hardy boys fan fiction

TRUE COLORS
 hardy boys nancy drew fan fiction
by

STORMWATCHER

Chapter 4

 hardy boys fan fiction

THE CHAPTERS

INTRO

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

EPILOGUE

The rain pattered down on Frank's hood, filling his ears with its noise. He grimaced in annoyance, wiping water from his cheeks and forehead, more displeased at the thought of not being able to hear an intruder than at being wet. Dark and misty as it was, he'd been relying on his sense of hearing to tell him if anyone came near. He resisted the urge to check his watch, knowing that even though it felt like half an hour had passed since his last check, it had probably been no more than five minutes. Besides, he needed to stop thinking about being bored and start trying to figure who might be behind all the damage and the accident.

It was a complicated puzzle; he and his brother had used the time since they got home to start looking through the old case files, but they hadn’t gotten very far before taking up the stakeout. Frank put his mind into high gear and tried to recall all the cases they’d been involved with that might have prompted this mix of childish pranks and nearly-fatal violence in revenge.

It was some unknown amount of time later when a flicker of movement caught his peripheral vision, distracting him from the depressingly short mental list of suspects he'd compiled. Slowly turning his head, Frank stared down the slight incline at the dark road. Then he carefully drew out his walkie-talkie and depressed the talk button. "Joe," he whispered. "Got something."

"What?" his brother's voice murmured, barely audible.

"Two. End of the drive. Garage, I’ll buzz; here, I’ll ping."

"Gotcha."

Frank leaned back against the wet bushes, no longer feeling the damp. He poised his hand over the unit, ready to touch either of the noise-making buttons, and waited. Two small shadows detached themselves from the dark shape of a parked car and scurried up the driveway; small, but oddly shaped. Carrying something, both of them, he realized suddenly. He blinked as water dripped into his eyes, then leaned forward as he saw the shadows continue past the walk that led to the front door and move instead towards the garage. His finger pressed the buzzer, then released it; a few seconds later, the garage door creaked softly in the quiet.

Frank waited until the two figures had disappeared inside and the door closed behind them before rising from the dripping bushes and making his way, as silently as possible, out to the lawn. One of the prowlers might escape Joe and make a dash for it, and he wanted to be in a position to pursue, if necessary. His precaution, however, seemed needless; the door remained closed. Heart thumping, Frank braced himself, shoved the door open- and paused, blinking in the unexpected brilliance, at the sight in front of him.

Joe was standing next to their motorcycles, one strong hand on the collar of each 'visitor's' coat, holding them easily against the wall. At his feet lay two burlap bags, the items the two had been carrying. There was no sign of a struggle; Joe had obviously taken them completely by surprise, and neither was trying to get away. Not that they could even if they tried, Frank reflected. The criminals must have realized it too; against the brawny seventeen-year-old, two twelve-year-olds didn't stand a chance.

"Who are they?" the dark-haired boy inquired curtly.

"We haven't gotten that far yet," Joe replied icily. "We were about to establish exactly what they planned to do, first. Take a look in their bags."

Frank moved to comply, untying the twine that held the bags shut, then frowned. "Sand," he remarked. "And- a butcher knife." He looked up at the nearest boy, who was wearing blue jeans, a purple windbreaker with a hood, and a scared expression. "Getting an early start on murder, are we?" the young sleuth inquired facetiously.

"No!" the captive gasped. "We- we weren't gonna-"

"You damn near did, though," Joe said sharply, giving him a shake.

"Sand for the gas tanks and a knife to slash our tires, huh?" Frank stood up, feeling his anger increase. Nothing potentially fatal this time, just major property damage- did that mean they knew Dad was out of their reach for the time being? "And that brick through the window put twelve stitches in our aunt's arm from the flying glass- she was lucky it was only her arm! So don't pretend to us that you didn't mean to hurt anyone!"

The child looked down at his muddy sneakers. "We didn't," he muttered. "It was an accident, we didn't know- we thought she'd left the room."

"But after we took her to the hospital, you came back and screwed up the steering on the car, right?" Joe demanded.

"N-no, we did that first," the other boy answered, his voice shaking. "When we heard someone scream, we ran and didn't come back. I didn't wanna come back tonight, either, but..."

"What're your names?" Frank asked, not sure whether to believe the kids or not. He knew from experience how good many kids were at lying- or even just blurring the boundaries of reality and pretense. But these two looked old enough to know exactly what they were doing and why- and to lie convincingly about it.

"I- I'm Tim," the first boy said uncertainly.

"Tommy," the other whispered as Frank looked at him. Tommy was also in jeans and water-spattered windbreaker, but he was wearing a Yankees cap instead of a hood, and he was slightly shorter. "We're both twelve."

"Whose knife?"

"M-my Mom's," Tommy answered.

"And you're the ones who've been playing all those not-funny pranks on us," Joe accused tightly. "Right?"

Both kids nodded, shame-faced.

"It might be considered pranks, right up till you get to property damage," Frank said slowly. "But throwing bricks and wrecking cars and putting people in the hospital is going to get you two into juvenile hall for a long time. What I want to know is, what do you have against our father that made you try to kill him?"

"We didn't!" Tim half-shouted.

"You admitted you damaged his car-" Joe started, shaking the boy again. Frank debated telling his volatile brother to cool down, but decided not to. He wanted these brats to be afraid of what Joe might do if they didn't answer the questions. It was not exactly legal, maybe, but it was no more than they deserved.

"We didn't try to hurt him!" Tommy pleaded.

