It was a solemn-faced Laura that herded the two children and dog into the living room behind her mother-in-law. Agnes was carrying a serving tray of coffee, and nodded encouragingly to the boys when they glanced over their shoulders in hesitation. At her direction, they approached the stranger and quickly mumbled ‘we’re sorry’s’ and ‘thank you’s’ before disappearing up the stairs and into their room, Sam on their heels.

Cecil smiled graciously and then chuckled at the retreating forms. “Spirited lot,” he said, holding tightly to Gertrude’s hand as the two sat together on the couch. Francis was sitting in his usual place, the chair by the fireplace, while Fenton had chosen to stand by the tree.

Agnes placed the tray down on the coffee table and then sat down next to her daughter as Laura moved towards her husband. Fenton’s arm automatically went around her slim shoulders and he pulled her close.

“Yes they are,” the older woman agreed as she bade them to have coffee.

“So,” Francis said, clearing his throat, after everyone had gotten settled. He looked at Cecil, his expression guarded, “What exactly do you do for a living?”

“I’m a bingo caller,” the other man said agreeably. If he was nervous under the scrutiny of Gert’s family, he never showed it.

“A bingo caller?” the ex-cop repeated, his face screwed up in confusion – not sure whether or not Cecil was being serious. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, sir I’m not. I’ve been the Roundhouse Bingo Center’s full time caller for the past eight years,” Cecil said, a hint of pride in his voice.

“And he’s the best bingo caller they’ve ever had, too! In fact, he’s the best bingo caller in the state! It really is quite an art form you know!” Gertrude gushed, her blue eyes shining brightly as she looked at her gentleman friend.

Fenton glanced at Laura, amused by his sister’s display, but was surprised by the sad look he saw on his wife’s face as she gazed at the older couple. He turned back towards Gertrude and Cecil, getting the distinct impression that he was missing something.

“A bingo caller,” Francis muttered, shaking his head. He sighed heavily and ventured, “So you met my daughter at bingo then?”

“Oh no, not at work,” Cecil refuted vehemently. “I never mix business with pleasure—” Fenton almost choked on the mouthful of coffee he had just taken, quickly recovering when his mother shot him a stern look. “We met at a funeral—”

“A funeral?” Francis cut in, his voice sounding strangely strangled. “Dare I ask who died?”

“Mr. Tibbs,” Gertrude said, crossing herself respectfully, “May he rest in peace.” Her father looked horrified as he watched Cecil place an arm around Gert’s shoulder and heard him murmuring:

“Now, now dear, it’s okay…”

“Mr. Tibbs?” Francis squeaked as he reached for a mug and took a mouthful of coffee.

“You remember Mr. Tibbs, Francis,” Agnes put in softly, her blue eyes narrowed in silent warning. “Gertrude’s cat.”

“Gertie’s cat?!” Francis sputtered and then shot his son a nasty look when Fenton was unable to stifle his snicker. He grunted in satisfaction when Laura turned and quickly ‘shushed’ her husband.

The retiree frowned at the younger couple. “Let me get this straight—” he scratched his chin absently as he looked at Gertrude. “You met him – a bingo caller – at a funeral for Mr. Tibbs…your cat?”

“Yes”  “Exactly,” came the innocently chimed responses.

Francis shook his head and slumped back in his chair. “A funeral for a cat?” he muttered, thinking it was just about the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. And then as he gazed at his daughter and her ‘male friend’ again, he took in the protective way Cecil held her, and the way Gertrude responded – the look on her face….Francis felt a cold shiver course through his body. They were in love – it would take a fool not to notice.

Leaning back he started to chuckle. “A bingo caller…” Somehow it was perfect. Standing up, the ex-cop extended his hand to Cecil even as he glanced fondly at his daughter.  “Any friend of my little girl’s is a friend of mine!”

And Agnes let out a breath that she didn’t know she’d been holding. It would be okay….

* * *

“What do you want to do now?” Joe asked Frank after the boys had gone back to their room. The blond boy was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking the top of Sam’s head.

“I dunno,” Frank admitted picking up the book they had left on the bed hours earlier.  “We could read the story like we were going to.”

“We could,” his brother agreed and then stifled a yawn.

The six-year-old frowned as he fingered the hard cover.  “I wish we could go back outside. That was fun.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, lying down on his side facing the older boy. He closed his eyes.  “But it’s dark now…and almost suppertime. I don’t think they’ll let us go out again until tomorrow now.”

“True—”  Frank replied, looking at his brother thoughtfully, and then just asked, “why don’t you ever call them Mommy and Daddy?”

