THE HAUNTING OF DINKLEY

Part 2



CHAPTER 3

Velma had a restless night, barely sleeping. And when she finally did fall asleep, she had a horrible nightmare. She dreamed about the time some years ago in the “haunted” Funland Amusement Park where a haywire robot named “Charlie” was chasing her and Scooby. She had lost her glasses and fallen into an electric cart, which “Danger Prone Daphne” had set into motion. She couldn’t control the cart, which was headed for a crossing with the park’s little railroad, and a train was coming! “Rain rumming,” Scooby told Velma.

“Train coming?” Velma said. “I told you I can’t stop. The train will just have to look out for itself!” No sooner than she said that than the quaint amusement park train transformed itself into a powerful diesel locomotive pulling a solid train of tank cars filled with hazardous materials. The train hit Velma’s cart and exploded, unleashing its load of toxic chemicals. Velma fell out of bed screaming, “NOOOOOOOO!” 



“It’s okay, Velma, you were just having a bad dream, that’s all,” Daphne said to Velma, her friend’s scream had awakened her. In fact Daphne was having a dream of her own; she dreamed that Gil Lopez and Freddy was fighting over her, that is until Velma’s scream interrupted it.

When morning came, the gang decided to visit Uncle John, who was hospitalized at the Springfield Medical Center. Once there, Velma was allowed in to see her uncle (in fact, John had been asking for her), but the rest of the gang had to wait outside. Scooby, of course, had to remain in the Mystery Machine.

“Uncle John?” Velma asked as she entered the room. 

“Velma,” her uncle said in a weak voice. “Glad you could come and see me. No bear hugs today, though.” Uncle John lay in his hospital bed, his left hand elevated and in a cast, and he had a cast on over his chest. He was also covered with numerous cuts and bruises. John had suffered several cracked ribs and a fractured wrist in the wreck.

“The doctors said I’ll live, hon,” John said to his niece, to which Velma gave a big sigh of relief. 

“I’m happy to hear that, Uncle,” Velma said. “How did it happen?”

“Fifty years on the railroad, and I’ve never been in a wreck like this one,” John told Velma. “Sure, I’ve put a car on the ground now and then, but those little derailments were always caused by bad track. Where were you when you found out about this?”

“Oh, we were coming out of the Casa de Salsa nightclub.”

“You mean that ‘bongo drum’ club over in Rico?” John asked, somewhat irritated. “Well, let me tell you something. They don’t like for us to blow through there when they’re having one of their shows, so they throw a red board on us, and we have to sit and wait until they decide they need a break from their bongo drumming. Why, sometimes I’ve sat there for over an hour until they decide to have an intermission. Well, if trains bother them so much, why’d they have to put that club right next to the tracks for anyway?”

“Probably the only place they had for it,” Velma answered. “And what’s a ‘red board?’”

“A red light…a stop signal,” John said. “So when we finally get the green light, what I like to do is creep right up next to the club is, then apply full throttle and blare the horns---just to annoy them.”

“That’s not very nice,” Velma told her uncle

“Well, it’s not very nice what they do to us,” John said. “And I’ll tell you something else. Rico, a town of thirty-five hundred and half of it is them Puerto Ricans! We blow through there and I see kids walking down the street banging on their bongo drums, or standing on the corner pounding on their ‘tom-toms.’ I see that, and I like to give them a little toot on the horn.”

“Puerto Ricans are Americans too, Uncle,” Velma informed him. “They have just as much right to live in that town as anyone else.”

“I know that,” John answered. “And I have nothing against those people. But, geez, I just don’t like to have to sit there and wait on their bongo drum shows. I’ve never heard about anything else like it. And oh, did you hear that just before the wreck, my conductor, Wendell claims to have seen a ghost?”

“No, I didn’t,” Velma said, somewhat taken aback by her uncle’s revelation. 

“Yeah,” her uncle continued. “He saw this so-called ghost, and I may have seen it, too. Then right after that, we got put on the siding and POW! Now they’re wondering if we’d been drinking or on dope. I’ve given my samples, so they’ll know I’m ‘clean.’ Well, I’ve never violated ‘Rule G,’ the rule that prohibits anyone in train service from working under the influence. I’ve…” Right then the door opened and the doctor stepped into the room. Knowing that the doctor would ask her to leave so his patient could get his rest, Velma said, “Uncle, I’m glad you’re going to be all right. Listen, you need your rest, so I’m going to leave right now. I’ll check in on you later. Love you, uncle. Get well soon Bye.”

