She shook her head. "I—I was going to p-put in fresh towels first," she stammered.

"Okay," Frank said. "Use your walkie-talkie to contact the front desk, and have them call the police." he ordered. He took her arm and pulled her into the hallway where her housekeeping cart was. "Don’t go back in there, just stay here in the hall. I'm going to go and lock my door, and then I'll be right back." he added reassuringly. She swallowed nervously and nodded her acquiescence. As he darted back to his room, he heard her talking to the desk.

Frank waited with the maid, whose name he discovered was Teresa, until the police arrived. Then she was taken aside and questioned while Frank waited his turn. Soon, Sergeant Fogle, a tall, muscular man with curly brown hair and sharp brown eyes, approached Frank.

"I was just leaving my room. I heard her scream, and I ran to see what was wrong." Frank answered. "How long has he been dead?"

"Where were you going?" Sergeant Fogle asked, apparently ignoring Frank's question.

"To St. Elizabeth's," Frank replied. "Was it murder?" he persisted.

The officer frowned at these impertinent questions. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Frank Hardy," Frank replied, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and removing his driver’s license. He handed it to the police officer, who scanned it intently.

"Any relation to Fenton Hardy, the investigator?" Sergeant Fogle asked then.

"He's my father," Frank admitted. No matter where we go, we run into people who know Dad! he thought.

"Are you here with him?" the sergeant queried, his brown eyes sharp as he searched Frank’s face.

"No," Frank replied. "My brother came to Nashville on a school trip, and I came along to keep him company."

"Your brother? Sergeant Fogle looked around, as if expecting to see another boy nearby. "Where is he?"

"He went to St. Elizabeth's with his class." Frank explained. "I was supposed to meet him there. Was the man murdered?" Frank tried again to get some information.

"Most definitely." was the reply. Sergeant Fogle seemed to be a little more forthcoming with his answers, now that Frank’s identity and relationship with Fenton Hardy had been established. "We estimate he has been dead for at least twelve hours. He appears to have been strangled."

"Twelve hours," Frank repeated softly to himself, but was overheard.

"Do you know something about this?" Sergeant Fogle demanded, fixing Frank with a stern look.

"Do you remember anything else about him?" was the sergeant's next question.

Frank thought for a moment. "He was about five foot ten," he finally replied, thinking back to the previous evening. "And he had on a pair of black trousers and a navy blue rain coat that was open. There was a heather gray dress shirt under the coat."

Sergeant Fogle wrote down the description. "You’re observant," he noted approvingly. "Most people wouldn’t have noticed things like that. He then pulled out a business card and handed it to Frank. "If you can think of anything else, or—" he added, his brown eyes twinkling, "—discover anything, let me know."

"I will," Frank promised, pocketing the card. There were several questions Frank would have liked to ask Fogle, but he knew Joe would be worried by his absence by this time, so he decided to go on to St. Elizabeth's. He could find Fogle and ask about the victim at a later time.

The church service had already started when Frank arrived, so he slipped into a back seat as unobtrusively as possible. Joe had been keeping an eye out for his brother, and turned when the slight movement caught his attention. He saw Frank enter and sit down. He frowned thoughtfully, then turned his attention back to the priest.

After the service was over, Frank made his way to his brother’s side.

"What kept you?" Joe demanded. "Couldn’t you find the church?"

"Some guy down the hall was murdered last night." Frank informed him. "The maid found the body as I was on my way out."

Joe’s eyes widened. "Murdered?!" he exclaimed, then quickly lowered his voice. "Do you know who it was?" he asked.

"I didn't get many of the particulars." Frank admitted. "No name—but the investigating officer said it looked like a case of strangulation."

Joe grimaced. "Ugly way to die." he commented quietly.

" I didn't want you to worry about me not showing up," Frank told him. "So I didn’t ask all the questions I wanted to. But while you’re on your field trip today, I’m going to visit this Sergeant Fogle and find out what I can. I'll see you tonight at the hotel," he promised. "and fill you in on everything. Okay?"

"You’ll be careful, won’t you?" Joe begged him. He sighed dejectedly. "I wish I could go with you."

"Me too, but your education comes first." Frank replied with a smile. He squeezed Joe's shoulder gently. "Mom and Dad would kill you if you didn't participate in the activities after coming on this trip."

"I know." Joe said glumly. He looked up into his brother's brown eyes. "Be careful," he repeated. "You’ll be alone in a strange city, remember…without me to back you up."

"Always," Frank assured him, smiling comfortingly. "You're the one who hasn't learned the meaning of the word, remember?" he teased.

"Ha-double-ha-ha." Joe replied. He might have said more, but a sharp whistle from one of his classmates caught his attention. "I gotta go! See you tonight!" he said hastily, and rushed to catch up with the rest of his group.

Frank left St. Elizabeth's and headed down town. He stopped at the Visitor's Center and went inside.

"Hello there," a friendly voice with a country twang greeted him. He turned to see a tall, shapely brunette standing near a wall covered with maps and brochures.

"Hello." Frank returned the greeting with a smile. "Do you work here?" he asked her.

"Sure do." she responded. "And what can I do for you today?"

"I need a map of the area," he said.

She chose a map from one of the slots on the wall and handed it to him. "This one has all the attractions marked with a big ol’ red dot." she smiled, handing it over. "How long are you staying in Nashville?"