"Our father's in the hospital, on a breathing machine, because his car crashed when his steering went out!" Frank shot back furiously, struggling to keep himself from shouting. "And don't tell me you didn't know that damaging the steering wouldn't get him hurt!"

There was a shocked silence as the two youngsters stared in what seemed to be genuine horror. "He drove it?" Tommy gasped at last. "He wasn't supposed to drive it!"

"She said he wouldn't be able to drive it, that he'd have to get it towed and fixed, first!" Tim chimed in.

"Who said that?" Joe asked sharply.

"M-Miz Cohen."

For a long moment, the only sound in the garage was the renewed patter of rain on the roof. Then Joe sucked in a hissing breath and traded a glance with his brother. Frank's eyes were narrowed, almost black with anger, and his teeth were clenched. "We might've guessed," the younger sleuth said softly.

Frank nodded once, curtly. "Let's get 'em in the house and call the police. And their parents."

***

Half an hour later, the scene in the Hardy's living room was a grim one. Four very irritable parents had been roused from their beds and requested to come see to their prank-pulling offspring: Tim's parents had arrived first, disheveled and disgruntled at being called in the middle of the night, and both had tried to defend their son's 'pranks', though they admitted that he certainly ought to have been in bed. Tommy's parents had shown up just two or three minutes later, and they had been more disbelieving than anything. On being informed quite coldly by Laura Hardy that the police would be arriving shortly, there had been an explosion of outraged disbelief- until Frank and Joe explained to the suddenly subdued and appalled parents exactly why such a severe measure was being enacted. What followed had been personally satisfying for both boys: the outraged elders had scolded until both boys were very nearly in tears.

The police, in the form of Officer Callahan, had arrived during a tirade delivered by Tim's father, and had very sensibly allowed the incensed adults to settle down a bit before asking exactly what had happened. The children's replies had sparked off a second, if somewhat more subdued, round of scoldings. "What on earth made you do such a thing?" Tommy's mother had just finished demanding of the boy. "Mr. Hardy nearly got killed, Miss Gertrude was badly hurt- how could you be so- so-"

"We have reason to believe someone put them up to it," Joe put in. Turning to face Tommy, he suggested, "Why don't you tell them, and Officer Callahan, about Ms Cohen?"

"Cohen?" Callahan repeated quickly. "That's Phil's mother, the one whose son's gone to Europe?"

"That's her," Frank agreed. "She wanted us to find him and drag him home by the scruff of the neck, but since he's eighteen, we declined."

The four parents were silent for a moment, digesting this, until Tommy's father swung around and barked, "Talk, boy! What's Ms Cohen got to do with all this?"

"Calm down, Charlie," his wife murmured.

"She told us to, and she gave us money," Tim blurted out. "She said the Hardys had been mean to her son, saying awful things about him, so awful he couldn't stand to stay in Bayport, and left. But if he had stayed, he would have done this stuff himself, so we were just doing it 'cause he couldn't." The boy hesitated, glancing from Frank to Joe. "And she said if you caught us, you'd beat us up, so we had to do it at night and be really quiet. She said it was one on you, that- that you were supposed to be these great detectives, but couldn't even figure out who was pranking your own house."

"And yet, we did find out, and we didn't beat you up. We're not bullies, we don't pick on little kids," Joe replied scornfully. Tim looked down at the floor; he'd taken off his hood and his black hair was sticking out in tufts.

"We didn't know," sandy-haired Tommy protested weakly. "She- she seemed really nice, and she's all rich..."

"You said she gave you money," Callahan prompted.

"Uh-huh. Fifty dollars each for each prank, and a hundred for the window- and honest, we didn't know anyone was in the room or we never woulda thrown the rock! We didn't wanna hurt anyone!"

"How much for the car?" Laura inquired icily, and both the children paled.

"T-two hundred dollars, each; she said that was 'cause it wasn't an easy job. We didn't want to do that, but she kept saying no one would get hurt, that it was just a good way to make it so nobody could drive it. She said you'd call a tow-truck," Tim whispered. "And when we didn't see it, tonight, we- we thought she was right..."

"Well, you're going to give all that money to Mrs. Hardy so she can use it to pay Mr. Hardy's hospital bill," his mother snapped.

"An excellent idea, Myra," Charlie, Tommy's father, agreed. "And whatever that doesn't cover, we'll divide between us. Not that it's adequate."

"Well, actually, I'll be needing to hold that money as evidence," Callahan said cautiously. "Have you spent any?"

"Only a little. I got a new skateboard," Tommy muttered, and his father exclaimed in surprise.

"So that's where that came from. You'll return it and get the money back."

"Yes, sir..."

"And you?" Callahan looked at Tim.

"B-bike tires, and I used 'em," the boy replied, casting his parents an appealing look.

"Then you'll earn it back," Myra declared. "And if you think you feel bad about it, just you think how you'd feel if it had been worse!"

"Who bought the spray paint?" Frank asked suddenly.

"Probably she did; she gave it to us," Tommy replied miserably. "A can each, and we gave 'em back to her when we finished with 'em. She said she was gonna use 'em on these black plant-holders she had."

"That's probably the explanation she gave at the hardware shop," Joe mused. "If she's still got them, and if we can get their-" he nodded at the youngsters "-fingerprints off the cans."

"Another useful piece of evidence, although it has been a few days," Callahan remarked.

"Evidence?" Charlie repeated. "I don't get it- can't you just arrest her?"

"I can, but it's best to have something that'll hold up in court before you go making arrests. At this point, it's their word against hers, and while the fact that she paid them is against her- not too many kids have upwards of five-hundred dollars cash laying around- still, she can claim she doesn't know a thing about it."

