Read Online Bonfire Masquerade by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online

that might help us find them?” said Frank.
    â€œNo. Wait, yes! I don’t know how helpful this will be, but the stuff that they steal—none of it shows up in the pawnshops or thrift stores. I don’t know what they’re doing with it, but they’re not selling it.”
    That was interesting. I had no idea what it might mean, but it was definitely out of the ordinary.
    â€œIf you find these guys, let me know. They’re messing with my city—they’re going to have to deal with me.”
    There were some shouts of agreement from the assembled Krewe. We hung out with them a little longer, and Sybil told us about all the projects they were doing in the neighborhood—the soup kitchen, a community garden, a local fashion line that taught kids how to sew and make their own clothes.
    â€œWhere does all the money come from?” asked Frank at one point. No one answered.
    Lenni gave him a look and then poked him in the ribs. “Ignore him. He was dropped on his head as a kid.”
    Shortly after that, we left. As we walked back through the Bywater, I could tell Frank was still upset about something.
    â€œShould we call the cops on them or something? Who knows where their money is coming from?”
    Lenni hit him again. “Don’t you fabulous spy boys have something better to do than harass people who are actually trying to make life better down here?”
    She had a point. Frank blushed.
    â€œYou’re right, I’m sorry.”
    â€œOf course I’m right,” said Lenni. She looked at an imaginary watch on her arm. “Look at that, time for me to go. There’s a second line tonight, and I don’t want to miss it.”
    She pulled her skateboard out of her bag and hopped on it. Soon she was zooming off.
    â€œWait!” I yelled. “Where are you staying? How can we contact you?”
    â€œI’ve still got your phone!” Lenni yelled as she disappeared around the corner, leaving Frank and me scratching our heads.
    â€œWhat’s a second line?” I asked Frank.
    He shrugged.
    With nothing else to do, we decided to follow our last remaining clue. The phone we’d followed to the Bywater belonged to one Andrew Richelieu. According to the police records, he was the spoiled son of a rich banking family and had had no idea his phone was even missing. Chances were, he wouldn’t have much information for us, but we had to try.
    I pulled out my phone and called the number the police had given us for Andrew.
    â€œWhat?” a surly voice answered on the other end.
    â€œHi, is this Andrew Richelieu?” I said, surprised.
    â€œUh, duh.”
    â€œWell, this is Joe Hardy. I’m working with the New Orleans Police Department. I believe they mentioned I might be contacting you about—”
    â€œWhatever. I don’t really care, and I have a party tonight to get ready for. What do you want?”
    Man, the police report had been kind! This guy was a brat.
    â€œI’d like to talk to you about the theft of your phone.”
    â€œFine. Party starts at eight p.m. Ask the butler to find me when you get here.”
    The line went dead. Andrew, it seemed, was a man of few words—and all of them were hostile.
    Four hours later, Frank and I were seated in the back of a taxi, on our way up to the Garden District. Parties seemed to be the order of the day. The streets were lined with huge columned mansions, all of them lit up with tiki torches and mini spotlights, with parties that spilled out onto their lawns and balconies. Some were formal affairs—black ties and evening gowns, with elegantly simple masks. Others were wild, raging parties with dancing and blaring music. And the parties weren’t contained to the houses. Every corner seemedto have an impromptu band performing, people dancing, laughing, singing.
    I could really get to like this town, I thought.
    Finally we arrived at Andrew’s house. Unlike