Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Chapter Nine: Dad and Dinner

Ten minutes later, Joe put the basketball in the sports equipment box at the far end of our garage; or to be more precise, he scored one more basket that evening. I tried to deflate his celebration by pointing out that the box was not only bigger than the regulation basket, it was sitting on the ground, making it an easy shot. He was making some wisecrack reply as we stepped through the door, only to break off in mid-word when we both saw who was standing in the kitchen with Mom.

“Dad!” we both yelled, practically in unison, and ran over to hug him.

“Where’s your car?” I asked, after everything settled down a little. “We didn’t know you were home ‘cause we didn’t see it in the garage.”

“I went and picked him up,” Mom spoke up. She had watched our reunion with a smile; now she turned back to the stove and stirred the pan of gravy. I became aware of the warm smell of roast beef. Then I saw the asparagus spears and stifled a groan. Everyone in the family likes asparagus- except me. “We’ll have to go collect his car from the airport parking lot tomorrow.”

“How’d you get in, if not flying, Dad?” Joe asked curiously.

“Trade secret,” Dad answered, winking. He’s a big man, nearly six-three and very strong, with dark hair- except at the temples, it’s getting silvery there now- and very dark brown eyes. He has a great sense of humor and he’s usually very patient and self-controlled, but when he gets mad, his eyes narrow and his voice deepens and you really don’t want to be too near his vicinity. He was wearing a suit, which was somewhat odd; I figured it meant he’d had a government-type case, because he usually dresses to blend in with a crowd. Government and corporate-business people are the only ones who wear suits regularly. And he’d been pretty out of touch, which tends to happen on government cases, too. We hadn’t even known when to expect him home.

“Train,” Joe decided, and Dad chuckled.

“Very good, son.”

“How come detectives never use cruise ships?” I asked lightheartedly, and Mom laughed.

“If they did, I’d go along on every case,” she joked.

“I would, Frank, if the client would pay for it,” Dad answered with a grin. “Speaking of cases, how’s it gone with our car-thief? Did you find his chop-lot?”

“Slicer? He’s in prison,” Joe said nonchalantly. Mom opened the refrigerator, dug around for a moment, and then handed him two carrots and the peeler. He sighed and turned to the sink.

“In prison?” Dad repeated over the running water. He sounded more curious than surprised, which appeared to disappoint Joe a bit. But then, Joe hadn’t said, ‘We got him put in prison,’ so Dad had nothing to be particularly surprised about. Criminals get caught by their own carelessness often enough.

“Yes,” I started, and gave him the same nutshell version that we’d given Mom three days ago. I got interrupted partway through when Mom handed me a tomato and a paring knife; I pulled out the small cutting board, washed my hands, then started slicing. Meanwhile, Mom brought out the larger cutting board, armed Dad with the carving knife, and took the meat from the oven. As I carefully sliced up the tomato, I finished explaining, then rinsed the cutting board and gave it and the knife to Joe, for the carrots.

“What he’s not saying,” Mom remarked, unwrapping aluminum foil from a bunch of baked potatoes and putting them into a serving dish, “is that they came home at one in the morning. Joe was grease-spotted from head to foot and Frank had a black eye- still does.”

“So I see,” Dad murmured, pausing in his carving to peer at me. “Looks like it wasn’t a very bad one, though.”

“Mainly it was my cheek,” I explained carefully. The swelling had bothered me on Tuesday, improved somewhat by Wednesday, and was nearly gone now.

“They managed to talk me out of confiscating their cell phone as punishment for not using it,” Mom went on. “Argued very logically that doing that would only make them even harder to track down. So they worked it off Tuesday, cleaning out the gutters.”

Dad looked a question at me.

“We forgot to call home,” I admitted. “Got caught up in the police paperwork.”

“Ah. That does tend to numb the mind.” Dad finished carving slices of juicy meat and several minutes of whirlwind activity later, we had everything on the table, which was already set. “I am glad you two got him behind bars, but that was a risky bit of work,” he told us seriously as Mom brought out the milk. “Next time, let someone know what you’re doing first, in case you need backup. Can’t be too careful.”

Joe nodded and I followed suit. I felt a heat on my face that hadn’t anything to do with the sun I’d gotten, and concentrated on passing the dishes of meat, asparagus and potatoes. Each of us had a little salad plate of tomato and carrot slices on lettuce, too, and there was a basket of rolls.

After we’d all filled our plates, Joe deftly shifted the topic away from Slicer and asked if we might go up to Vermont with Biff for a week or two. “Probably two.”

