes. To Constance Drew."

"Far out," exclaimed Bess.

I examined the puppet and the open packaging that lay beside it. There was no return address. The postmark indicated that
it had been mailed from overseas. But my mother had not gone by the name Constance Drew in more than thirty years.

"It's a pretty nice puppet," my father commented.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" I asked. My enthusiasm wavered. "It looks hard to clean."

"I don't know," my father shrugged. "Take it home? I'd take it, but Marty says there's no room in Flagstaff."

The puppet, carved out of ebony, was in the shape of a laughing man. It was dressed in tribal finery and looked quite old.
It wasn't really my style, but I thought it might look nice displayed in the new bomb shelter, so I stowed it carefully in
the back of the station wagon. I admit that I allowed myself a small thrill at the notion that some small relic had been saved
from Marty.

Once it was safely tucked away in the wagon, we said goodbye to my father and started home. We had just turned off Center
Street onto River Drive when I noticed that we were being followed by a handsome, blond, well-muscled young man in a black
Jaguar.

To confirm my suspicions, I made a quick turn onto River Lane, past Riverside Hospital. The black Jaguar was still behind
us!

I doubled back and pulled into the hospital parking lot. The Jaguar followed.

"Where are we going?" Bess asked, sitting up. "Are you sick? Is it your cholesterol?"

"I think we're being followed," I explained. I watched the young man get out of his car and stride purposefully toward us.
"And I want to see what he wants."

Bess's eyes widened.

I placed my hand lightly on the car horn, so that I could attract help if needed, and watched as the young man appeared at
my window. He was wearing a slim, dark suit and wore his blond hair stylishly feathered. He smelled faintly of hair spray.

"Nancy Drew," he declared. "I'm Christopher Cool, TEEN agent."

"You're a teen agent?" I asked.

"Actually I'm twenty. I work for TEEN, the Top-secret Education Espionage Network. We're so top secret the world won't even
hear about us for another ten years!" He grinned affably. "I'm a sophomore at Kingston U."

"Never heard of it."

"It's Ivy League," Chris replied defensively.

"Why are you following us?" I asked.

"That's classified, I'm afraid."

"What do you want?"

"We want the puppet."

Bess leaned forward. "I dig your skinny tie," she purred.

Chris Cool's cheeks flushed. Though Bess was nearly fifty, she could easily pass for forty-five. "Thanks, ma'am."

My head was spinning. How did he know about the puppet? Why was it so valuable? And what did it all have to do with my mother?

"What does TEEN want with a Congolese puppet?" I stammered.

Chris looked uncomfortable. "So you know it's Congolese?"

"It's obvious to anyone who knows anything about sub Saharan folk puppetry," I answered smartly.

"Both of you and the puppet are going to have to come with me," Chris ordered, brushing a blond forelock off his forehead
in frustration.

"Okay!" exclaimed Bess brightly, hopping out of the car.

"If we come with you, will you explain what this is all about?" I asked.

Chris sighed. "I'll do what I can," he promised.

We left the station wagon in the parking lot and took Chris's Jag to the River Heights temporary TEEN headquarters, located
in the basement of Wishing Well Shoes. The room was empty except for a small oak table and a dark-haired young man with high
cheekbones and obsidian eyes. He stood when we entered.

"This is my Apache Indian roommate, Geronimo Johnson," Chris announced, introducing us.

"Your roommate?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

Chris cleared his throat. "At school."

Bess heaved a small sigh of relief.

The Apache glanced at Chris with humor in his eyes. "You were just supposed to bring back the puppet,
choonday."

"They know it's Congolese," Chris explained.

"So what's this all about?" I demanded steadily.

"Better get TEEN Control on the phone, Gerry," Chris barked to his roommate, ignoring me.

Chris's youth was charming, but his manners weren't. "I thought his name was Geronimo," I observed.

Chris bit his lip. "It is Geronimo. Gerry for short."

"You could try to be a little more respectful of his Apache heritage," I suggested.

"I am respectful!" Chris exclaimed.

Geronimo nodded thoughtfully. "You know, she's right," he agreed. "I do prefer my full name."

"You've never said anything," Chris floundered.

"You never asked."

They stared at each other in stony silence.

"So listen, what's the deal with the puppet?" I tried again.

Chris sighed. "I just know that we're supposed to recover the item and report with it to the River Heights airport." He raised
his head slightly. "It's a matter of extreme international importance."

Bess slid next to Chris, pressing her ample, if slightly sagging, bosom against his chest. "So, if you're twenty, when do
they let you join the real CIA?"

Chris took a small step back. "TEEN is a unit of the CIA, ma'am. And it is an honor to serve my country as a TEEN operative."

"I'm sure it is," Bess whispered huskily.

"I demand that we be taken to your leader," I announced.

"Excuse me?" Chris's eyebrows shot up in alarm.

"Your boss. The head honcho. The big enchilada. I am a citizen and my personal property has been confiscated and I want to
speak to the man in charge."

Chris swallowed hard. "Please, ma'am."

"I am Nancy Drew," I declared, "and I smell a mystery." My blue eyes flashed. I may have been middle-aged, but I was still
a teen sleuth at heart. "About such things I am never wrong."

TEEN HQ was located on a secret floor of the Luxury Motors Building on Broadway and Fifty-sixth Street in Manhattan. We flew
to New York, where we picked up another black Jag and drove to the building's service garage. Chris and Geronimo led us through
several checkpoints, past several men with submachine guns and several pretty secretaries, until we were face to face with
a man sitting behind a massive walnut desk. He looked like a crazed yacht enthusiast: blue blazer, yachting cap, unlit pipe,
grayishblond beard.

"Your boss is a sea captain?" Bess inquired of Chris skeptically.

The man rose from behind his desk, his face red and sweating. "What is the meaning of this?" he growled in a decidedly fake
British accent.

I stepped forward. "I am Nancy Drew," I explained, "and I demand to know what you want with my puppet."

The man's angry expression melted immediately.
"The
Nancy Drew?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, flustered.

He picked up a book and came rushing around the desk. "Will you sign a book for my granddaughter?"

"Of course," I cooed, opening up a copy of
The Hidden
Staircase.
To whom shall I sign it?

"Katherine."

"With a K?"

"Yes."

"What's going on?" broke in Chris.

The man's face flushed again as he glared at the TEEN agent. "You mean to tell me that you don't know who Nancy Drew is?"

Chris looked as if he was about to cry.

"She is only the original teen sleuth. The prototype. The inspiration for this whole business."

"They had teen sleuths in the twenties?" asked Chris, confused.

Chris's boss ignored him and stepped forward, thrusting his hand out toward me. "I'm Q," he declared. His lips peeled in an
effort to smile. "It is an honor and a pleasure, madam."

I introduced Bess. She vamped nervously.

"Now that we all know whom we're dealing with, Q," I continued, "how about telling me what exactly you and TEEN are up to?"

"Of course," Q stated. "We traced the puppet from Leopoldville, the capital of the Belgian Congo. It was mailed by an associate
of Patrice Lumumba's. Belgium, as I'm sure you know, is losing control of the Congo at an alarming rate. We suspect that the
Belgians will grant the Congo independence this summer and that Lumumba will be elected prime minister. Because Lumumba has
Communist ties, the CIA has an interest in transitioning control of the country to someone more"—he searched for the word—"amenable.
We want to know why the puppet was sent and what significance it has."