McKenzie’s Branson Brainteaser (14 page)

The girls moved through the crowd of people gathered around the candle-making demonstration. They headed straight toward Miss Richardson. McKenzie cleared her throat to get her attention. Miss Richardson looked up with a smile, but she frowned when she recognized the girls.

“Hi, Miss Richardson,” Sydney said in a friendly tone. “We have something we'd like for you to give to your boyfriend. Please.”

Miss Richardson looked skeptically at the girls and said nothing. Her gaze shifted from one girl to the other.

McKenzie handed Miss Richardson the envelope. “This is a very important letter. We're looking for someone, and we hope he can help us. The letter explains everything.”

Miss Richardson took the envelope and looked at the name across the front. She scowled and tucked a strand of hair back under her pioneer bonnet. “I'll see what I can do,” she muttered, sticking the envelope in her apron pocket. She grabbed her feather duster and walked to a different display.

McKenzie stepped away and motioned for Sydney to follow. She stared absentmindedly at the candle-maker dipping wicks in a vat of wax. “I guess that's all we can do for now,” she said to her friend. “We might as well leave.”

The girls stepped out of the shop. Music, laughter, and happy voices filled the air. All the tourists were having such a good time, but McKenzie's heart felt heavy. She could tell Miss Richardson still didn't want anything to do with them.

But why?
McKenzie thought.
Why won't she help us?

“This day isn't starting out the best, is it?” Sydney's tone was more of a statement than a question. “How about strawberry smoothies to cheer us up?”

“I can't pass that up,” McKenzie said with a smile, heading toward the smoothie stand.

With drinks in hand, the girls returned to a tree-shadowed bench near the candle shop. The day promised to be another scorcher, and the shade felt good. McKenzie stretched her legs out and took a sip. She glanced behind her into the window of the shop.

Miss Richardson was ringing up a purchase at the cash register. After her customer left, she pulled the envelope from her pocket and studied it. Then McKenzie saw her slide her finger under the flap and open it. After skimming the contents of the letter, she stepped back and dropped it into the trash can behind the counter.

McKenzie gasped. She grabbed Sydney's arm. “Miss Richardson just threw our letter away!” she exclaimed.

Sydney's mouth dropped open. “You're kidding! You saw her?”

McKenzie nodded angrily. “Why would she do that? How will we ever get in touch with Mr. Ford?”

McKenzie felt discouragement mounting. In just a few more days, Sydney would head back home to Washington DC. They had little time left to solve the mystery. McKenzie knew she'd never solve the case without her friend's help.

I can't believe Miss Richardson would do this
, McKenzie thought, heading toward the basket shop.
Why won't she at least try to help us?

The girls stepped through the crowd already filling the park. McKenzie's stomach churned. It seemed as though all their hard work investigating had been for nothing. The one person who knew where to find Mr. Ford wouldn't help them.

McKenzie knew she would have to tell Shara, and she knew her friend would be brokenhearted. Would God really let them fail their investigation when they had come this close to solving the mystery?
Surely God wants Shara and her family to get back in touch with Mr. Ford
, she thought.
I just can't give up yet. God, please help us solve this case
.

The girls arrived at the basket shop, already filled with tourists watching the demonstration. McKenzie's eyes roved the store, looking for Miss Val. Adam, the young man who worked with Miss Val, sat on a stool in the corner of the room, explaining the craft of basket weaving to the onlookers.

“Hi, girls!”

McKenzie turned and saw Miss Val. Though the older woman smiled, her eyes looked sad.

“What's the matter?” McKenzie asked with worry in her voice.

Miss Val's eyes looked uneasy. “Ted, the chief woodworker, was in a car wreck on his way to work this morning. He lost control on the roads outside of town. The ambulance rushed him to the hospital. The good news is that he'll be fine, but he'll be laid up for a while.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” McKenzie said with relief. “But who will take his place while he's gone?”

Miss Val glanced from one girl to the other. “That's the bad news. The park officials are considering closing the woodworking shop for a few months. There is no one to take Mr. Jones's place.”

McKenzie couldn't imagine Silver Dollar City without the woodworking shop. She knew Mr. Jones would be terribly disappointed when he learned there was no one to run the shop.

“Are you sure Mr. Jones will be okay?” Sydney's voice trembled.

Miss Val nodded. “Yes, God was looking out for him. Besides being bruised, he broke his arm and a couple of ribs, so he won't be able to work for a while.”

“Isn't there someone who can run the shop?” McKenzie asked.

“An older gentleman, Mr. Chase, who worked here years ago, is coming in to help out,” Miss Val said. “But he won't be able to work many hours. The park manager is concerned—it will take a skilled craftsman to take Mr. Jones's place. People expect quality woodwork from Mr. Jones's shop, and we're right in the middle of the busiest time of the tourist season.”

“He doesn't have an assistant either, does he?” Sydney asked.

“Not anymore. The park hasn't found anyone to replace the previous intern,” Miss Val explained.

If Mr. Jones is gone for several weeks, who will build the crafts?
McKenzie thought.
It would take a special person to do his job
.

“I'd better get to work,” Miss Val said. “You girls have plenty of time to do whatever you want. Just check in with me once in a while.”

While Miss Val worked at the basket-weaving demonstration, the girls stepped outside. They spotted a bench beneath a flowering shade tree and sat down, a warm breeze ruffling McKenzie's hair. Crowds of people flocked by on their way to the different rides and exhibits. The scent of caramel apples and cotton candy filled the air.

“Too bad we can't find Mr. Ford. Then he could come and help out.” McKenzie leaned her elbows unto her knees, cupping her chin in her hands.

