The bike tour mystery, p.1
The Bike Tour Mystery, page 1
Contents
* * *
1 Welcome to Ireland
2 The Gang’s All Here
3 A Wee Bit of Trouble
4 A Need for Speed
5 No Thanks
6 Look Both Ways
7 A Vicious Cycle
8 The Chase Is On
9 Slipping Away
10 Who’s After Whom?
11 Over the Edge
12 Vanished!
13 Too Late?
14 Whereabouts Unknown
15 The Bog Demon Awaits
16 The Luck of the Irish
1
Welcome to Ireland
“And how long do you intend to stay in Ireland, Miss, uh . . .” The passport clerk glanced briefly over the U.S. passport in front of him. “Miss Drew?”
“About two weeks,” Nancy Drew replied. “I’m going on a cross-country cycling tour.”
The clerk’s green eyes flicked up to glance at the tall, willowy American teenager with red-blond hair. He smiled. “Well, I’m hoping your legs are strong, then. Ireland’s got a powerful lot of hills, especially here in the West.”
Nancy smiled back. “Oh, I think I’m up to it. I’ve been training for a few weeks, with my friend George.” She pointed to the athletic-looking dark-haired girl standing in line behind her.
“Well, best of luck to you.” He flipped her passport to a blank page, punched it with his stamping machine, and handed it back. “Next!”
Nancy walked past the desk and joined her other friend, Bess Marvin, who had already passed through the immigration interview. “Isn’t it exciting, Nancy?” Bess said. “Everyone here is so friendly and warm.”
Nancy suppressed a smile. She was used to Bess’s quick assumptions, but they still amused her. “You can’t judge a whole population by one official,” she said. “But yes, the Irish people are known for being very friendly.”
“I can’t wait to get on that bike and start whizzing through the countryside,” Bess went on, twirling a lock of her blond hair. “Those pictures in the tour company’s brochure made everything look so picturesque. Thatched-roof cottages, woolly white sheep, crumbling stone walls . . .”
“Just don’t expect leprechauns, shamrocks, and pots of gold at the end of every rainbow,” warned Nancy with a giggle.
George Fayne strode toward them, hitching her carry-on bag onto her shoulder. “Well, that’s over. Now on to the baggage claim. We’d better grab a cart—Bess brought a mountain of luggage.”
Bess stuck out her tongue at George, who was not only her close friend, but also her cousin. “I didn’t bring that much!” she protested. “After all, we’ll be here two weeks. And we need at least two outfits per day. You can’t expect me to go to dinner wearing the same clothes I’ve been bicycling in all day.”
“Why not? That’s what I plan to do,” George said.
“Then remind me not to sit near you at the dinner table. Whew!” Bess waved a hand in front of her nose.
The three girls trooped through a pair of glass doors to the swarming baggage claim area. Most of the bags from their flight had already circled into sight on the luggage carousel. Nancy quickly spotted her black suitcase, thanks to the neon green ribbon she had knotted onto its handle. George’s big purple duffel bag was next to it. The two girls lifted their bags off the conveyor belt.
Bess frowned as she began to search through the mounds of bags already removed from the carousel. “Two tan suitcases, just like my carry-on. Oh, there’s one!” She sprang over to the edge of the carousel and checked the ID tags on the suitcase. “No, sorry. That belongs to someone else. It’s just like mine, though.”
“Bess, you’ll never learn,” George groaned. “You buy this year’s trendiest luggage style, and everyone on the flight has the same bags you do.”
“I always find them eventually,” Bess shot back. “It isn’t my fault you’re in such a hurry.”
“The rest of our tour group is waiting for us,” Nancy reminded Bess. She exchanged wry glances with George. The three girls traveled together often. The scenario was familiar by now.
As Bess scurried off to inspect another tan suitcase, Nancy was jostled from behind. Ever alert, she shifted around to see who it was.