Joe turned to look at the boys again. "What about the hedge clippers, are those hers, too?"

"Yes, and the tools we used- and the sand she gave us tonight, she had a big bag of it in her shed," the young teen replied eagerly.

"I'm surprised she didn't make you wear gloves," Frank mused, "but I guess that was part of her plan. If you got caught, it would be your fingerprints all over everything. But if she gave you gloves, there'd be a bigger chance of suspicion falling on her. We were already suspicious," he added to the policeman. "She made some threats to Dad when he wouldn't agree to go find Phil, and all this prank stuff was relatively minor until Dad got home."

"She did it on purpose," Tim said rather wonderingly. "She set it up- but didn't she know we'd tell?"

Joe snorted, not unkindly, at the kid's innocence. "Two school kids blame a wealthy, popular society lady when they get caught pulling dangerous pranks- now who do you think is going to fall for that kind of ridiculous assertion? And this is the thanks she gets for trying to be kind- you decide to turn around and implicate her as some kind of ringleader. Really, what are children coming to these days?"

Both the boys had paled again during this sarcastic little speech. "But she did!" Tommy protested, clenching his fists at his sides. "She did, we-"

"I know that, you know that, but the jury is going to see it a little differently."

"Oh, man," Tim whispered, hanging his head. "Oh....man..."

"Exactly. So you need- we need- to find some significant proof. We have the motive, and we have the means; the evidence in her shed will help, but she could just as easily say that you snuck in and stole it."

Tommy shook his head and sat down on the carpet with a thump. Joe noticed that Charlie's gaze softened as he regarded his son, and though he was reluctant to admit it, he was starting to feel some sympathy for the kids himself. They were obviously way over their heads, and equally obviously had just begun to realize how bad a spot they were in.

"I don't suppose she wrote anything down and gave it to you?" Frank inquired. Joe caught the note in his brother's voice and knew what it meant; there was little chance that Lydia would be that careless.

"No, she never did. See, I used to mow her lawn," Tim explained. "When her gardener was sick. And Tom came and helped a few times. After Luigi got better, Mrs. C told us we didn't need to do it anymore, but if she ever needed us again, could she call us, 'cause Luigi was only an Italian and he did a good job but he got sick a lot from living in a dirty house, because he didn't know enough to keep clean."

"Timothy!" Myra gasped.

"Honey-" her husband intervened as the boy's eyes widened. "He's repeating what she said, that's all."

"Oh, James, to think we had that woman over!" Myra moaned. "And thought what a wonderful person she was-!"

Tim gulped, looking at Callahan, who nodded encouragingly. "Well, that's what she said, and then, so, we gave her our phone numbers and then she called like last week and asked me to come over. And when I did, Tom was there, and that was when she told us about how you said rotten things about her son."

"So she telephoned you," Frank said slowly, and Joe's eyes locked on his brother's for a moment. "She called you each time she wanted you to come over and when you got there, she gave you what you needed to pull those stunts?"

Tommy nodded weakly.

"Bingo," Joe murmured, turning to Callahan with a tight smile. "Telephone records. 

The officer's green eyes widened and then he began to grin. "Very good," he agreed with a firm nod. "You fellows don't miss a trick. All right," he went on, turning to the adults. "I suggest you take these two home, and tomorrow, bring them to the station to give official statements and get your juvenile court dates. I'll have the charges filed as soon as I get back: malicious mischief, destruction of property and conspiracy to commit grievous bodily harm, all at the behest of Mrs. Cohen. She'll get charged with all those, plus attempted murder and coercion-bribery of minors. You two could be looking at a couple months in juvy hall. She- if we can make everything stick- could easily see twenty years in prison."

Tim's mouth fell open and for a moment Joe thought the boy would faint. "T-twenty...years?"

"Easily." Callahan regarded the boy gravely. "You keep that in mind, next time you're tempted to do something you can't see the end of." His gaze went to Tommy, who nodded again as he struggled up from the floor.

***

At ten o'clock the next morning, an unmarked police car and a black-and-white squad car pulled up outside the gracious Cohen mansion. Frank and Joe Hardy, wearing exasperated expressions, stepped out of the back seat of the unmarked and regarded the white-brick house sourly. The reason for their annoyance dragged his portly body from behind the wheel, closed the driver's door, stuck his thumbs in his belt-loops and eyed the house skeptically. Adjusting his calf-length leather coat- an affectation he frequently donned in the misguided opinion that it made him look formidable- Oscar Smuff gave a hrmph of disapproval before setting his shoulders and marching up the walk. Behind him, the Hardys exchanged glances, both of them rolling their eyes in disgust.

The sound of a car door closing made both boys turn and they watched, expressions lightening to sour sympathy, as Officers Riley and Callahan hurried up the walk after the detective. Their faces, too, bore signs of annoyance; Smuff was supposed to wait for them before approaching the house. "Glory hog," Joe grumbled, stepping back to lean against the hood of the unmarked. Frank joined him, snorting.

"What glory? Everybody knows we're completely mistaken," he retorted sourly. "After all, Ms Cohen is a pillar of the community." The older teen got a lot of sarcasm into the words; Joe nodded, rolling his eyes once again; it was something he'd been doing a lot of this morning.

An hour ago, the boys had arrived at police headquarters, anxious to be in on the arrest of Lydia Cohen. They had been shown into Collig's office just as Callahan was ushering Tim, Tommy and their parents out. Both the children looked pale and tired and Joe had actually felt a moment of sympathy for them; they probably hadn't slept much better than he and his brother had. Then he put them out of his mind while he and Frank went over several details of the pending arrest with the chief. The arrest and search warrants were ready and Collig was checking to find out who was available to go with Callahan, when Smuff sauntered into the room. On learning that the mysterious perpetrator who'd put the great Fenton Hardy in the hospital had been identified, Smuff had leapt at the opportunity to be the arresting detective- right up until he learned that it was Lydia Cohen he'd be bringing in.

