"All right, just what do you think you’re doing?"

At the question, Joe turned his head and looked at his captor. To his utter relief, he saw it was a stranger, dressed in the uniform of a security guard.

"I can explain…" Joe ventured.

"You’ll explain, all right!" the guard snapped. "You shut that locker up right now, and you come on with me. You’ll do your explaining to the Director."

A chagrined Joe found himself being escorted through the hallways of the Grand Ole Opry to the office of the director, Andrew Berenson. Berenson, a middle-aged man with straight sandy brown hair and brown eyes, was dressed casually in blue jeans and a plaid shirt, but his demeanor was anything but friendly. Upon hearing the security guard’s story, Mr. Berenson curtly demanded to know what group Joe was with, and once he had that information, he requested that Mr. Freemont be summoned.

Joe sat miserably in his chair, hoping that once his teacher arrived, he would be allowed to explain the circumstances a bit more. So far, things didn’t look too good!

When Mr. Freemont appeared in the doorway, his eyes widened in surprise. "Why, Joe, what in the world has happened?" he asked kindly. He looked at the angry Director, who proceeded to inform him of what Joe had been caught doing.

"Have you asked him for an explanation as to why he was doing this?" Mr. Freemont inquired mildly, when Berenson finished. When the man shook his head, Mr. Freemont turned to his embarrassed student. "Joe, let’s hear it." he commanded.

Joe was only too glad to explain his actions. He started with the mugging attempt of two nights before, and finished by declaring that he had recognized the Grand Ole Opry employee as one of his attackers. But he could tell he wasn’t convincing the skeptical Director.

"That’s ridiculous!" Berenson snorted. "You must be mistaken."

Joe shook his head. "I don’t believe I was mistaken." he said quietly, firmly holding his temper in check. "But if you want someone to vouch for me, could you call the Nashville chief of police? My brother should be at his office right now, in a meeting." At least, I hope he’s still there! If he isn’t, I’m in big trouble!

"I’m supposed to disturb the Chief of Police about this?" Berenson spluttered incredulously. "Kid, you’ve got a lot of nerve to ask something like that! And no, I’m not going to do it!"

"Please, Mr. Berenson-" Joe poured sincerity into his voice, hoping his powers of persuasion were up to this task. "I’m telling the truth, really I am."

"Mr. Berenson, Joe wouldn’t have broken into this man’s locker without a good reason." Mr. Freemont spoke up. "I think you ought to make the telephone call."

Berenson looked in exasperation from Joe to Freemont, and back again. This time, he seemed to take a little more notice of the sincerity of the boy’s expresssion.

"All right," Berenson reluctantly reached for his telephone. "I’ll call - but this better not be something just to waste my time - or Chief Winslow’s!"

Frank pulled the van into the parking lot at the Grand Ole Opry, his heart still hammering with worry. What had Joe gotten himself into now? Winslow hadn’t told him anything other than that Joe was in trouble, and that Henderson and Frank should get over to the historic building and take care of it.

Henderson, in a squad car, had made better time, for he had used his lights and siren to cut his way through the Nashville traffic. Frank, on the other hand, had had to comply with the rules of the road, plus he was unfamiliar with the streets. Fortunately, Henderson was waiting for him outside the building. They entered, and asked for directions to the Director’s office.

Frank barely looked at the photo-covered walls as he hurried down the corridors in Henderson’s wake; he was too concerned for Joe. When he and Henderson went into Berenson’s office, his heart sank; Joe was slumped in a chair, looking decidedly unhappy; Mr. Freemont sat in another, looking decidedly worried, and Mr. Berenson sat stiffly behind his desk, looking decidedly cross!

"Frank! Sergeant Henderson!" Joe looked up, and a relieved expresssion suffused his face. "Am I glad to see you!"

Henderson showed his ID, and quickly vouched for Joe’s integrity. Finally convinced, Berenson became much more affable. He apologized to Joe for not believing his story, and with a little urging from Frank, agreed to open Brookshire’s personnel file.

"Look!" Joe pounced on the file almost immediately. "It’s got an address listed! The book at the police station didn’t have a current address! Now we can check it out-"

"-I’ll do the checking." Sergeant Henderson interposed hastily. "You and Frank stay clear of Bradley Brookshire for the time being, Joe! He’s not someone to mess lightly with! So keep out of the way!"

Joe shared a mutinous look with Frank, but he realized that Henderson had a point. If the police could keep tabs on Brookshire, it would be much more effective than if he and Frank attempted to do it!

Joe, Frank, Sergeant Henderson and Mr. Freemont left the Director’s office. For a moment they stood in the corridor, unsure of their next move.

"Where are you off to now?" Frank finally asked his brother. Joe glanced hesitantly at Mr. Freemont, waiting for a reply.

"After the show is over," the teacher said with a barely-contained sigh, "we’re going to go to lunch."

The show! Guilt swept Joe anew. If it wasn’t bad enough that I missed it, I made Mr. Freemont miss it too! He felt color rising in his cheeks, and he kept his gaze resolutely on the floor.

"Where are you going for lunch?" Frank was obviously making a valiant attempt to bridge the awkwardness of the moment.

"It’s a barbecue place called the Circle C," Mr. Freemont told him. "After lunch is over, we’re going on a tour of historic downtown Nashville." He smiled at Frank. "Would you like to tag along with the group, Frank? There’s plenty of room, and we’d enjoy having you."

"I’d like that." Frank nodded. "Hanging around by myself gets tiresome after a while, and I’d enjoy seeing Old Nashville with you guys."