A broad-shouldered man in a black wool overcoat was shoving through the crowd milling around the neighboring carousel. Something about his heavy-browed, tight-mouthed face made Nancy uneasy. Eyes trained on someone ahead in the foot traffic, he seemed in a great hurry.
As he hoisted a duffel to his shoulder, Nancy idly noted that the little finger was missing from his left hand. With the instincts of a trained detective, she glanced at the electronic sign above the adjacent carousel, noting that its flight was from Sydney, Australia.
“Found them!” Nancy heard Bess announce. She turned to see Bess stacking her carry-on atop two larger suitcases. “And we don’t need a cart, George—my new suitcases have wheels on them.”
“So you do learn from experience.” George grinned. “After I’ve toted your heavy bags down so many long terminals!”
“We still have to pass through customs inspection,” Nancy reminded her friends, nodding toward a final set of doors.
“Ooh—will they open our cases?” Bess asked, looking concerned as she maneuvered her tower of luggage toward the doors.
“Probably not—but they do perform random checks of passengers’ bags,” Nancy said. “I think they zero in on people who look suspicious.”
As they passed through the swinging doors, Nancy noticed one passenger who’d been called over to the customs official’s table—the man in the black overcoat from the Australian flight. And from the expression on his face, Nancy guessed he wasn’t happy about being inspected.
Nancy’s curiosity was piqued. Her father, prominent River Heights attorney Carson Drew, often told her she was a natural detective. Back home, she’d worked on several important cases. Even though she was on vacation, she couldn’t help being intrigued by shady activity.
Bess and George were hurrying ahead toward the exit doors. The Irish customs officials were apparently not interested in checking the three American girls’ bags. And Nancy eagerly followed them, looking forward to meeting the rest of their cycling tour group.
Emerging from the customs area, the girls looked around for their tour leader. They spotted him easily—a twentysomething man with curly brown hair, holding up a cardboard sign reading, MCELHENEY TOURS. They walked over to him. “Mr. Prendergast?” George asked.
The young man smiled. “Call me Bob,” he said in an American accent. “Are you the girls from River Heights?”
“Yes—I’m George Fayne. And here’s Nancy Drew and Bess Marvin.” George gestured toward her friends.
Bob shook hands all around. “Glad to meet you. Did you have a good flight?” The girls nodded their heads. “Good. Some of the other folks are here—let me introduce you.”
He led the girls over to a small waiting area with vinyl couches. Three other newly arrived passengers were slumped on the seats, surrounded by suitcases and looking weary from their flights.
“We’ve got the whole American contingent now,” Bob said cheerfully, parking Bess’s stacked bags for her. “Everyone, here’s George Fayne, Nancy Drew, and Bess Marvin, from River Heights. Girls, this is Carl Thompson—he’s from Boston. College professor, right, Carl?”
A large man with a bushy brown beard and twinkling dark eyes stood up. “Assistant professor in chemistry—but thanks for the promotion, Bob.”
“Anytime,” Bob replied brightly. “And here are Jim and Natalie de Fusco, from California.”
“North or south?” Nancy asked as she shook hands with the young, suntanned, blond couple.
“Near San Diego,” Jim de Fusco said. “I work construction, and Natalie manages a surf shop.”
“And you’re missing surf season?” asked George.
“Truth is,” Natalie admitted, “when you live near sunny beaches year-round, you get tired of them. Believe it or not, we hope for chilly, rainy weather every day.”
“Great,” Bob declared. “Because this is Ireland, and I can promise it will rain. Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve got two other tour members coming out of customs any minute.” He darted away.
“Does it really rain so often here?” Bess wondered, looking out the airport window at a clear blue sky.
Carl gave a philosophical shrug. “Sure. But look on the bright side—that’s why western Ireland’s one of the greenest places on earth.”
“I think rain’s refreshing on a bicycle ride,” George said. “Who wants hot weather when you’re pedaling up and down hills?”
“I’m with you on that,” chuckled Carl.
“I’m surprised that we have an American tour guide,” Nancy remarked to the group.