"You're going to take the word of a bunch of kids- two kids still in elementary school and these- these troublemakers-" he waved at the indignant Hardys "-that Ms Cohen, of all people, conspired to-"

"Yes," the chief had barked at him waving the warrants, "I am! Now take Callahan, Riley, and the fellows, and get that woman in here for questioning. Have the place searched and bring back whatever evidence you find."

Smuff, taken aback, had blinked, nodded, accepted the warrants, and hurried from the station. Frank and Joe had followed, and during the drive to the Cohen mansion, had tried to explain to the detective why Lydia was the prime suspect. To no avail; their only results had been a constant stream of pessimistic commentary about the impossibility of their mission and the terrible mistake they were making. Joe had finally managed to rattle the man with a barb about repeating some of his less-than-respectful comments to the chief; after that, Oscar had driven in grim, disapproving silence.

"I hope he will bring her in," Frank remarked gloomily, breaking into Joe's reverie.

The blond boy gave himself a little shake. "He's got no choice, he'll be pulled up on insubordination and disobeying a direct order from the chief," he reminded his brother, who was frowning at the big house. Frank had quietly suggested that it would be wiser for them to keep their distance; if Lydia saw them approaching with the police, she would probably know what was up- and might get violent. Joe, remembering how the woman had attacked her son's computer with a hammer, had quickly agreed, though he wasn't entirely happy about it.

"They're coming," Frank murmured after a few minutes. Joe craned his neck and nodded: Lydia was walking between Callahan and Riley, carrying her purse, her face set in an expression of wounded innocence. Smuff followed, glowering and shaking his head. The boys moved back as the woman was ushered into back seat of the unmarked car, Riley taking the seat beside her. Smuff climbed into the driver's seat and the boys exchanged swift glances.

"You go with them," Joe suggested softly. "I'll stay here with him and take a look around."

"Gotcha." Frank darted into the front passenger seat, closing the door as Smuff pulled away from the curb.

"What a moron."

Joe turned to Callahan with a wry smile. "I don't have to ask who you mean, do I?"

"He's got a perfectly good squad car sitting here, but he doesn't use it; he makes Riley play guard instead of driving her back- Smuff was supposed to search the place, he's the da- the detective!" Callahan scowled. "And he didn't even cuff her or search her! The man's a moron!"

"Did he at least read her her rights?" Joe asked, feeling a momentary anxiety.

"I did that," the cop grumped. "And he calls himself a law officer..." He let out a long breath. "Well, since you stuck around, can I hope you're going to give me a hand? I can toss a house as well as anyone, but this might take a bit more finesse than I'm used to," Callahan admitted.

"He didn't bring a camera or a fingerprint kit, either, did he?" Joe mused. "Why don't you run me home so I can use ours, and I can get that rock that went though our front window, too."

"You got it!" Callahan looked relieved as he opened the door of the squad car; Joe slid into the passenger side and they were on their way a few seconds later.

***

Frank shifted uneasily in his uncomfortable chair and sighed. As he'd expected, Lydia Cohen was fervently denying anything to do with the harassment the Hardys had suffered and the near-fatal 'accident' of Fenton Hardy. And, also as expected, she was blaming Tim and Tommy for making up lies about her. The woman was a very good actress, the eighteen-year-old was forced to admit as he watched from his vantage point behind the one-way mirror. She sighed, shook her head, looked grieved and hurt and forgiving, dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief, wrung her hands... 'Everything but wiggle her ears,' he thought disgustedly. Her voice, even filtered through the intercom, was as affecting as her performance: sweet, soft, tremulous with dismay and bewilderment.

Fortunately, Collig wasn't falling for it, even if Smuff had. The chief asked his questions in his usual businesslike fashion, pressing her for direct answers and ignoring her apparent distress. Oscar Smuff, obviously displeased at such unchivalrous treatment of a lady, tried once or twice to intervene on her behalf, and was curtly reprimanded by the chief. After that, the detective sat sulking, expressing his disapproval in glares and indignant snorts and the occasional half-voiced mutter.

"So you say that this is all a dreadful mistake, these boys have been caught playing pranks and for some reason have decided to point accusations at you," the chief summed up after about half an hour. "And you don't know why, you can't think of any reason why they would feel antagonistic towards you."

Lydia spread her hands helplessly. "I have no ideas," she confided sweetly. "But they are only children, they may have misunderstood or imagined something. Children get such peculiar notions sometimes."

Collig pursed his lips into a frown, rose from his seat, and walked to the interrogation-room door. Opening it, he took something that was passed in to him, and came back to resume his chair. Frank noted with a sharpening of interest that the chief was holding a manila envelope; placing it on the table, he opened it and began looking through it. "And you're absolutely certain you never contacted Thomas Murdoch or Timothy McPherson at home?"

"I never had any reasons to-"

"So you made no telephone calls to their homes?" Collig inquired, perusing a piece of paper.

"I- of course not. The McPhersons did call me, once, to invite me over for dinner-"

"When was that?"

"Several months ago."

Collig nodded, looking up. "Ms Cohen, your telephone number is 651-7994, as listed on your license and in the telephone book. Yet, you say you never called the McPhersons or the Murdochs. So I'm a little confused: if you never called them, why is 651-7994 showing up on Mr. Murdoch's and Mr. McPherson's phone statements?"