"Fine; we’ll meet in the parking lot," Freemont said. "You can follow the bus in your van. Joe, I think you had better come with me. I don’t want you disappearing again." Quite firmly, the teacher escorted the still-embarrassed Joe towards the auditorium, where the rest of the class still remained.

With a wry twist of his lips, Frank watched them depart - and then he went out to the parking lot to wait.

*****

After lunch, tensions seemed to have relaxed a little. Joe had received some very curious looks, but no one demanded to know where he had been, or why he had missed the show at the Grand Ole Opry. Frank was welcomed into the group with great cordiality; he knew most of the kids in Joe’s class anyway. When the students started their walking tour of historic Nashville, Frank was glad to leave the van parked, and join the group.

The tour took them to antique stores, used bookstores, and a small café or two which had evidently been in business for, as Joe murmured to his brother in a quiet aside, "about a million years - and they’re still serving the same food!" They saw the "presidential" collection of Wheaton bottles, plus one with Clark Gable, and old clothing dating back to the 1700’s. They viewed old "tin-types" and daguerreotypes of grim-faced men and women dressed in the fashions of the 1800’s, and saw more old furniture, dishes, and other paraphernalia than they had ever thought possible!

Mr. Freemont shepherded his students into yet another store, this time a music store which featured the well-known "country" instruments such as guitars and banjos, as well as other, more unusual ones. The teacher stood chatting with the proprietor while his students milled around, looking at the various displays. Suddenly, however, Mr. Freemont’s attention was caught by a poster mounted on the front door to the store. He read it carefully, then called the group to order, beckoning them close to hear his announcement.

"Kids, we have an opportunity for something special tonight!" Freemont stated, once the chattering had died down and the teens were listening. "According to this poster, there is a play being performed by a local theater group, on the history of Nashville. It’s called ‘Just a Little Country.’ This is a wonderful coincidence and opportunity for us, and I would like to propose that we attend the play - that is, if we can get tickets?" He finished the sentence on an enquiring note, looking at the store owner as he did so.

The owner grinned and nodded. "You’re in luck - I happen to be one of the distributors, and there are plenty of tickets available for tonight’s performance." he said. "And it’s not too far from here; you all could eat downtown, and then go to the play."

Excited comments from the students erupted. Attending a play sounded like fun!

"Want to go?" Joe murmured to his brother, but Frank shook his head regretfully.

"I’d like to, I really would. But I think I’d better spend some time at least thinking about this case we’re supposedly helping on."

"I wish I could be more help." Joe fretted. "You’re trying to do this all alone."

"You came to Nashville to see the sights with your class, remember? I didn’t." Frank reminded him.

Dinner was at a nearby Hardees’ Restaurant, where Joe and Frank managed to get a booth to themselves. While waiting for their orders, they joked and chatted with the other kids, but once they were served, the Hardys talked quietly to each other about the case.

"You know, we still haven’t seen the trash from Donald Tremaine’s room." Frank remembered. "I think while you’re at the play tonight, I’ll go back to the police station and see if I can get a look at that."

"Henderson would have to okay it," Joe reminded him.

"I know, I know. But I bet he will."

"What if Fogle happened to see you?" Joe asked then, feeling a definite chill of worry creeping along his backbone at that thought.

"He won’t, Joe - Henderson said that he’s off duty for the next four days, except for the Friday-night stint at the Parthenon. There’d be no reason for him to be at the police station."

Joe shook his head dubiously, but could think of no other warnings, and soon it was time for them to leave. Frank walked with the group back to the bus, and from there went to where he had parked his van.

Once again at the police station, Frank found that Sergeant Henderson had paved the way for him. He had no difficulty getting permission to visit the Evidence Room, and was readily granted access to the contents of the wastebasket from Donald Tremaine’s room.

Frank proceeded to go over each item with great care, and to his delight, actually found notes that Donald Tremaine had written. Bingo! He began to read with avidity.

I had to miss the meeting… he read. Met with suspect instead. I’ve come to believe that money or artwork has little to do with suspect’s involvement in this event. Rather, the presence of a certain person is a key element. This person is the son of the man who killed suspect’s father, and he is or will be in Nashville soon.

Frank paused, feeling very disquieted at this information. He shook his head, and returned to his reading.

Disturbed and unhappy, Frank returned the scraps of paper to the evidence file, and gave it back to the officer on duty. He then sought out Sergeant Henderson, and told him what he’d discovered.

"I’ll look into it Frank," Henderson promised. "But right now I’m practically on my way home; I’ll check it out, and then report to Kevin Barnes tomorrow morning."

Frank bid goodbye to the affable officer, and took his departure. He walked down the sidewalk to the van, whistling softly. In his abstraction, he didn’t notice the presence of Sergeant Fogle, who had just entered the building on his way to pick up some personal items from his office….

"Say, Derek, what was that kid doing here?" Fogle inquired of the officer on duty at the front desk.

"What kid?"

"That tall, dark-haired one that just left - Frank Hardy." Fogle snapped irritably. "He was here with me, before."

"Oh, he was down in Evidence." was the casual reply.

"Evidence, hmmm…"

Mike Fogle walked thoughtfully towards the Evidence Room, intending to find out just what Frank had been looking for - or at. But before he entered, he heard Henderson’s voice emanating from the room.

"Cliff, I need to see Donald Tremaine’s effects - thanks."

Fogle turned on his heel and silently walked away, heading for the nearest exit from the building. Once outside, he sought a pay phone and dialed a number from memory.