"Have you asked Jim what the surprise was?" Frank asked, keeping his voice soft.

"He can't remember," Mrs. Barley said, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks for the second time in as many minutes.

"Mrs. Barley, can you remember where Jim was the day Devon was murdered?" Joe asked.

"No," she replied.  "It was too long ago but I have my date book," she added, brightening.  "I keep all my old ones in a box in the attic."

"Could you find it?" Joe inquired.

"Oh, yes," she assured him.  "I'll go start digging it out right away," she added, standing up.  "I'm sure I'll find it by dinner time."

"Uh.." Frank began a bit nervously.  He didn't want to stay that long.

"I'll write down our phone number for you," Joe told her.  "This top one is for our house and the bottom one is for the phone in our van," he said, handing her a slip of paper.  "Just call us when you find it."

"I will.  And thank you," she said gratefully.

"Now where to?" Frank asked as they got into the van.

"The morgue," Joe answered.

"Joe, Devon's body..." Frank began only to be cut off.

"Don't be silly," Joe told him with a snort.  "The newspaper morgue," he clarified.  "We need to learn everything we can about the murder and I'm sure there were plenty of articles about it when it happened."

"One or two maybe," Frank contradicted.  "Murders don't generally generate a lot of media space."

"This one would have," Joe stated grimly.

"Because Devon was a genius?" Frank asked, glancing at Joe's set face.

"There is that," Joe admitted.  "But I meant because of where they found his body."

"Where?" Frank demanded, his curiosity aroused.

"On the altar at St. Francis' church," Joe informed him.

"What?"  Frank demanded, his eyes widening in shock.  "Why?"

Joe shrugged.  "That's pretty much all I remember about it," he admitted.  "I never used to care much for reading the paper or watching the news.”

"I bet Dad knows something about the murder," Frank decided.  "We should ask him."

"We will," Joe promised.  "But first, the morgue."

***

Frank and Joe entered the newspaper office and went to the basement.  A pale young man with thin red hair and freckles was behind the desk.  "Hi guys," he greeted Frank and Joe.

Frank recognized him as Tad Calhoun, a boy from his calculus class at Bayport High.  "Hi Tad," Frank returned the greeting.  "We need to see all the articles you've got on Devon Miller's murder."

"Sure thing," Tad said and typed in the name on his computer keyboard.  "Hang on, I'll go get the microfiche," he told them and took off for the back of the building.

The Hardys waited patiently until Tad returned with several small boxes.  "Here you go," he said, setting them on the counter.  "You can take booth four," he added.  He paused, biting his lower lip as if debating on whether to ask them a question.  His curiosity finally got the better of him and he asked, "Why are you looking into it now?  They got the guy who killed him."

"No, they didn't," Joe informed him.  "Jim didn't kill Devon and we're going to prove it."

"How?" Tad asked.

"By finding out who really did," Frank answered, picking up the boxes and leading the way over to booth four.

Frank loaded the microfiche while Joe took out a small notepad from his backpocket and a pen from his shirt.  As they read the articles, Joe jotted down facts which he or Frank felt might be useful.  By the time they had finished with the microfiche and returned it to the counter, Joe's stomach was growling in protest.

"I am so hungry," Joe said, checking his watch.

"No wonder we're hungry," Frank said, having glanced at his watch also.  "It's almost three o'clock."

"Let's stop at Mr. Pizza," Joe suggested, getting behind the wheel in the van.  Frank agreed and soon they pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the most popular pizza joint in town.

The place was crowded and they looked around for a vacant table.  "Over here!" shouted a familiar, feminine voice from their far left.  They looked around and saw seventeen-year-old, blond-haired, green-eyed Callie Shaw waving at them.  Frank's face transformed with a huge grin as he led the way over to his girlfriend.

"Hey!" Frank said, greeting her.  Callie responded by standing up and wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him a welcoming kiss.  Releasing him, she sat back down, pulling him onto the chair next to hers.