The woman was silent, but Smuff sat up as suddenly as if he'd been poked with a pin. "Maybe she forgot," he offered hesitantly.

"I might accept that, if it were only once, but there's....six...seven calls here over the past two weeks. All after seven in the evening. That's for the Murdochs; there's five more for the McPhersons. Interestingly enough, the last call was last night. Occurred about three hours before the Hardys found Timothy and Thomas sneaking into their garage with a bag of sand that they claim they were ordered to pour into the gas tanks of the boys' motorcycles. And a butcher knife that Mrs. Murdoch identified as hers, that Thomas said they were supposed to use to slash the motorcycle tires. The call before that was made the night before Mr. Hardy's car was towed to the service station with some pretty drastic steering problems. Before that, it was the night the children admitted to throwing a stone through the window of the Hardys' house, injuring Miss Gertrude in the process." Collig paused, his eyebrows lowering. "Perhaps you'd care to explain this, Ms Cohen. Who called these children twelve times from your home?"

Frank grinned fiercely, satisfaction and excitement mingling inside him. Let her try and lie her way out of that!

"I- I have no idea. I never spoke to anyone and I made no calls," the woman said tautly. Her profile was no longer one of serene, if wounded, majesty; she looked tense and had turned pale, and her finely-manicured hands were clutching her purse tightly.

"Well, we'll put that to the side for the moment," the chief said amiably. "However, we are aware that you have a grudge against Fenton Hardy."

"Do I really?" Lydia inquired, relaxing somewhat. "Do refresh my memory, Ezra."

"You wanted him to find your son, Phil, after Phil left town suddenly. Mr. Hardy refused, on the grounds that Phil, being of legal age and having left ample explanation for his reasons for leaving, could come and go as he chose. You were not content with that, and you not only insisted that Mr. Hardy find your son, you insisted that he forcibly return the young man to Bayport. You further stated that if he did not do so by that weekend...that was on a Thursday, I believe..." Collig paused and shifted a few papers. "Ah, yes. 'If you do not have my son back here in time to take that girl out on Saturday, I will hold you and your family personally responsible, Hardy. Remember that! You will find my Philip, and you will bring him back to me.'" Collig paused, glancing up. "Mr. Hardy himself made this statement on the afternoon that he spoke to you, before he left town. Of course," Collig looked down again, turning another page, "he did leave town, so when your son did not magically appear on your doorstep by the weekend, you couldn't do much in the way of holding anyone responsible. You contented yourself with malicious mischief while he was away, but as soon as he returned, you set out to cause severe damage."

"Really, Chief Collig!" Lydia exclaimed indignantly. "Do you think I would lower myself to such- such common criminal behavior as what you've described?"

"Certainly not," Collig replied coolly, to Frank's momentary astonishment. "You're not the sort to dirty your hands like that. That's why the money you paid to Thomas and Timothy- over seven hundred dollars apiece- is so important a clue. You didn't stoop to taking your own revenge; you paid two common little boys to do your dirty work for you. Fourteen or fifteen-hundred dollars is nothing to you, but to inferior people like the Murdochs and the McPhersons, and particularly to two little boys who were very easy to bribe, it was the goose that laid the golden egg." The chief paused as Lydia flushed; Frank, behind his glass barrier, grinned in a mix of relief and malicious joy at the chief's unflattering metaphor. Smuff's eyes widened and he made a choked throat-clearing sound that the teen was convinced was actually a stifled laugh.

'I wish Joe could be here to hear all this, it'd do him good,' the dark-haired boy thought regretfully. 'He'd particularly enjoy seeing old Oscar have to eat crow. I wonder how he's doing out there with Callahan, anyway?'

***

Joe Hardy was mildly amused at Officer Callahan's reaction to the interior of Lydia Cohen's house; the cop stalked around the living and dining room, apparently taking grim pleasure in disarranging sofa cushions, opening drawers, and generally untidying the place. "Kind of overpowering, isn't it?" the teen remarked, deliberately understating the situation.

"Kind of?" Callahan snorted. "I swear, this is more like a harem than a house. Lace, silk, fluff, scent, flowers...all it needs is a couple Chippendales hovering in the corners as butlers."

"I don't think you find male dancers in harems," Joe murmured, stifling a grin. "But it certainly does reveal her personality. Her little sphere of influence."

"True enough." The cop frowned into the kitchen, then turned his back on it and regarded the staircase. "Let's check around upstairs, then go out and look in the gardening shed," he suggested. "I kind of doubt she's hiding anything like a tool kit under her bed, but we might find something- yes?"

"You might be surprised," Joe replied wryly. "We found a set of steak knives in someone's underwear drawer once." It seemed rather peculiar to have the officer consulting him, but he reminded himself that Callahan's training had not included detective work; the man was a cop and detective-type searches were not his specialty. The boy took the lead, hurrying up the steps and wrinkling his nose at the strong odor of perfume in Lydia's bedroom. It was even stronger now than the last time he'd glanced in here, maybe because this time he was actually in the room.

"Pew!" Callahan made a disgusted sound.

"Yeah. Can't even tell what smell it's supposed to be." Joe frowned, shifting the fingerprint kit under his arm. Callahan was carrying the camera for him. "Where do you want to start?"

"I'll check for steak knives," the officer suggested wryly, nodding at the dresser.

Joe grinned. "Okay. I'll peek in her closet and bathroom."

The cop nodded, opened the top drawer, and began pushing filmy fabric around. Joe turned and used his shirt-tail to open the closet door, more on instinct than from any real need not to leave fingerprints. Reaching over, he found a light switch and flipped it on. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and only a second more for him to register what he was seeing. "Whoa."