“Love you too, Velma, later,” John said. “Bye.” Velma stepped out into the hallway and made her way to the waiting area where the gang was. “A ghost, eh?” Velma thought to herself. “Well girl, looks like you’ve got another mystery on your hands!”


CHAPTER 4


Velma reported her findings of her “interview” with her Uncle John to the rest of the gang. Since a ghost was now involved, Mystery, Inc. would take the case. Of course, Shaggy and Scooby wanted no part of it. But since those two wasn’t the ones making the decisions…

Once outside the hospital, Velma decided to call her FBI friend, Dave Dikes on how to proceed. By some miraculous coincidence, Dikes was assigned to the case as “chief investigator,” and was in fact, approaching Springfield at this very moment. He would meet the gang at their motel.

Once Dikes arrived at the motel, a plan was hatched. Dikes would make the gang his “unofficial co-investigators.” He would take Velma, Shaggy, and Scooby over to Dinkley where they would interview witnesses and search for clues. Fred and Daphne would return to the Casa de Salsa nightclub in Rico and interview the club’s management about any problems they’ve had with the railroad. 

A HALF-HOUR LATER IN RICO

Fred and Daphne entered Rico from the north, coming from Interstate 72 in the Mystery Machine. They entered the town on Petersburg Avenue, crossed the tracks, and then hung a left, turning east onto Main Street. 



Rico, on the surface, looked any small Midwest farming town. It was the largest town between Springfield to the east, and Jacksonville, 18 miles to the west. There were two towering grain elevators, and the usual assortment of small businesses along Main Street. There was a boutique (which Daphne reminded herself to visit when she had the chance), a post office, a bank, a library, a grocery store, an insurance and real estate agency, and a doctor’s clinic among other things. All these businesses lined the south side of the street, on the north side were, of course, the railroad tracks. And since this was Saturday morning, people were doing what people in small towns normally did on Saturdays. The majority of the people on the street appeared to be Anglo-Saxon, but a large number were Latinos, Puerto Ricans to be exact. Fred and Daphne also noticed that many of the signs on the stores were in Spanish. “I don’t think I’ve seen so many signs in Spanish since the last time we were in Mexico,” Daphne commented.

They drove on, and sure enough, just as Uncle John had predicted, they encountered a group of teenage Puerto Rican street musicians. Standing on the corner of Main and Division Streets, three boys and a girl were giving an impromptu street concert. The girl was singing (in Spanish), while the three boys were playing instruments; one was playing a guitar, another bongo drums, the third the congas. Finally, they arrived at the club. Since there wasn’t near as many cars this morning as there were last night, they got a parking place right in front of the establishment. As they got out of the Mystery Machine, both could still hear the little street band a half block away. Right then, two vehicles passed by; a pickup truck, its radio blaring country music, followed by a mid 70’s vintage muscle car, its sound system blasting out Latin Salsa. “Wow, talk about a ‘melting pot,’” Fred quipped. “I wonder if we’re in Mayberry or San Juan. Come on, let’s go inside.” 

During the day, the Casa de Salsa served as a Latin and Caribbean themed bar and restaurant. The place was decorated with photographs, paintings, and other reminders of Puerto Rico. A Puerto Rican flag was attached to the wall behind the bar. Next to it, was a television, which was tuned to a Spanish language news channel, the volume muted. In the corner of the bar room was a jukebox, which was playing Latin music. Several customers, all Hispanic, populated the place. A balding, heavy set, mustached Latino man tended bar, Oscar Martinez, the same man who introduced Gil Lopez’s band the night before. Fred and Daphne found a pair of seats at the bar and sat down. “Welcome, senor and senorita. May I get you anything?” Oscar asked his newest customers.

Daphne answered first. “I’ll have a Diet Coke, please.”

“Would you like to have a rum and Diet Coke?” Oscar asked. “We’re having a special on rum and Coke. That is, assuming you’re at least 21.”

“I am,” Daphne said. She thought about Oscar’s suggestion for a moment, then added, “No thanks. I’ll just stick with the Diet Coke.”

“Okay, your loss,” Oscar said. Then turning to Fred, he asked, “And you, senor?”

