“Now you know my secret,” he said grimly. “But can I trust you with it?” He took a step toward her.
11
A Faked Report
James Stanton stood with his hands on his hips and a fierce look on his face. “While I was calling an ambulance for your friend,” he said, “you were betraying my trust by spying.”
“That’s not true,” Nancy said. “I was simply looking at the pictures in full view on your wall.”
“I suppose you have a point,” he said stiffly. He put a hand to his beard and stroked it. “How did you know who I was?”
Nancy told him about her father and how he had been one of James Stanton’s biggest admirers. “My father loves your books,” she said. “Why did you stop writing?”
A frown passed over Mr. Stanton’s face. “It was a personal decision,” he said. Nancy could see he was struggling for the words. “I lost someone close to me. When she died, a part of me died as well. It’s not that I wanted to stop writing. I couldn’t write any longer.”
Nancy saw the sadness in his face and knew Mr. Stanton was someone she could trust. He was telling the truth—at last.
“You didn’t hurt those bats, did you?” she asked softly.
“I wouldn’t harm a fly,” Mr. Stanton said. “I only want to be left alone. You see, all this ruckus about the bats threatens my privacy. The last thing I want is a bunch of newspaper people running around here, poking their noses into everything. I’ve had enough of that.”
“But the sooner it’s resolved,” Nancy said, “the sooner you’ll have your peace and quiet.”
“You have a point there,” Mr. Stanton replied.
“So will you help me if I promise to keep your secret?” she asked.
“Help you with what?” he asked.
Nancy told him about the threats to Aunt Elizabeth, about Sarah and John Stryker and Ralph Bremer.
Mr. Stanton frowned. “I’ve seen Stryker and Bremer around here,” he said. “I thought it had to do with the biological survey.”
“It may and it may not,” Nancy said. “I think something else may be going on as well.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “But we need to find out.” She told Mr. Stanton about how the mystery car had followed them twice.
“But why are they after you?” he asked.
“Because I’m trying to get to the bottom of all this.”
“Are you some kind of detective?” he asked.
Nancy laughed. “Yes, I am. I guess you could say I’m under cover, just like you.”
Mr. Stanton graciously laughed at her joke. “Well, I’ll help you if I can,” he said.
In the distance, Nancy heard the wail of an ambulance. “I’d better be getting back to my friends,” she said, heading for the door.
Mr. Stanton walked with her. “You’ll keep my identity a secret?” he asked.
“I’ll have to tell my friends,” Nancy told him honestly. “I tell them everything, and they’ll need to know that you’re not under suspicion anymore.”
Mr. Stanton frowned. “Well, swear them to secrecy,” he said. “Do teenagers still do that?”
Nancy laughed. “Yes, we do,” she assured him. “You can trust me.”
He opened the door. “All right, Ms. Drew, you have my trust. Carry it safely.”
“Please call me Nancy,” she said. She put out her hand.
“And I’m James.” He shook her hand, and then Nancy hurried down the flagstone walk to the grove where her friends were waiting. What a story she had to tell them!
• • •
George rode with Bess in the ambulance to the hospital, while Nancy, Jessie, and Professor Noble followed in his car.
Several hours later Bess emerged from the emergency room on crutches. Her ankle was in a cast almost up to her knee.
“It’s broken! Would you believe it? The doctor told me to rest as much as possible, and that’s what I fully intend to do.” She hobbled painfully toward the car. “I’ll never learn to use these crutches,” she said. Nancy and George helped her into the front seat of the car, and George put the crutches in back and settled herself around them.
“I hope that doesn’t mean waiting on you hand and foot,” George grumbled.
“You bet it does, dear cousin,” Bess said. Everyone laughed.
Back at Aunt Elizabeth’s, once they’d finished talking about Bess’s injury, Nancy had the chance to tell everyone about James Stanton.