"What?" Callahan inquired from behind him. "Something wrong?"

Joe shook his head, feeling his pulse accelerate. "Jackpot," he replied softly.

***

"I want my lawyer."

"Certainly," the chief of police replied calmly. "Smuff, take her out and have them start the fingerprinting while I contact Ms Cohen's lawyer. I presume you have his number handy?"

Lydia sullenly opened her purse, rummaged for several minutes, then withdrew a pale slip of cardboard and flung it on the interrogation table. Collig slid it over and nodded. Frank rolled his eyes at the woman's behavior.

"The irony of all this, Ms Cohen," Collig remarked coolly, standing to slide the card into his pocket, "is that if you'd only inquired, we could have easily reassured you about your son. Detective Hardy passed on your concern that your former husband might have coerced Phil, so we investigated."

Lydia's jaw dropped. "You- you- but- where is he?" she demanded, almost leaping to her feet. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you bring him home?"

"We left you several messages," Collig replied reprovingly. "As for where he is, I have no idea now. We found him about to depart the country, we established that there was no kidnapping, threat or coercion, and we were required to release him."

"He is my son, he belongs in my house!" the woman shouted, her face turning an ugly shade of red. Frank grimaced, grateful that he wasn't facing the crazy woman; she looked ready to fly at the chief. Smuff's round face had gone pale and it was clear that much, if not all, of his sympathy for the socialite had evaporated.

"He is eighteen, legally adult, and we have no more right to restrain him without due cause than we have to arrest any other traveler," Collig replied sharply. "He chose to leave, as was his legal right. When we questioned him, he made clear his reasons for leaving; in fact, he said flat out that he was sick of living with a bigot, and that your constant insistence that he was not homosexual was his final-"

"He is not gay!" Lydia shrieked, her hands convulsing on her purse. Frank flinched, remembering that shriek, and he felt a moment of gratitude that there was nothing here for the crazy woman to smash. "He is not! That is a lie, those filthy boys Philip calls his friends made it up! He is normal! Perfectly normal! How dare you even suggest my son could be such trash, such scum! You pervert! I'll sue you for slander- I'll kill you if you ever suggest such a vile thing again!"

"That is what Phil told our agents. Whether you care to accept it or not, that was the reason he gave," the chief said implacably.

"No!" Lydia clawed at her purse, and suddenly something silvery appeared in her hand. Frank's eyes went wide; Collig went pale, and Smuff gasped audibly as the woman leveled a small handgun at the chief. "You take that back! It's a lie- admit it! Or I'll kill you!"

Frank sat frozen for one moment behind the one-way glass, his mind moving rapidly. The door to the interrogation room was closed, perhaps locked; no way could Collig or Smuff make a move to escape, not now. Carefully, the dark-haired sleuth slipped from his seat, itching to race out but knowing that a sudden movement could attract Lydia's attention. One-way glass was not a perfect concealment; people could be seen, if viewed from the right angle, and he had no wish to have the madwoman shift her aim to him. He eased open the door and breathed a sigh of relief when it didn't creak. Then he tore down the hall and nearly collided with several officers coming around the corner. "Cohen- got a gun- the chief, Smuff-" he gasped.

"What?" one of the men demanded, grasping him by the shoulders.

"Lydia Cohen- had a gun in her purse- pulled it on the chief, just now. She's insane, screaming she's gonna kill him! Interrogation room- I was behind the glass," Frank managed, a bit more sensibly.

"Stay here," another man said curtly, darting past him. The others followed, but before they reached the heavy door, the muffled sound of a gunshot echoed in the hallway.

"Oh, no," Frank whispered, leaning back against the wall and feeling his knees shake. "Please, no." Another shot echoed and he shuddered and let himself sink to the floor, even as the cops burst open the door.

"Freeze! Drop it! On the floor! Drop it on the floor! Drop it now! Drop it or we shoot!" One of the officers turned and hollered over his shoulder, "Officer down! Get an ambulance!"

Frank scrambled to his feet, cursing softly at himself, and raced into the main room, where several more cops were standing around and talking. "Officer down!" he burst out, his voice trembling. "Cohen had a gun in her purse!"

For a moment, there was stunned silence, and then the place exploded into chaos.

***

"I don't like the looks of this at all," Callahan growled as the squad car pulled up in front of police headquarters.

"Neither do I!" Joe agreed, staring with concern at the ambulance that was waiting at the curb. Slipping off his seatbelt, he opened the door, hopped out and dashed for the entrance.

"Hold it! Don't go racing in!" Callahan barked, and the blond boy stopped in his tracks. It wasn't the cop's order that had stopped him, though; it was what he could see approaching from the other side of the plate-glass doors. A second or two later, the doors swung open and a stretcher, bearing a groaning Oscar Smuff, was rolled across the wide sidewalk by two technicians. Joe stared in shocked disbelief at the bloody bandages swathing the detective's right thigh and calf.

"What the...?"

"Good question," Callahan murmured from behind Joe's shoulder, and the teen started slightly. Looking back at the station, he saw a grim-faced Collig stride through the doors and halt to watch Smuff being loaded into the emergency vehicle.

"Chief, what happened?" Joe asked softly, moving closer to the big man.

"Cohen had a gun, and pulled it when I mentioned Phil's sexual orientation." Collig ran a hand over his face. "Smuff never searched her, and when she pulled it out, he tried to take it from her. Got between me and her, so all I could do was stand there..."

"Oh, man...he's lucky to be alive," Callahan muttered as the doors closed.