“That would sure be an answered prayer, wouldn't it?” Sydney said with a sigh.

McKenzie watched the families walking by, laughing and chatting. A little boy licking a chocolate ice cream cone had brown goo dripping off his chin. McKenzie jumped when her phone rang in her pocket.

“It's Kate,” she said, turning to Sydney. She flipped open her phone and answered.

“Hey, McKenzie,” Kate said. “I've been searching the Internet trying to find out if Reggie Ford changed his name. I wasn't having any luck, but then Biscuit jumped onto my lap with a newspaper in his mouth. There was an article about a Web site to find free public records, so I went to it, and guess what? You were right. Reggie did change his name to Dwight Cramer!”

“Great!” McKenzie cried, giving Sydney a thumbs-up sign. “Biscuit does great work!”

“I'll let the other girls know what's going on. Have you got any more leads?” Kate asked.

McKenzie quickly told her about Mr. Jones's wreck and how important it was to find Mr. Ford soon. After a moment, the girls hung up.

“Let's go to the woodworking shop,” McKenzie said, shoving her phone back in her pocket. “Maybe someone knows how Mr. Jones is doing. Besides, I don't feel much like riding rides.”

“Me neither,” Sydney grumbled.

The girls solemnly stepped into the woodworking shop, which was filled with browsing customers. An older man leaned on his cane, watching a young woman at a worktable carve a design into a piece of wood. He gave her a few suggestions then hobbled to a nearby table and sat down.

As the girls approached, he lifted his cap and wiped his sweaty brow. He smiled as they sat down beside him. After introducing themselves, they asked him if he was Mr. Chase.

“I sure am,” he answered, his blue eyes sparkling beneath his thinning white hair. “How can I help you?”

“We were wondering if there is anything we can do to help. Sydney helps out in the basket shop and fills in other places once in a while,” McKenzie said. “We know you're short of help in here.”

“That's awful nice of you girls. But what we really need is a good woodcrafter. Mr. Jones is one of the best I've seen. We're going to miss him around here.” Mr. Chase hung his cane on the edge of the table.

“Are you a woodcarver?” McKenzie placed her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands.

“I was indeed, young lady,” the older man leaned back in his chair. His eyes drifted off like he was remembering something. “But my hands are too shaky now to work with those knives and saws. I'll leave the carving to the younger folks.”

“I'll bet you were really good, weren't you?” Sydney asked, flipping her dangling earring with her finger.

“Well, I don't know about that,” he said humbly. “But I taught one of the best students I've ever seen. Ten or fifteen years ago, a young fellow was working for me as an intern. I think his name was Cramer. He had talent like I've never seen before, but he spent way too much time carving cute little girls' faces, and I told him so. He wouldn't listen to me though, and he quit.”

McKenzie stared at Sydney with astonishment.
Could Mr. Chase possibly be talking about Mr. Ford?
“Do you know where this Mr. Cramer is now?”

Mr. Chase tapped his knuckles on the table. “Last I knew he was still out in the hills somewhere around here—out on the ridge, if I remember right. He doesn't even advertise; he depends on people driving by on their way to other attractions.”

“Did he say why he moved to Branson?” McKenzie asked, flicking a wood shaving off the table.

Mr. Chase thought for a moment and shook his head. “I think he had troubles back home. He was such a nice young man. He carved all his little girl faces to look like a particular girl—a daughter, maybe?”

“How about a niece?” McKenzie asked, feeling excitement mount inside her.

The older man looked at her quizzically. “Yes, I think you're right. I think it was a niece. How did you know?”

McKenzie jumped from her chair, its legs scraping against the hardwood floor. “We'll explain it later, Mr. Chase. We've got to go.”

Grasping her friend's arm, McKenzie pulled Sydney toward the door. Darting through the crowd, she headed toward the park entrance.

“Where are we going?” Sydney asked, hurrying to keep up.

“To the administration building,” McKenzie answered, swerving to avoid a woman pushing a baby stroller. “They surely keep records of former employees. Maybe we can find out where Mr. Ford lives.”

The girls rushed onward, arriving breathless and sweaty at the park's offices. A blast of cool air rushed out the front door as they stepped inside. A middle-aged woman with short brown hair looked up from her desk behind the counter.

“May I help you, girls?” the woman asked with a smile.

“We're looking for a man who used to work at Silver Dollar City,” McKenzie said breathlessly. “His name was Dwight Cramer.”

“Or Reggie Ford,” Sydney piped in.

“Do you know when he worked here?” The woman rose and approached the girls.

“We think ten or fifteen years ago.” McKenzie drummed her fingers on the countertop.

The woman frowned as she looked from one girl to the other. “I'm afraid we don't have employee records that far back. We had a fire, and all the paperwork and the backup files from former employees were destroyed. Are you sure your friend worked here that long ago?”

McKenzie nodded dismally. The girls thanked the woman for her help and stepped back outside.

“Now what?” Sydney asked.

McKenzie sighed as she headed toward the funnel cake stand. “I don't know,” she answered as she handed over some money for the pastry.

The girls plunked down at a table beneath a large green umbrella. McKenzie popped a piece of the cake in her mouth and offered some to Sydney.

“Every time we find a clue, we come to a dead end,” Sydney said, wiping powdered sugar off her chin. “I go back home the day after tomorrow. I really wanted to find Mr. Ford before then.”

McKenzie nodded as she pulled off another bite of funnel cake. Her cell phone rang as she chewed. “Hi, Bailey. What's up?”

“You guys aren't home, are you?” Bailey asked.

“No. Why?”

“I've been looking through those pictures you scanned and e-mailed to us. Do you remember the pictures you took at the top of the lookout tower behind Miss Val's house?”