The Chase for the Mystery Twister Read Free Page B

contents of the place had been hurled in every direction. I never have figured that one out.”
    â€œA mystery twister,” Frank said.
    â€œA mystery twister,” Jansen repeated, looking at Frank closely. “I like that.”
    â€œI need to get into town to talk with Toby Gill, the insurance man,” Snowdon said. “Why don’t you and Joe come on in and clean up?” he said to Frank.
    â€œThanks,” Frank replied, looking at their wet, muddy clothes. “I think we’ll take you up on that.”
    As the Hardys followed Snowdon around the side of the farmhouse, Joe saw a strange, hairless creature scamper by, clucking.
    â€œLooks like the tornado hit our hen house,” Snowdon grumbled, pointing to the remains of a small wooden structure.
    â€œThat was a hen?” Joe asked. “What happened to all its feathers?”
    â€œPlucked. That’s what tornado winds can do,” Snowdon replied as he opened the door to his blue pickup.
    â€œI’m afraid the winds did more than de-feather your chickens,” Frank said, nodding toward some rusty nails that had pierced and flattened two of Snowdon’s tires.
    â€œWell, doesn’t that just beat all,” Snowdon said, shaking his head and throwing his hat on the ground.
    â€œMaybe Phil can give you a ride into town,” Joe suggested.
    Just then Phil came running around the corner of the farmhouse, shouting with excitement. “Mr. Jansen got a phone call from Tulip. Another tornado just touched down. I need to assist him on the remote weather station,” Phil added, referring to the red bus that had pulled around the house to pick him up.
    â€œWe’d better stay here and help Snowdon,” Frank said. “Can we borrow the Blue Bomber?”
    â€œSure thing,” Phil replied, tossing Frank the keys as he ran to board the bus.
    The Hardys watched as the bus and four other vehicles sped up the dirt road leading from the Parlette farm and pulled out onto the highway, headed back toward Tulip.
    â€œSo much for small-town life being quiet,” Joe said. “We’ve been here an hour, and we’vealready had more excitement than we’ve seen in Bayport all year!”
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    The town of Lone Wolf, Oklahoma, was indeed small, and it was ghostly, too, Joe thought. They drove by several ruins left by past tornadoes, including a crumbled brick house that had posted in front of it a hand-painted sign that read: Used to Be 125 Main Street.
    A van from Channel 9 News, Lone Wolf, buzzed past them, headed back toward Tulip.
    â€œThere’s Mr. Gill’s place,” Snowdon said, pointing to a small office tucked among the old-time storefronts along Main Street. Frank parked in front, and the Hardys and Snowdon entered the insurance office, the little bells on the door jingling behind them.
    â€œWhoa,” Joe said, looking around the small office. “It looks like a tornado hit in here, too.”
    The drawers of Gill’s desk were hanging open, as were the drawers to his filing cabinet. Papers were strewn across the room, and a broken desk lamp lay on the floor.
    â€œThis couldn’t be tornado damage,” Snowdon said. “The doors were closed, and none of the windows is broken.”
    Frank heard a beeping noise and traced it to Gill’s telephone, which was lying on the floor under the desk. Snowdon reached to hang it up. “Don’t!” Frank warned. “We don’t want to touch anything. We need to get fingerprints.”
    Joe found that the back door to the office had been left ajar and led to an alleyway. A man with gray-streaked long black hair was parked there in a green station wagon. Seeing Joe, the man burned rubber and sped off just as Frank and Snowdon stepped into the alley.
    â€œHey!” Joe shouted after him, then turned to Snowdon. “Was that Toby Gill?”
    â€œNo,” Snowdon replied,