"Very lucky, the fool." The chief's voice held a mix of anger and regret.

Joe stood watching as the ambulance pulled away, feeling dazed. He'd never liked Smuff, but he’d never wished the man to be injured! Finally he asked, rather more tentatively than was usual for him, "Is Frank...?"

"He's inside. A bit shook up. He was watching from behind the glass, and got help," Collig replied, his face and voice softening. "Go on in, Callahan'll update me."

Joe nodded and hurried through the doors, sighing in relief when he saw his brother sitting on a bench on the far side of the room. The older boy was leaning back against the wall, his gaze fixed and his face pale, but when he saw Joe approaching, his eyes lit up, some of his color returned, and he greeted Joe with a quiet, "Hey, brother."

"Hey yourself- you all right?" Joe demanded, sitting down beside him.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just...man." Frank shoved his hand through his rumpled hair; Joe concluded that it wasn't the first time his brother had made the nervous gesture. "That woman's worse than crazy! The chief tell you?"

"About her gun? Yeah." Joe patted his brother's shoulder. "Sit up, you're gonna get a backache," he ordered gently. Frank smiled wanly and obeyed.

"I thought she'd shot the chief," he explained. "She was aiming right at him. And then when one of the cops yelled officer down, well..."

"Yikes."

"Yeah." Frank sighed.

"Not as bad as it might've been, though," Joe tried to encourage him, sliding his arm around Frank's shoulders. "Smuff'll probably be on crutches for a while, but nothing worse than that. And," he added, smiling, "the mad Ms Cohen will be behind bars, where she totally belongs. Guess what we found?"

"Evidence?" Frank suggested wryly.

"One bag of sand; one set of hedge trimmers; two cans of black spray-paint; an opened package of toilet paper; a set of wrenches and an auto guide for the make and year of Dad's car..." Joe paused a moment, frowning.

"And no chance it was planted?"

"I pulled a lot of fingerprints," Joe replied with a shrug. "Lots of small ones, but quite a few larger ones as well. Besides- here's the great part- it was all in her closet."

"In her closet?"

"Her huge, walk-in, bedroom closet. On the shelf above her fancy silk gowns and satin robes and fur coats," Joe concluded with a smirk. "I guess," he added more seriously, "they were her version of trophies, reminding her of what she'd pulled off.

"That clinches it, then," Frank said quietly, and a smile flickered over his face. "You know what?"

"What?"

"You need a shower. You smell like a potpourri store."

Joe lifted his arm and sniffed, then grimaced at the potent odor of lavender-rose-gardenia-cocoanut that was emanating from his t-shirt. "You're right. Let me drop off the fingerprint films- Callahan has the evidence itself- and we can get home and disinfect me."

"And while we're at it, we might want to suggest that the poor guy air out his car, and maybe dry-clean his uniform," Frank agreed, rising. "And after that," he added soberly, "let's go see Dad."

"Absolutely," the younger boy agreed. "We've got a lot to tell him and Mom."

***

"So that's what happened," Frank concluded his summary of what had happened since Fenton's car accident. "Lydia Cohen's going to get a psychiatric evaluation, and if she's competent to stand trial, she's got an attempted murder charge on Smuff, one on you, coercion of minors, contributory assault on Aunt G, and something I never heard of before, contributory malicious mischief."

"But she'll probably end up in in a nuthouse anyway," Joe remarked sourly.

Fenton Hardy nodded slightly. "From what we saw that day we visited her, that's where she belongs," the detective agreed in a weak, hoarse voice.

It had been four days since Lydia Cohen's arrest and Smuff's injury. The detective's fever had come down within hours of being treated, but he had remained groggy and disoriented and the doctors had left the respirator on until they were sure the infection- mild as it was- was gone. As one had remarked to Laura, the detective’s lungs were very vulnerable just now and they did not want the infection turning into pneumonia. Even a relatively mild case of bronchitis might prove fatal at this juncture.

The Hardy family had waited as patiently as possible, all of them relieved at Fenton’s growing alertness. The breathing tube had finally been disconnected this morning, but Fenton- wearied by the procedure- had slept away most of the afternoon. On waking, around six in the evening, he had greeted his family weakly but with enthusiasm and immediately asked for details of 'what happened'. Frank, intensely relieved at his father's visible improvement, had obliged him, with Joe chipping in a few comments every so often.

"Those kids got read a couple of riot acts each," the younger boy commented now, shifting in his chair. "First from their parents, then from Collig, and then from the judge. I just hope they didn't start tuning out after a while. Since they're only twelve, and were acting on Lydia's directions, they get community service- two months apiece."

His father nodded again. "They really can't be held responsible for my car," he murmured. "They had no reason not to believe her when she said it'd just have to be towed."

"True," Laura spoke up from her post at the foot of the hospital bed, "but throwing a rock through our window...I know they weren't aiming to hurt Gertrude, but even so, that was a pretty dreadful thing to do. Not to mention ripping out all my flowers! They should have known better, even for money."

Fenton nodded. "Speaking of knowing better...Smuff?"

"Oh, he's fine. He was very lucky, and he'll be on crutches for about three weeks, but to hear him talk, you'd think he'd been through a war," Joe replied disgustedly.

"Actually, the chief called him up on the carpet today," Frank put in, and smiled when his brother turned to him in surprise. "Callahan called," he explained.

"Oh, was that who called right before we left?"

"Yep. Seems our ol' Oscar has been severely reprimanded for endangering both his life and the life of the chief; he's on chauffer duty for the rest of the year." Frank grinned maliciously.

Joe laughed. "Maybe that'll teach him something about following procedure-"

"Not to mention, maybe it'll prove that my boys know what they're doing," their father remarked.