“I’ll take a Mountain Dew,” Fred replied. “And don’t bother with the glass; I like to drink it straight from the can.”

“Si, senor. Coming right up.” He reached under the bar. He then gave a can of Diet Coke and an ice filled glass to Daphne. He reached under the bar again and produced a can of Mountain Dew and handed it to Fred. “That’ll be a dollar sixty,” he said.

Fred reached into his wallet and pulled out two dollars. “Here, keep the change,” Fred said to Oscar.

“Gracias, senor,” Oscar said. He then turned to perform his other duties before Fred asked, “Excuse me, sir, but may we speak with the manager?”

Oscar turned and faced his young customers. “You’re speaking with him. I’m Oscar Martinez, owner of this establishment. How may I be of assistance to you?”

Fred spoke first. “I’m Fred Jones, and this is Daphne Blake. We’re private investigators with Mystery, Inc., and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Oscar pondered. “Private ‘eyes,’ eh? What about?”

“We understand you’ve been having problems with the railroad,” Fred said. “Care to elaborate?”

“We’ve have some now and then.” Oscar said. “Trains coming through and interrupting our shows. Not so much the trains themselves, but their horns. But we worked out a deal with the railroad, so they don’t bother as much as they did…” He paused for a beat, then added, “Hey, wait a minute. You don’t think I had anything to do with that train wreck I’ve been hearing about?”

“We know you personally had nothing to do with it,” Daphne said. “We saw you here last night, introducing the band.”

Oscar seemed relieved. “I’m happy to hear that. And as owner, I like to personally introduce all our acts. And I’m also proud to say that we’ve had some big name Latin music artists here.”

Daphne spoke again. “I’m curious about something, Mr. Martinez. Why are there so many Puerto Ricans in this town?”

“Who knows?” Oscar replied. “I do know that about 1976 or so, one Juan Salazar and his family moved here from Puerto Rico. They must have liked something about living here so they must have told friends what a great place this is to live, and convinced them to move here. These friends must have told their friends and so on. And since Puerto Ricans like to have lots of kids…” He smiled at his last statement, then continued, “You know, some of the Puerto Ricans living here didn’t originally come directly from the island. They’ve lived in New York City, south Florida, or Chicago before moving here. And now, many of us were born and raised here." Daphne thought about Coolsville, where the Hispanic population had increased dramatically in recent years. But unlike here, most of the Latinos in Coolsville were Mexican Americans, with a few who immigrated from Central America or Colombia. Even so, Latinos made up only 10% or so of Coolsville’s population.

“I ought to tell you something,” Oscar said. “I’m not suggesting anything by telling you this, but my stage and equipment manager, Ricky Barretto didn’t come to work last night.”

“Oh?” Fred and Daphne asked in perfect unison.

“He asked to have last night off so he could take his mother to the airport in St. Louis,” Oscar said. “He’s a good worker, so I told him he could.”

“Is he here now?” Fred asked.

“He is,” Oscar said. “He should be working in the dance hall part.”

“Thank you, Mr. Martinez,” Fred said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Si, senor. Anytime,” Oscar replied.

Fred and Daphne stood up, and taking their drinks with them, walked through an arched opening into the dance hall part of the club, where the live shows are held. The place, now devoid of patrons and dancers, seemed much larger than it did last night when they were here. The room measured about 120 feet long by 60 feet wide. On one end was a raised platform, the stage. And the walls were painted with murals depicting life in Puerto Rico. One of the most striking, Daphne commented, was a painting of couples dancing on a tropical beach while a combo played horns and pounded on Latin drums. On the stage, Gil Lopez and one of his other percussionists were tuning their drums. Gil would turn the tuning lug on his conga, tap on the drum a couple of times, then repeat the process. This went on until Gil noticed the two young detectives and went over to greet them.

“Ah, senorita Daphne, what a pleasant surprise,” Gil said to the young girl. “Enjoy my show last night?” Daphne blushed. Fred rolled his eyes and went, “Sheesh!”

“Loved it, Gil,” Daphne said, a slight seductive tone to her voice. “Your rhythms are so infectious, I couldn’t stop dancing!”

“I am happy to hear that, Daphne,” Gil replied. 

“Okay, okay,” Fred said, slightly annoyed at Daphne’s attraction to this Puerto Rican drummer. “Where’s Ricky Barretto?”

