Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Early the next morning, Callie Shaw and Vanessa Bender took the photo copies they got from Mr. Hardy and went to the Bayport Mall. They tried several stores before having found any success.

“Yeah,” the clerk said, “I sold those items; a white dress shirt and a tie with a red and blue print on it.”

“What do you remember about the person who bought it?” Vanessa questioned, excitedly.

“Uh-uh,” the man responded, shaking his head. “A man called in the order. Wait, I’ve got it written right here.”

He produced a paper stating when the order was placed and what items were to be purchased.

“But someone must have picked up the order?” Callie asked hopefully.

“Nope,” the man answered. “See here?” He pointed to an address scribbled at the bottom of the paper. “This guy paid extra to have the order delivered.”

“Wait,” Vanessa cried, “I recognize this address! It’s the Weisman Funeral Home!”

“’Course,” agreed the clerk. “I could’a told you that. They order clothes once in a while to dress, ah…dead people.”

* * *

Joe Hardy sat on the floor, his back against the wall, staring at the tray and smashed dishes at the foot of the door. Orange juice dripped down the door into the carnage.

At first he’d cried, more from the hurt and disappointment in his great uncle than anything else. Now the hurt was replaced with sheer anger.

“He can’t just keep me here,” the blond teenager growled. With resolve, Joe looked again out the window. He needed to think, and maybe a walk would clear his head. Not wanting to confront his uncle, Joe opened the window and climbed out.

Robert Daniels stood on the veranda and watched Joe head toward the beach. He wasn’t worried. There was no way off the island, so Joe couldn’t go far.

“Sir?”

Robert turned to see Saunders at the door.

“Shall I clean Master Joseph’s quarters now?” the butler inquired.

“Yes, Saunders. That would be fine.” When Robert looked back to the beach, there was no sign of Joe.

* * *

Frank Hardy drove his mother’s car down the interstate toward New York City . He wished he had their van, but the vehicle was still being held by the police.

Chet Morton sat in the front passenger seat, checking the map. He jumped as Frank’s cell-phone played ‘Für Elise’.

The stout boy quickly picked up the phone, hitting the ‘speaker phone’ button.

“Hello Frank?” Callie’s voice spoke.

“Hi, Cal ,” Frank said loudly enough for the phone to pick up his voice.

“’Ness and I have some interesting news,” his girlfriend responded. She told him what the clerk at the clothing store had said.

“Callie,” Frank enthusiastically cried, “Get that info to my dad right away! I wish I was there, I’d give you a huge kiss right now!”

“I’ll take a rain-check,” Callie laughed. “We’re on our way to see your dad now.” They exchanged good-byes and hung up the phone.

“I don’t get it, Frank,” piped up Luke Martin from the back seat, “If the funeral home is involved, how does that tie in with Jill and Grease?” Chet, too, had been wondering the same thing and now looked expectantly at Frank.

“I don’t know,” Frank sighed. Was he wasting his time trying to track down Jill Shaw and Grease? He shook his head slightly. It was Joe’s job to work hunches, not his.

Logic told him that Jill was probably involved. The girls heard her and Grease plotting to do something to Joe. She had to be involved! He wished he had more of Joe’s intuition at the moment. ‘I miss you little brother.’

* * *

Joe wandered along the beach for several hours. Finally, he walked the length of the island beach until it ended at a rocky out-cropping. Looking up, he figured he’d have no trouble climbing the rock; there were plenty of hand and foot holds. Once on top, he could get a better look at his island prison.

Joe began climbing, stretching and straining. It took almost half an hour to reach the top. The peak of the rock had a flat area, about four feet square. Joe sat, his feet dangling over the precipice, and gazed all around him.

The view was spectacular and, under different circumstances, Joe would have been awed. Instead, he sighed in frustration.

The island was not very big. The only structure was the large stucco house, surrounded by palm trees. The front of the house faced the beach he’d walked along. The other side of the island rose about twenty to forty feet above the churning ocean, which was crashing onto the rocks below the cliffs.

“No boats. No docks,” Joe frowned, but then he caught sight of something out of place behind the house, along the cliff’s edge.

“A helicopter pad,” Joe grinned. “So that’s how they get on or off the island.” ‘Well, to get a helicopter here, there has to be some kind of radio in the house,’ he thought.

His spirits bolstered, Joe began descending the rock. He’d gone about two-thirds of the way, when the rock beneath his right foot broke loose. Throwing him off balance, his left foot slipped from its anchored spot as well. Joe clung to the rock’s face with his fingertips, but knew he couldn’t hold on forever.

Trying desperately to find another foot hold, Joe’s fingers began to slip. Then with a cry, Joe suddenly felt himself falling.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.