Frank felt himself blush at the pride in Dad's voice. "I think we had a lot better teacher than he did," the dark-haired boy replied modestly.

"It's been all over the news, of course," Mom added, smiling. "Somehow, Lydia's bigoted comments about the inferiority of people in general, and residents of Bayport specifically, got repeated publicly. A lot of folks are angry and disgusted. Shocked, too- someone, I think it was the mayor, wrote an editorial about Lydia hiding her true colors behind a veneer of gentility, and doing it so cleverly that no one suspected what ugly colors they were. Something like that, anyway."

"Yeah, and 'two-faced' has come up a lot," Frank agreed. "Pretending to be all gracious and high-bred, when all the time she was being a snob about anyone less wealthy- and if that wasn't bad enough, making racial slurs! Even if she does turn out to be mentally unstable, people are not going to forgive her too easily. They'll see her taking revenge on us and the chief as the 'crazy' part of her personality, and the bad attitude as her true self. True colors," he amended, smiling at his mother.

"'Cause she's always been a bit of a snob, but she hasn't always been, like, violent," Joe concluded. He picked up the cup resting on the table beside the bed and held it so Dad could sip some water and ease his throat. "I bet Tim and Tommy were the ones who spread it around, in return for the way she used them."

"I bet you're right," Frank agreed.

"She'll probably leave Bayport," Mom mused. "As soon as she can- if she can."

"I'd rather she stuck around and faced the consequences," Frank muttered, frowning. "Having to live here, with all the people she's ticked off, would teach her some humility. Maybe."

"Where's Gert?" Dad asked suddenly as Joe set the cup back down again.

"Oh- getting her stitches checked," Mom replied. "She keeps asking how long they need to be in, and they keep telling her to be patient." She smiled at Joe. "That's in slightly short supply in this family, though."

Frank laughed as Joe rolled his eyes; then a grin crossed the younger boy's face. "I'm getting better, though," he responded.

"I have to admit, he is. He was very patient during a very wet stakeout," Frank agreed. "And when we caught those young brats, he was pretty restrained, too; didn't crack their heads together or anything."

Their father smiled, reached over, and patted Joe's leg. "Proud of you, son. Proud of both of you."

Frank traded a glance with his brother, not surprised to see that Joe's expression matched his own feelings very well. Then Gertrude came into the room, wearing a rather huffy look, and the conversation moved on to different things.

***

"Man, I am glad that's over," Frank said with a sigh, wandering into his brother's room and taking a seat near the head of the bed.

Joe glanced up from the book he was reading and agreed. "Maybe not precisely over, but at least we can quit worrying," he amended after a moment's thought, brushing a stray blond lock from his eyes.

"Yeah." Frank turned so he was facing the foot of the bed, sitting alongside Joe. The younger boy wondered what was up; putting the book down, he shifted slightly towards the wall so Frank had more room. "Thanks."

"Sure thing. What time is it, anyway? I can't see my clock anymore."

Frank turned to look at the nightstand. "Nearly eleven."

"Oh. I thought it was earlier than that."

A comfortable silence fell for a few moments. Joe regarded his book, but didn't pick it up again; he knew there was something on his brother's mind, and he was curious to know what it was. If he started reading again, Frank would be a lot less likely to tell him what was up.

"Wonder if we'll ever see Phil again?"

Joe raised his eyebrows. "I sure hope so. I can hardly wait to tell him what a psycho his mother is- and I'd kinda like to reassure him on his reason for leaving, too."

Frank looked over at him. "To tell him we wouldn't hold his preferences against him."

"Yeah. I mean...I guess maybe I'm not altogether comfortable with it right now, but that's because I haven't had much time to get used to the idea. In the end, though, it's really not much different than Tony being Catholic, or Biff being tall."

Frank smiled. "Well said. But why do you want to tell him his mother's psycho? Don't you think he knows that by now? And isn't it a bit- well-"

"Rude?"

"Well, no, but maybe kinda tactless?"

"Maybe." Joe considered how best to phrase his explanation. "If it hadn't involved us so much, I'd keep it to myself- or maybe just say she hired some people to try and cause trouble. But after what happened to Dad...I feel like Phil needs to know exactly how loco his mom is. If he'd known, he would have warned us, or even tried to keep us out of it entirely."

"That's a good point," his brother said thoughtfully. "More in the way of a warning than a complaint, then."

"Exactly."

Another silence fell, but this one only lasted a few seconds.

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I was gonna tell you something."

"You were? Oh you mean at the hospital?" Frank nodded. "And I had to go and be a smartass about it." Joe sighed, again regretting his too-clever mouth. “Sorry.”

"It’s okay, bro, I was being kinda oversensitive myself. I knew you were trying to cheer me up."

Joe shrugged, stretching out full length on the bed and regarding his brother with serious blue eyes. "Don't blame you. I knew you weren't up for joking around."

Frank leaned against the headboard with a sigh, then reached over and tousled Joe's hair. Joe, contrary to his usual habit, didn't duck away. "Know what?"

Joe experienced a sense of deja vu and replied, "What?" in a slightly cautious tone.

"We're really lucky to have you- me, particularly. I couldn't ask for a better brother." Frank's smile was gentle; Joe felt his cheeks flush. "Thanks," the older boy added deliberately. "For being there when I needed you."

"Aw, Frank, you know you'd do the same thing for me." Joe sat up, still blushing, as Frank extended his arm, and they shared a brief embrace.

"'Course I would. And you'd thank me, right?"

"Well, yeah. And you're welcome, big brother."

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