“You mean the stage manager?” Gil asked. “He’s stepped outside, taking a ten minute cigar break.” Ricky, the stage manager, liked to smoke El Producto cigars. But since the club adapted an indoor no-smoking policy, he had to step out back into the alley behind the club to indulge in this vice. While they waited for Ricky to return, Gil regaled Fred and Daphne with stories about life as a Salsa musician. While Gil was devoted to the tropical Latin music genre, he had done a little session work in the pop and rock field, including working with the Hex Girls. He told them about how he played the congas on the Girls’ version of “Black Magic Woman,” the Santana song. He then told of another Hex Girls song; “Warlock Lover,” in which a teenage girl discovers her boyfriend is really a warlock. Mostly a standard rock song, there was a one minute interlude that was quite spooky. Set between the third verse and the final chorus, this interlude featured ghoulish guitar riffs, and a spooky mix of percussion including rock drums and cymbals, along with bongo and conga drums. Gil really enjoyed working with Luna on this song; in fact, he was credited as co-arranger. But despite of his forays into the world of pop/rock, Gil would never abandon performing traditional Salsa. “That’s where my fan base is, that’s what they expect of me, and if I did otherwise, I’d be betraying them,” he told the two.

Right then, the stage door that led to the alley opened, and Ricky stepped inside. Ricky was of medium build, but seemed athletic looking. He was young, about 25, and he wore a backward baseball cap. Like most Puerto Rican males, he had a mustache. He walked to the corner of the stage, plugged in an electric soldering iron, grabbed his little tool box, and began opening the back of an amplifier. Fred and Daphne left Gil, and walked over to where Ricky was working.

“Excuse us, please,” Daphne began, “but are you Ricky Barretto?”

“That’s who I am, babe,” Ricky answered. Daphne grimaced upon hearing the word “babe,” but not wanting to create a scene, decided to ignore it.

“I’m Fred Jones,” Fred said, “and this is my friend Daphne Blake. We’re private investigators with Mystery, Inc., and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure, man,” Ricky replied. “What questions do you need answered?”

“We understand you didn’t come into work last night,” Daphne said. “Do you want to tell us why?”

“Ah, man, Oscar sent private ‘eyes’ after me because I didn’t come in last night?” Ricky asked. “I thought he told me I could have the night off.”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Daphne said. “We need to know where you were last night.”

“I had to take my mother down to Lambert Field in St. Louis, so she could catch a flight to San Juan,” Ricky replied. 

“What time was this?” Fred asked.

“I left Rico here at four,” Ricky answered. “Got there at about six, hung around the airport for a couple of hours, then got back to town here about ten-thirty.”

“What flight did she fly out on?” Fred asked Ricky.

“Can’t remember, man.”

“Can you at least tell us what airline she flew on?” Daphne asked.

“I think it was Delta,” Ricky said. “Or maybe it was American.”

“I see,” Fred said. “Hanging out around the airport, huh? Have you also hung out around any railroads lately, especially near switches?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Ricky said. Then the implications of Fred’s last question struck him. “Ah, man, are you saying I caused that big train wreck I’ve been hearing about?”

“You tell us,” Daphne said, her voice becoming a little huffy. “Your alibi has a hole so big, I could drive a freight train through it. And let me tell you something else. My best friend’s uncle is lying in a hospital bed because someone tampered with a switch and put the train he was driving onto a dead-end spur track. There were hazardous materials involved. Luckily, none of it spilled, or everyone in an entire town would be dead right now!”

“I didn’t do it, man!” Ricky protested.

“Okay,” Fred said. “I should tell you that we’re working with the FBI on this case. I wouldn’t leave town if I were you, because they may want to pay you a visit.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Ricky replied, “because I have nothing to hide, man.”

“Come on, Daphne, let’s go.” Fred and Daphne turned and began to make their way out of the club. But before they could reach the door, Gil motioned Daphne over to where he was on the stage.

“Ah, senorita Daphne, leaving?” Gil asked.

“I’m afraid so, Gil.” Daphne replied. “Hey listen, Daddy would like to have you perform for us again. His guests always seem to enjoy your music.”