"Through Friday," he replied.

"Well then, you're going to need this," she said, plucking another item from the wall.

"What is it?" he asked, opening it up and looking through the brochure she had just given him.

"It tells all about the special attractions in Nashville for this month." she informed him. "Friday there is a very special event you won't want to miss," she continued. "A special exhibit is arriving at the Parthenon this week, and it opens to the public on Friday, but you will have to buy a ticket in advance."

"What sort of exhibit?" Frank asked curiously, still scanning the brochure.

"Mackenzie Daniels has graciously allowed his entire art collection to be available for viewing." she said. Frank recognized the name of the wealthiest person in the country. "Rumor has it, the collection is worth over a billion dollars."

"Sweet!" Frank said. "Thanks." he added, holding up the brochure and map.

"Any time, Honey." she replied, turning to give her attention to an elderly couple who had just walked into the center.

Frank returned to the van and opened the map. He looked at the attractions listed, noted the ones Joe had mentioned, and then took his bearings. He folded the map and put it in the glove compartment with the brochure. He then made his way to the main police station downtown.

Once there, he asked to speak with Sergeant Fogle, but was told Fogle was out, and not expected to return to the station until evening.

"You can probably catch him some time after six-thirty." the officer behind the desk told him. Frank thanked the woman and departed.

By now his stomach was growling in protest, and the elder Hardy realized it had been a long time since their early breakfast. He stopped at a small place called Country Dee-Lights, took a table, and ordered the special of the day which turned out to be a barbequed pork sandwich with fries and a kosher pickle.

After Frank had finished his lunch, he laid a tip on the table, paid his bill and exited the restaurant. The air was chilly, but the day was bright and sunny, so he decided to stroll around town. He paused in front of a newsstand and saw the Nashville Times. Purchasing a copy, he walked over to a nearby bench and took a seat. He opened it up and spent the next few minutes scanning headlines and reading articles which captured his interest.

The exhibit at the Parthenon which was to take place on Friday had garnered a front page article. Frank read an accompanying short biography of Mackenzie Daniels. The multi-billionaire was a recluse, who had his brother-in-law attend to all his business negotiations. Steve Parker, an attorney, had married Daniels' sister six years previously, and taken over the everyday workings of the Daniels empire only last year.

According to the article, Daniels had been born in Nashville, and allowing his art collection to be shown at the Parthenon for a special exhibit was his way of giving back to his home town. Admission to the exhibit required a five dollar donation to the Nashville Homeless Fund.

Frank finished reading and folded the paper. He stood and tucked it beneath his arm as he strolled back to the van. Getting inside he laid the paper on the seat next to him and started the motor. He returned to the hotel and got out, leaving the paper inside the vehicle. He entered the hotel and stopped by the front desk.

"Excuse me," he said. "But I saw a gentleman I think I know going into room 319 last night. Could you tell me his name?" he inquired, giving the young blond receptionist his most dazzling smile.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," she apologized. "We aren't allowed."

"How about the initials?" Frank coaxed, with another warm smile. Joe would have had the information out of her by now! he thought with concealed exasperation.

"Well…I suppose that would be okay." she said, pulling her bottom lip beneath her upper teeth and gently nibbling on it as she pulled up the room number on her computer screen. "Oh, the room is empty," she told him then.

"But it wasn't last night," he reminded her.

She hit a couple more keys. "No, it shows he checked out this morning, without paying his bill."

"The name?" Frank reminded her.

"Oh," she said, looking back at Frank. "I guess it won't matter since he wasn't a paying guest. Donald Tremaine."

Donald Tremaine? Frank felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Thank you," he said aloud, trying to hide his surprise at the name. "I guess it wasn't who I thought it was after all." he added, walking away.

Donald Tremaine was a security expert, and a fairly famous one. Frank recalled his father mentioning working with the man on several cases.

But why was he in Nashville and why was he murdered? Frank frowned thoughtfully as he made his way to the elevator. If only his parents hadn't left on vacation, he could call home and ask his dad about the man. But now he would have to find another way of finding out what Tremaine had been working on. I suppose he might have been here in Nashville on vacation, Frank admitted to himself. But I’ll bet he wasn’t!

Frank got off the elevator and walked down the hall, his thoughts still on Tremaine. He came to a stop in front of room 319. Realizing his mistake, he turned to go to his own room but paused in mid-turn as a sudden thought occurred to him.

He reached into a pocket and removed his lock pick kit. Fenton had given both him and Joe these kits, and they rarely, if ever, went anywhere without them. He pulled out a special card which hadn’t come with the kit. It had been given to him by an acquaintance in a top security agency. He slipped the card into the hotel's lock and the door opened at once.

He entered the room expecting to find it pristine for the next occupant. What he found instead shocked him. The place had been ripped apart. Even the mattress was lying half off the bed, a huge slit from the top to the bottom.

Someone had come here to find something, and from the noises he heard in the bathroom, he was positive that that someone was still there, and the something hadn't been found yet. Frank moved silently into the room, leaving the door open slightly in case he needed to make a quick getaway.

Just as he began to approach the bathroom, he heard a soft footfall behind him. Frank started to turn toward the sound, but it was too late. Stupid, stupid, stupid! flashed through his mind, and he felt something hard connect with his head.

Frank Hardy fell to the floor, unconscious.