“Bob told me his specialty is cycling, not Ireland,” Jim said. “But he’s led several groups around here the past couple of years. He says it’s a great country for cycling—not too many mountains, and lots of sight-seeing.”
“Oh, I can’t wait,” Bess said.
A moment later, Bob returned with a striking pair of girls, one redhead and one brunette, both nearly six feet tall. “Here we are,” Bob said. “I’d like you to meet Rhonda and Rachel Selkirk.” He repeated everyone’s names for the newcomers.
“G’day, all,” brunette Rhonda said in a broad Australian accent. “Glad to be here at last. That flight from Sydney seemed to take forever—I’m really knackered.”
Red-haired Rachel laughed. “Just sisters. But don’t worry—we get asked that all the time.”
“Now, everybody, collect your things and we can load them into the van,” Bob said. “Terry, our driver, has got it parked right out at the curb.”
As the tour group began to gather their gear, a porter came up behind the Selkirks, pushing a cart. On it were a few handsome leather suitcases and two large, narrow packing crates that were curved at both ends.
“Whoa—you brought your own bikes?” George exclaimed. “Wasn’t that expensive?”
Rachel looked vague. “I guess so,” she said. “But we prefer to ride our bikes rather than what the tour company provides. Not to knock your bikes,” she added apologetically to Bob.
“These bikes were custom-made for us,” Rhonda added, tossing her shoulder-length brown hair. “Seemed a shame not to use them, eh?”
“Those girls either are pro cyclists or they’re awfully rich,” Bess whispered to Nancy as they followed the others out the terminal’s exit doors.
“Probably the latter,” Nancy replied softly, “judging from that expensive luggage. And pro cyclists aren’t likely to join a tour like this.”
“If they’ve had bikes custom-made, they must really be into cycling,” George muttered, joining her friends. “And they look like they’re in top shape. I’ll bet they’re super cyclists.”
Nancy laughed. “And you’re already determined to outride them,” she teased her friend. “George, this isn’t a race. We’re just here to get some exercise and see Ireland at a leisurely pace.”
George nodded, but she kept studying the tall, athletic-looking Selkirks.
The group headed for a cherry red van parked at the curb, with MCELHENEY TOURS painted on the sides. A rumpled Irishman with a gloomy expression stood by the open side doors. “This is Terry O’Leary,” Bob announced. “He’ll drive your luggage from one night’s hotel to the next while you cycle along. He’s also the guy who can repair your bikes—so be nice to him.”
Terry flashed a gap-toothed smile, but Nancy wasn’t convinced it was genuine.
The tour members piled their luggage beside the McElheney van, then followed Bob to a sleek black minibus parked just behind it.
Waiting to board the passenger van, Nancy sensed a commotion on the sidewalk behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she recognized a black overcoat. It was the man with the missing finger from the Sydney flight!
Then a connection clicked in her brain.
Nancy peered inside the van. The Australian girls were sitting inside. Rhonda was rooting in her purse for something.
Then Rachel looked out through the window—and spotted the man in the black overcoat.
And Nancy could swear Rachel froze in fear.
2
The Gang’s All Here
“Rhonda, wasn’t that—?” Rachel began, poking her sister in the arm.
But Rhonda, barely looking up, cut her off. “Don’t be silly, Rache,” she said, tossing her thick brown hair. “We’ve only been in Ireland an hour. How could you possibly recognize anyone?”
Nancy watched Rachel’s expression as she sank back in her seat. She didn’t look at all convinced, Nancy thought.
Climbing onto the bus, Nancy told herself to put the incident out of her mind. You’ve been working on too many mysteries lately, she scolded herself. You imagine crimes wherever you look. Just relax and enjoy your vacation.
With everyone aboard, the minibus pulled away. After navigating the tangle of roads around Shannon Airport, they were soon rolling across open countryside. Nancy’s first impression was an overwhelming sensation of green.
“So that’s why green is always used to symbolize Ireland,” George said, gazing out the window. “I’ve never seen such an intense color.”