“And I enjoy playing for your Daddy, too,” Gil said. “When he wants me, he knows how to get hold of my booking agent. I always look forward to performing at Blake Manor. And before you go, I have a little ‘parting’ gift for you.” With that, Gil played a drum roll on his conga, and then launched into the same kind of hot Latin rhythm he opened last night’s show with. His other percussionist joined him on the timbales and added cowbells to the exotic beat. Daphne stood there for a couple of seconds, then went into a wild dance. This went on for about fifteen seconds or so, before Fred decided he had enough, and yelled, “DAPHNE!” Silence.

“We don’t have time for this,” he told her. Then speaking to Gil: “We’d love to stay here and, uh, dance but we have a lot of work to do. Say goodbye to Mr. Lopez, Daphne.”

“Say goodbye to Mr. Lopez, Daphne,” Daphne parroted and giggled. 

“Now, cut that out!” Fred said. “Come on, let’s go.”

The two exited the club and began to make their way to the town’s railroad depot, katty-cornered across the street. No sooner then they got out the door, Fred asked Daphne, “Now what was that all about?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Daphne replied. “Face it, Freddy, you’re jealous.”

“I am not,” Fred responded.

“Yes you are!”

“I am not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Am not!”

“You are!”

“Sez who?” 

“Sez me!” Daphne giggled again. “You know, Freddy, I think we found ourselves a suspect. Maybe even the prime suspect.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Fred answered. “His alibi is, at best, very flimsy. Think about it, he was away from here at the time of the derailment; he couldn’t remember what airline his mother flew out on, let alone what flight. You know, I’ll bet he didn’t drive to St. Louis, he went to Dinkley instead.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Daphne said, “But without any clues, we can’t place him at the scene of the crime. I hope Velma and the others can find some.” The two reached the depot, went inside, and headed for the ticket window. “May I help you?” the ticket agent asked. “There’s a train for Kansas City, the “Mark Twain” that’s comes in a couple of hours from now with a direct connection for Los Angeles. Sleeping car space is sold out, but I can get you two a pair of nice coach seats.”

“We’re not here to buy train tickets,” Fred told the agent. “We’d like to talk to the man who controls the train movements through here.”

“You mean the ‘operator?’” the agent asked. He remained polite, but told the two, “You know, only authorized personnel are allowed in there.”

“We’re detectives investigating the Dinkley wreck,” Daphne said. “And we would really like to speak with him.”

The agent replied, “You know this is highly irregular and against protocol. Tell you what, I’ll ask him and see if he wants to talk to you. No promises, though.”

“Fair enough, “ Fred said. The ticket man left his counter and entered the train operator’s room. A moment later he exited the room and resumed his place behind the ticket window. Another man, who bore a resemblance to actor Dick Van Dyke (and spoke a little like him, too) poked his head out from behind the door and asked, “Is there anything I can help you two with?”

“I’m Daphne Blake, and this is Fred Jones. We’re detectives and were investigating that wreck last night. And, we’re friends of John Dinkley.”

“Well then, come in,” the man said. “Any friend of John Dinkley is a friend of mine. And your names, I think I’ve heard them somewhere before.”

“Probably have,” Fred replied. “We’re with Mystery, Inc, the group that solves ghost mysteries.”

“Hey, that’s right,” the man said. “John’s niece speaks of them all the time. You’re her friends?”

“In the flesh,” Daphne replied.

“Well, I hope you can find out who did this to him.” By the way, my name’s Ron Richardson, and my job is to control the train traffic through here.”

“Just the man we want to see,” Fred said.

“John and me are best friends. Served in the Navy together during the Korean War. And I was a pallbearer at his wife Edna’s funeral. Funny thing though, the night before, at the visitation, John’s brother Cosmo was there. Well, Cosmo must have said something wrong, because John flares up and yells at him, ‘Get outta here! Just get out!’ As the funeral director ushered him out the door, Cosmo turns and gives John the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen.” Daphne nudged Fred on the side lightly and whispered to him, “Do you think Cosmo may somehow be mixed up in this?”

Fred took the hint. “Hey, I’ve never thought of that. Quite possible,” he whispered. He then asked Ron, “Have you ever had trouble with that nightclub across the street?”

“Before I answer that, you kids need to have a look at this,” Ron said. He motioned them to a large box sitting on a table with a series of lines drawn on it, along with levers and colored lights. This was the CTC (Centralized Traffic Control) board, through which the operator controlled the signals and powered switches in the Rico area. The lines represented the track configuration. Like a teacher pointing to places on a map during a geography lesson, Ron drew their attention to the far right side of the board.