"Crowded tonight," Joe observed taking a seat beside a petite, raven-haired girl with brown eyes.  She was Joe's sixteen-year-old girlfriend, Iola Morton.

Chet, Iola's brother, a year older with blond hair and brown eyes, sat on Iola's other side.  He had a slice of pizza in his hand as he spoke.  "Everyone's excited about tonight's game."

"That's right!" Joe said, slapping a hand against his forehead.  "I can't believe I forgot."

"Forgot what?" Frank demanded.  Sports were Joe's forte and unless Joe was playing, Frank normally never kept up.

"The Bayport Raiders are taking on the Southbay Devils at the university tonight," Joe informed Frank.  "It's going to be the biggest game of the season."

"Okay, give," Chet demanded.  "If you forgot the game, then you've got something going on," he declared shrewdly.

A waitress arrived and took Frank and Joe's order.  After she left, Frank looked over at Joe.  "It's your show," he told him.

All eyes turned to Joe.  "Have you read today's paper?" he asked.  "The articles about Devon Miller and Jim Barley?"

"I did," Callie said.  "Barley was arrested for Devon's murder."

"High time," Iola said with a scowl.  "It took them three years to catch him."  Joe frowned at her.  "What?" she demanded.

"Joe believes Jim is innocent," Frank informed the group.

"Why?" Chet demanded.

"Because I know Jim, and I knew Devon," Joe answered.  "Jim was Devon's only real friend and vice versa."

"Friends can turn on you sometimes," Chet remarked.

"Oh, really?" Frank inquired, lifting an eyebrow high in mock suspicion.

"You know what I mean," Chet said, not taking to being teased in this manner.

"I do," Joe said.  He then explained about Jim's and Devon's relationship and what made them unique.

"What are you going to do now?" Iola asked.

"We've got several leads," Frank informed the group.  "We have to talk to Kevin Ramster, he found the body, and Devon's parents."

"Also, Jeffery Thompson and...." Joe added, but suddenly quit speaking.  "We're going to the game tonight," he said, apparently changing the subject.

"What?" Frank asked, confused.  "How can you think about a basketball game when Jim is in jail?"

"Greg Petrie," Joe said, as if that explained everything.  Frank's forehead wrinkled.  He didn't understand what a boy Devon had tutored had to do with a college basketball game.

"Frank's right," Chet said.  "I mean, Petrie's a great player and all, but isn't proving Jim innocent more important?"

"Petrie plays basketball?" Frank demanded, now understanding Joe's reasoning.

"He's the Devils' top man," Chet replied, looking at Frank as if he had just lost his mind.

"Petrie knew Devon," Frank explained.  "We can question him after the game."

"Who is that guy?" Callie asked Frank quietly, putting a hand on Frank's arm and looking towards the entrance.

Joe turned in his seat, grunted, and turned back around.  "That's Agent Patrick with the SBI," he told his friends.  "He's trying to pin Devon's murder on Jim."

"He doesn't look happy," Iola observed as she turned her head to look.  The man started toward their table.  "Here he comes."

"Be nice," Frank ordered Joe, remembering his father's lecture earlier.  "Hello Agent Patrick," Frank said as the man came to a stop beside their table.  He gave a curt nod to Frank then looked down at Joe.

"So, you think being Fenton Hardy's son is going to keep you from being prosecuted as being an accessory to Miller's murder?" he asked quietly.  Frank's eyes narrowed in dislike as the man spoke.  "I'm going to prove you helped Barley kill Miller.  Heck, you probably were behind the whole thing and just made Barley your stoop."

"That's enough!" Frank demanded, slamming his hands palm down on the table and standing up, his brown eyes shooting fire.  "Unless you have evidence of everything you just said, I suggest you clear out and stay far away.  Otherwise, we'll have you up for defamation of character and harassment.  Do I make myself clear?" he finished, his voice never altering it's soft tone.

"Are you threatening me?" Agent Patrick countered, sneering at Frank.

"I don't make threats," Frank stated calmly.  "Only promises."

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