“ Vermont ?” Mom repeated in surprise. “Why Vermont ?”

“His parents have a cabin up there, by a lake,” I told her, chewing. “He’s been pestering us to go up there with him ever since school ended.”

“All week and a half of vacation,” my brother added dryly.

“Yeah, but every other day,” I reminded him.

“True.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be much fun for him to go alone,” Mom mused. She traded a glance with Dad, then nodded. “If it’s okay with his parents, it’s fine with us. You’ll drive?” She looked at me and I nodded.

“He’s asked Chet, too, so we’ll have a good cook,” Joe remarked with a grin.

Mom smiled, then grew serious. “Do I need to tell you two to be careful?” she asked. “Use common sense, pay attention to safety precautions, try not to get too rowdy and reckless... Are there bears up there?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll ask Biff,” Joe promised.

“And we’ll be careful,” I added, knowing that was her more intense concern. “We’re good campers, Mom.”

“I know, or I wouldn’t feel easy letting you go. It’s just that Biff can get a bit rowdy, and Chet is a little too fond of practical jokes sometimes. And there won’t be any adults to put a lid on things if they get out of hand, so I’m counting on you two to draw the line,” she explained seriously.

“We will,” I promised.

“Heck, having Frank along is almost like having a chaperone,” my brother said, grinning. “Like Aunt Gertrude.” I scowled at him, unable to say anything right then because my mouth was full. Mom and Dad both smiled, amused, which annoyed me even more.

“I’m not a chaperone,” I said, finally finishing my bite of roast beef. “And we’re not taking the girls along anyway.”

“I didn’t mean that, I meant the way you’re always suggesting when to eat-”

“That’s Chet, not me.”

“Or suggesting we go to bed, or noticing we need to do something, or reminding people about flashlights and life-jackets and sweaters and hiking boots-” Joe ran out of breath and took a gulp of milk.

I shrugged, poking the asparagus stalks with my fork. “Still not a chaperone,” I muttered. “I just try to think of what we’ll need or want.”

“Like a boy scout captain, then. Leading the troop off after making sure everyone’s prepared.”

I shot him another irritated glance, but didn’t say anything else. Sometimes that’s the best way to get him to hush up. He never means anything unkind with his teasing, but that’s the problem- he often doesn’t realize how unkind he sounds. And he’s never figured out why I’m sensitive on that particular topic.

“What’s with you?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing, forget it.” I tried not to be too curt, but he looked a little wounded anyway.

“You don’t seem to think that’s a flattering description, son,” Dad remarked kindly.

I shrugged and started cutting up my asparagus. I knew I’d have to give more of an answer than a shrug; I was just debating what to say, how much to admit to. “It isn’t. But I guess I ought to be used to that by now,” I replied at last, and grimly forced several pieces of asparagus down.

“That?” Dad repeated. “What ‘that’, exactly?”

“That unflattering description. I hear it often enough.” I finished the asparagus and turned back to my potato for a chaser. Dad seemed ready to ask more questions, but after a moment he apparently changed his mind, for he started eating again. I could tell Joe was looking at me, but tried to ignore it. There was silence at the table for a while, then Mom asked Dad some question- I wasn’t really listening- and they started discussing some other issue. Joe joined in with a few remarks, laughing once or twice, and didn’t see me glance at him enviously.

People have called me ‘old for my age’, or variations of it, for as long as I can remember. I never have figured out what that’s supposed to mean. Dad explained once that it means I’m a few skips ahead of my peers, maturity-wise, but as far as I’m concerned, I just act the way I am. It doesn’t have anything to do with my age or anyone else’s.

Anyway, the adults all seem to think it’s great that a sixteen-and-a-half-year-old would be as mature and responsible and so forth as I supposedly am. Unfortunately, those ‘peers’ of mine think it’s a source of never-ending amusement and make lots of opportunities to needle me about it. I try not to let on that it bugs me, mainly because I know how certain minds in the neighborhood work. If they know something irritates you, they don’t stop doing it; they do it twice as often, at least. And even the ones who are good-natured enough to quit it would probably forget within a week and start right back up again.

I’ve gradually concluded that it’s better to be somewhat over-mature than to be immature, but I would much rather just be normal- like Joe. He’s responsible a lot of times, but not constantly; he’s also irresponsible, but without being less than fifteen in his behavior.

Well, maybe fourteen.

I finished my food, excused myself, and went up to take a shower, skipping dessert. Ordinarily I would have called Biff to tell him the trip was on, but I didn’t feel like being that ‘responsible’, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go anymore, anyway.