“Huh?” Joe was half asleep and forced his eyes open to gaze at his brother. The afternoon’s activities had worn him out.

“Mommy and Daddy – you never call them that. You say ‘they’ and stuff.”  Frank had wanted to ask the younger boy about that for a while now.

“Oh,” the blond boy slowly sat up. Chewing his lip, he shrugged, “It just seems kind of strange to call them that—”

“But you call Poppy, Poppy,” Frank argued, not understanding Joe’s hesitation. “And you call me your brother.”

“I – it…” the child paused and then sighed, his gaze traveling towards the dog as he leaned over to pet Sam again, purposely avoiding looking at Frank, “That just feels right.”

“But Mommy and Daddy are your mommy and daddy too, now!” the older boy defended his parents, shocked by how defensive he felt about this. It was suddenly very important to him that Joe recognized their parents.

“I know!” Joe said, glancing up at Frank who was struck by the amount of pain he saw in those blue eyes.  But still he persisted.

“If you know…then why don’t you?”

“Because—”  Joe’s chest hitched as he finally admitted, “because I’m a-scared to, okay!”

“A-scared? You mean you’re afraid to?”  Frank was stunned. Why would Joe be afraid? He shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

“And you can’t,” Instantly Joe was off the bed, his body shaking with a hurt anger, “how can you?? You’ve never had anyone who’s supposed to love you, leave you, have you?!”

Frank stared at his brother – shocked by the outburst as Joe continued, “Well I have! Everyone who is supposed to love me…leaves me – they go away! They all go away! I never met my daddy but my mommy told me he didn’t love us enough so he went away – and now she – she’s gone too!”  The blond boy paused and then blurted out, his voice choked with tears but he didn’t care, “I don’t want them to leave me, Frank – I don’t!”

Startled out of his shock by the tearful admission, Frank moved towards his upset brother and awkwardly put his arms around him. “It’s okay, Joey,” he said feeling the boy shaking against him, “they won’t leave you! Ever!” His heart pounded fiercely in his chest. “And I won’t leave you either Joey! You’re part of our family now and Hardys don’t leave! You’re stuck with us…for always!!”

Pulling away slightly, Joey sniffled and scrubbed at his wet cheeks. He eyed Frank for another moment and then pressed, “You promise?”

“I promise,” Frank nodded and then smiled, “and that’s my big brother sacred promise to you…little brother.”

‘Little brother…’ Joe smiled shyly. He had never heard Frank refer to him by that affectionate term before…and he liked it.

And then he thought about Fenton and Laura. His lips pursed in consideration….Maybe, just maybe….

 

A few hours later, when Fenton and Laura tucked the boys into bed, Joe fought down the butterflies in his stomach as they walked towards the door and turned to bid them their final ‘good night.’

‘”Night Mommy…Daddy,” Frank called out from his bed, his voice barely awake.

“Good night, Frankie.”

A seconds pause and then, “Goodnight Mommy. Goodnight Daddy,” Joe wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a little gasp and when his parents finally answered him, he could have sworn he heard a catch in their voices….

“G-Goodnight Joey.”

But this time, it felt right.

* * *

Joe Rigado watched as one by one all the lights were turned off for the night. He had waited patiently in town until he saw Cecil Mouland return to his hotel room, and only then had he driven to the Hardys’ farm.

Humming, he turned off the car engine, got out of the vehicle and approached the house. The crunching of the snow beneath his feet made him cringe and he slowed down when he got within earshot – not wanting to be heard.

He hoped the dog didn’t set off an alarm as he approached his target – the snowman.

“Not bad, boys,” he whispered as he reached out to straighten the bright orange carrot nose. And then with a quick glance around, he pulled the scarf, mittens and hat off the snowman.

Backing away as quietly as possible, he dropped the items into the snow, each one just a little further away, leaving the hat for last.

Bright red, the toque stood out in stark contrast against the snow, and the man dropped it closer to the road.  Satisfied, he hurried back to the car – the lure was set.

In the morning, he would come back to the house, park on the road and wait. At some time during the morning the kids would notice the snowman’s missing attire and, like a trail of bread crumbs, it would lead them close enough for JR to make his grab. And then using the fishing twine he had bought only hours earlier at the hardware store, he would restrain the child and then make his phone call.

The rest would be up to Fenton Hardy. If he loved the boy he would pay to get him back….If not….

“Well, if not,” Rigado chuckled as he drove, “he can at least pay for the funeral…”

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.