Boardwalk Bust Read Free

factoid rang a bell. I remembered something about you two going off to visit a farm somewhere.”
    He looked at Joe, then at me. “Do you boys have something you want to tell me?”
    Joe and I couldn’t help grinning at one another. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re untraceable.”
    â€œNice work,” Dad said, finally giving us a smile.
    â€œGlad you’re okay. Now go inside and get cleaned up. Your mom and Aunt Trudy have been waiting for you, and you look like something the cat dragged in.”
    Dad really does worry about us. It’s not because he doesn’t think we can handle ourselves in a tight spot. He knows we can.
    It’s just that he knows he’s responsible for
everything
.
    He’s the one we took after, the one who taught us everything we know—up to a point. He’s the one who inspired us to become amateur detectives years ago, when we were still little kids.
    But most importantly, he’s the one who founded ATAC and made us its first two agents. So like I say, it’s not that he doesn’t trust us—it’s that he hates putting kids in harm’s way. Especially his sons.
    â€œOh, and also,” Dad added, “Trudy said something about sheets.”
    Sheets?
    â€œUgh,” Joe said, putting a hand to his forehead. “I forgot—it’s our day to help with the folding!”
    Oh, right. Joe and I exchanged a quick look.
    Our clothes were a mess, all ripped. I had scratches all over my arm from fending off Farmer Pressman’s Dobermans. And Joe had the beginnings of a really magnificent black eye.
    No way did we want to face Mom—and especially not Aunt Trudy—when we looked like we’d just been through a torture chamber.
    Dad was staring at Joe’s black eye now. He put a hand up to it. Joe flinched at the touch.
    â€œWhat happened, son?”
    Joe hesitated, so I just jumped in. “He got kicked by a cow.”
    â€œShut up,” Joe muttered, shooting me a look.
    â€œA cow?”
    â€œI … thought it would be a hoot to milk it,” Joe said with a sigh. “You know, we were just hanging around in the barn, waiting for this scuzzball to show up …”
    â€œWell, you’d better get in there and wash up before your mother and aunt see you like that,” Dad said. “That way, you won’t have to explain any of this.”
    We started for the kitchen door.
    â€œAnd Joe—you might want to do something about that eye. You don’t want to go telling people you got in a fight with a cow and lost.”
    â€œDad’s right,” I said. “You might want to put some makeup on it.”
    Joe scowled at me. “Do I look like I would wear makeup?”
    â€œSuit yourself,” I said with a shrug.
    We went into the house through the kitchen door. There are back stairs from there that lead up to our bedrooms—and, more importantly, the bathrooms.
    We tiptoed our way along and were almost around the corner to the stairs when we heard Aunt Trudy’s voice booming out from the living room. “Frank! Joe! I hear you clomping around in there!”
    She came into the kitchen with Playback on her shoulder.
    Playback is our pet parrot, and he loves to perch on Aunt Trudy’s shoulder and nibble on her earlobe. It’s probably because she lets him get away with it.
    Aunt Trudy doesn’t have any kids of her own, and she sure doesn’t spoil us, either—but I’m telling you, as far as she’s concerned, that parrot can do no wrong.
    The funny thing is, when we first brought Playback home she hated him. She was totally grossed out by the way he pooped all over everything.
    But one thing about our Aunt Trudy—she’s a tough old bird. Tougher than Playback, anyway. Before too long, she had him toilet trained! No lie. That bird would not poop anywhere but in his cage, and from that time on, he was Aunt Trudy’s