“This here is East Rico Junction, about a mile and a half east of here where the line goes from single to double track.” Here, a single line split into two parallel lines. Moving to the left, Ron then said, “And here, we have East Rico Crossover, just east of town here.” Here, a slanted line joined the two parallel lines, a place where trains could “crossover” from one track to the other. Now, moving to the far left side of the board, Ron continued his lecture. “And finally, we have here West Rico Crossover at the west end of town.” Again, a slanted line joined the two parallel lines. Above each powered junction was a two-position lever, its two positions were labeled “N” and “R” for normal and reversed, respectively. Within each crossover was a colored light, its color indicating the switch position-green for normal or red for reversed. Near each junction on the board was a “two-headed lollipop” with the heads stacked vertically, representing a trackside signal. Some of the “lollipops” were right side up, representing westbound signals; those upside down were eastbound signals. At each signal location on the board was a smaller two-position lever switch. The two positions on these levers were labeled “Auto” which set the signal aspect automatically depending on track switch setting and/or track occupancy, and “Stop” which set the signal to stop and stay. And between signal location, there was a track occupancy light that lit when a train or engine occupied that particular section of track. 

Ron continued, “Two weeks ago, Friday night about six-thirty, the Decatur dispatcher informed me that the 139 train was passing by Iles interlocker westbound over in Springfield, and was coming my way. He asked me to line him onto the westbound track at East Rico Junction, which I did.” He pointed again to East Rico Junction on the board. “Then he asked if the club over here was having a show that night. They were. Then he says to me, ‘You know what to do then.’” He then pointed to East Rico Crossover. “If they were having a show, I was to set that signal to stop. Fact of the matter was, I just plain forgot. So about ten after seven, I hear the band playing across the street, and the sound of those ‘tom-toms’ they like to play, when the 139 radios me, ‘You’re going to let us come on through tonight? Thanks!’ Right then I realized that I forgot to set that signal to stop. He was almost upon me, so I had no choice but to let him come on through. No sooner than the train passed then my phone rang. It was the club, and the guy just starts screaming at me in Spanish! I kept saying, ‘Me no speak Spanish, me no speak Spanish.’ Well he kept screaming in Spanish. Finally, when he decides to speak in English, he says, ‘Why did you let that train through? You know our deal!’ I tried apologizing to him. But that wasn’t good enough for him, so he starts screaming in Spanish again. I hung up on him, but he must then have called Decatur, for five minutes later, the division superintendent calls me up and chews me out royally. Why I’ve never…” Right then there came a clanging sound, the bells on the Division Street crossing signal outside. An eastbound train was coming. “Better hold your ears, ‘cause it’s going to get a little noisy,” Ron told the two young detectives. An air horn sounded in the distance to the west. The horn blared again, accompanied by a low-pitched throbbing sound, which was growing louder by the second. The blaring of the horn and the throbbing was now quite loud as the locomotives rushed by just outside at nearly 50 miles per hour, its horn creating a nice Doppler effect. The windows rattled. Following the engines were a solid train of trailers and containers riding on flat cars, an intermodal train. 

 The racket was just short of deafening. Fred looked over at Daphne and shouted to her, “Let’s see you dance to this beat!” But Daphne couldn’t hear Fred’s remark over the rushing noise just outside. After about a minute the train passed, its noise receding to the east. 

“They must be about to get the line cleared if they’re letting trains through,” Ron said. Fred then asked Ron, “Who called you up that night you let the train through? Was it Mr. Martinez?”

Ron looked at Fred an told him, “No it wasn’t Mr. Martinez. It was his stage manager, Mr. Barretto.” Fred and Daphne looked at each other.

“Well, I think we got all the information we need, Mr. Richardson,” Daphne said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Anytime, my young friends,” Ron said. “And again, I hope you find out who did this to John. Nobody should have to go through that kind of wreck.”

“We’ll do our best,” Fred replied. “We’ll let ourselves out. Thanks.” As they exited the station and made their way back to the Mystery Machine, Daphne said, “Wow. We came here looking for one suspect and came away with two.”

“Mysteries are funny in that way, Daph,” Fred replied. With that, they got into the van and drove off.

On to Part 3 !

 

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