“Look at that old stone cottage,” Bess exclaimed, pointing. “Isn’t it charming?”
“There sure is a lot of farmland around here,” said Natalie de Fusco, across the aisle.
“Yeah, but what tiny farms,” George said. “There’s the next farmhouse already. And I don’t see any big red barns like back home.”
“What I love are the crooked stone walls between the fields,” Jim said. “Do you know, they don’t even use mortar to make those walls? They just pick up stones from the fields and fit them in place. But they’re remarkably strong—some of those walls are well over a hundred years old.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Trust you, Jim, to know all the construction details.”
The bus curved around winding roads until, less than an hour later, they pulled up to a large rambling house, a quirky pile of eaves and gables in warm yellow stone. “Wow, what is this—someone’s country manor?” Bess asked, impressed.
George scanned the tour itinerary Bob had passed out to the group. “It says this is our hotel for the first night—Ballyrae House. We’re in a town called Lahinch, on the western coast.”
“Terry has already arrived, I see,” Bob said, standing up and spotting the red van in a side lot. “Your luggage will be taken up to your rooms. In the meantime, let’s gather for a quick meeting.”
Bob led the way through a marble entry hall and into a wood-paneled parlor, where a young couple sat in a pair of leather armchairs. “Ah, I see our final two cyclists are here,” Bob said. “Folks, meet Derek Thorogood and Camilla Collins, just off the ferry from England.”
As Derek and Camilla shook hands and learned the names of their tour companions, Nancy noticed Bess’s dazzled expression. Even Nancy had to admit that Derek was handsome, with his shaggy dark hair, lazy gray eyes, and clean-cut features.
“Here goes Bess with another crush,” George whispered in Nancy’s ear. “I bet she hasn’t even noticed that Derek brought a girlfriend with him.”
“I heard that,” Bess muttered, whirling around. “And just because they travel together doesn’t mean they’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“No, but I’d say it’s a pretty good clue,” George shot back. “That and the fact that Camilla’s draped herself all over his shoulder.”
“Relax, girls,” Nancy broke in. “Time will tell whether or not Derek is ‘available.’ And even if he isn’t, who cares? This seems like a great bunch of people. I’m looking forward to riding with them—all of them.”
As a waiter passed around cold drinks, Bob asked the members of the tour group to sit down. “This is probably a good time to go over the protocols for our tour,” he announced. “You all have copies of the itinerary I passed out.”
Several members of the group waved their itineraries in the air.
“Hang on to these,” Bob advised. “They’ll be your bibles for the next ten days. There’s a page for each day, which we’ll supplement each morning with a detailed road map of that day’s route. The itinerary tells where our lunch stop will be—usually a historic site. I’ve typed up a brief paragraph describing each lunch sight, but you can use your own guidebooks for more details.”
“Got mine,” Carl said, holding up a thick paperback book. From the dog-eared pages, Nancy guessed Carl had done plenty of pre-trip research.
“We also describe other sights you’ll pass along the way,” Bob continued. “Some of you may want to stop and explore. Others may be more interested in keeping up a good cycling pace. You’re free to go as you please.”
Natalie de Fusco frowned. “But aren’t we going to ride as a group?”
Bob shook his head. “After a few years of running these cycling tours, I’ve learned that that doesn’t work. You’re all at different levels of cycling ability. Some people may want to ride forty or fifty miles in a day. Others may get tired after fifteen or twenty.”
“That’ll be me,” Camilla Collins admitted. Noting the English girl’s fair skin, manicured nails, and carefully styled brown hair, Nancy guessed she wasn’t the outdoors type.
“Well, we’ve designed the tour to work for all levels,” Bob reassured them. “As often as possible, I’ve plotted out a longer route and a shorter route for each day’s ride. And if you want to quit after the morning ride, Terry can drive you from the lunch stop to that evening’s hotel.”
“What if you want to sleep late in the morning?” Jim de Fusco asked, winking at Natalie.
