“No, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” a sarcastic voice bellowed out behind them.
Nancy turned around and saw Hank Tolchinsky at the edge of the clearing, glowering at them.
“My friend has hurt her ankle,” Nancy said, angry at his sarcasm. “She’s in a lot of pain. Can’t you have some sympathy?”
“I usually don’t waste my sympathy on trespassers.”
“And I suppose you don’t waste it on bats, either, do you?” Jessie blurted out.
“I think I’ve made that clear,” Mr. Tolchinsky replied. “Were you looking for your long-lost cave?”
“Yes, we were, and we found it,” Nancy said. “We also found something else.”
Mr. Tolchinsky raised his eyebrows. “Would you care to tell me about it?” he asked.
“The cave was filled with dead bats,” Nancy replied. She watched his reaction closely.
“You’re looking at me as if I had something to do with it,” Mr. Tolchinsky said, his voice cold and low. “I didn’t.”
“Do you expect us to believe you?” Professor Noble asked. “Is this your shovel?”
Mr. Tolchinsky turned to him. “No, it’s not. Whether you believe me or not, I’m telling the truth. I don’t know why wanting to maintain my privacy makes me so suspect in Fairport,” he said. “It’s not a crime to want to be left alone.”
Was that all Mr. Tolchinsky wanted? Nancy wondered. Or was he just a good actor?
“Look,” she said, “our friend is hurt. We need to call an ambulance and get her to the hospital. Since your house is nearby, could we use your phone?”
Nancy saw George give her a quick, questioning look. She knew George was concerned for her safety. There was no way to tell her that she was using this opportunity to angle her way into Mr. Tolchinsky’s house, but she knew George would trust her judgment.
Mr. Tolchinsky shifted his feet.
“I know you won’t turn down a reasonable request,” Nancy said, hoping to bring him around. She had to get into that house!
Mr. Tolchinsky gave her a long look. “I’ll call an ambulance for you,” he said. “Would that be good enough?”
Nancy forced herself to smile. “That’s very generous,” she said, thinking quickly, “but I also need to call Mrs. Porter. She’ll be worried because we’re not back yet.”
Mr. Tolchinsky shrugged his shoulders in exasperation. “All right,” he finally said. “Come along.”
Nancy began to follow him out of the clearing, when he stopped and turned to her friends.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “She’s safe. My bark is much worse than my bite.”
“We’ll be waiting right here,” Professor Noble said, “for her return.”
Nancy followed Mr. Tolchinsky deep into the woods. She wondered about his remark. Was he sincere? Or was she walking into a trap?
When they came to a clearing she saw his house, a small, modern structure nestled into a grove of pines.
“What a lovely house,” she said as they walked up a flagstone walk. “And it’s such a private setting.”
“That’s why I bought it,” Mr. Tolchinsky said. He opened the front door. “Wait here in the vestibule. I’ll call for the ambulance from my office.”
Nancy stood in the entrance and peered around. Why was Mr. Tolchinsky so wary about letting people see his home? she wondered. What was he hiding?
He walked down a hallway to her left, opened a door, and went in. Nancy decided to take a quick look around while he was on the phone. She tiptoed into the living room, on her right.
The room was furnished sparingly. A low chrome and leather couch stood in front of a freestanding fireplace, the remains of a fire smoldering in the grate. A large window looked out onto an expanse of grass surrounded by pines.
The opposite wall was covered with framed photographs. Nancy went closer to see them.
In each picture stood the same man, young and dazzlingly handsome. In one, he stood with a former president of the United States. In another, with a Hollywood star. In yet another, he was shaking hands with a famous basketball player. And in each one, he was holding a book.
Nancy instantly recognized the dust jacket. The book had been one of her father’s favorites. The man in the picture was none other than James Stanton, one of America’s most famous writers.
Since her father had been one of his biggest fans, Nancy knew the story of James Stanton’s life. His novels had been extraordinarily popular. A couple had even been made into movies. A decade ago Stanton stopped publishing his best-selling books. The word was he’d moved to a remote location and given up writing.
She remembered her father saying how odd it was that someone so talented and famous would give up like that and just disappear.
But what were all these pictures of James Stanton doing on Mr. Tolchinsky’s wall? Nancy wondered.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts and the photographs that she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
“How dare you invade my privacy!” Mr. Tolchinsky bellowed.
Nancy turned. When she saw Mr. Tolchinsky’s face, she knew in an instant who he really was. His beard had been a good disguise.
“You’re James Stanton, aren’t you?” Nancy asked in amazement.
