Fire in the Feed Mill: Brady Street Boys Midwest Adventure Series, #6

By Katrina Lee

These youngsters are studying goodness. But have they just stumbled upon an act of evil?

 

Gary Fitzpatrick senses he's closing in on the truth. So when he, his uncle, and his brothers roll into a hot Illinois town, the thirteen-year-old believes this time he'll finally be able to speak to the doctor who amputated his leg. But before he can start his quest for answers, the teen detectives are intrigued when they spy an ambulance carrying a patient from a chocolate shop.

 

Learning that the victim had been poisoned by his dining partner, Gary and his brothers set to work unraveling the mystery. But as their hunt for evidence takes them across the community, the team of teenaged detectives is startled to learn that the physician they're looking for may be caught up in the same nasty scandal…

 

Can Gary and his siblings solve the case and locate the secretive surgeon?

 

Fire in the Feed Mill is the fast-paced sixth book in the Brady Street Boys Adventure Series. If you like persistent heroes, Christian values, and clever whodunits, then you'll love Katrina Hoover Lee's engrossing story.

 

Buy Fire in the Feed Mill to find the grain of truth today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katrina Lee
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958683064

Book preview

1

Bitterroot, IL

Almost before our wheels rolled out of Lansing, Iowa, we imagined what the town of Bitterroot, Illinois, would be like.

I wonder if we’ll find a place to stay that has milk and cookie hour. Terry, in the front passenger seat, sighed with delight at the memory of Grandma Barb’s tradition in the rambling old house above the Mississippi River.

Unlikely, Uncle Aaron said, hands on the wheel. Since this was the first time in my life I’ve ever lodged at a place with milk and cookie hour.

Aw, come on, Terry groaned.

I feel a little like Abraham in the Bible. Larry stretched, nearly planting his fist on the side of my head. Leaving my home and going to a new country I know nothing about. I hope there’s a river, even if it’s just a little one.

Illinois doesn’t strike me as a place with lots of rivers. Uncle Aaron was apparently determined to dash our hopes. But I might be wrong.

Well, the only thing I ask for is a screened-in porch, I said. That was the best thing in the world.

Grandma Barb’s personality is part of what made the whole town a pleasant experience, Uncle Aaron said. People make places come alive. If the landlady had been terrible, you would talk about how much you hate screened-in porches.

We had no idea how right he was.

When we arrived in Bitterroot, there was no sign of any bluff or river, or any variation from the flat dusty landscape through which we had been driving for hours. Second, it seemed to be about 40 degrees hotter than it had been in Lansing. Third, we could not find a place to stay.

We passed a few hotels on the outskirts of town. However, we wanted a room as close to the post office as possible since, once again, we had nothing but a post office box to give us directions. We were prepared to wait outside the post office, watching for Dr. Jefferson.

However, Bitterroot was much bigger than Lansing, Iowa. We spent three hot and sweaty hours on foot, always thinking we were close to discovering a lodging place. We walked in ever wider blocks around the post office, following the unhelpful advice of several people. Finally, a firefighter at the downtown fire station told us about Elias Butterscotch, a man who rented rooms above the offices of his feed mill. He gave us the phone number of the housekeeper in charge of the rooms. Even that phone call was complicated, since the rooms were across the street from the feed mill rather than above the offices.

One room cost $300 a week, much more expensive than Grandma Barb’s, and the accommodations were much worse. Not only was there no milk and cookie hour at 8 p.m., but there was no air conditioning, and dust filled the apartment. The housekeeper, a spidery woman who apparently cleaned by scraping the dirt into her fingernails, expressed no excitement about renting a room to three boys and one man.

Do you have any guns or knives? she asked first.

Startled, Uncle Aaron said, No.

Terry confessed he had a pocketknife. The woman sniffed, apparently not considering a pocketknife to be an actual knife.

Any slingshots? she asked next.

I don’t think so, Uncle Aaron said, glancing at Terry.

Terry said he did not have a slingshot with him, although I could tell that he wished he did.

Sweat drenched us by the time we hauled our few pieces of luggage to the second-story bedroom, which contained two creaky double beds.

What? Larry stepped to the window. We can’t even see the feed mill from here.

Wobbly wood trim and peeling caulk bordered the pane of glass. It was a symbol of how our standard of living had fallen from Grandma Barb’s house along the Mississippi River.

Larry and I looked out the window. Below, cars slowed at a red light on Main Street. Across the street, we saw a building with a sign that said Hugo’s Chocolate and Crepe Shoppe.

Everything in this town makes me hungry. Terry had come up behind us. The feed mill is owned by a Butterscotch and our apartment is across from a Chocolate and Creep shop.

Uncle Aaron burst out laughing. "It’s not a Creep Shop. It’s pronounced crape. Rhymes with shape."

What’s a crepe? Larry asked.

Kind of like a pancake, I think. Shall we go try one?

We were all starving.

However, when we reached the wide windows that made up the front of the shop, we saw it had closed.

Probably just open for breakfast and lunch. Uncle Aaron looked around the intersection. I don’t think we’ll get anything to eat at the feed mill. So . . . we start another search.

Thankfully, we found Betsy’s Diner close by. The diner was a squat building with red awnings and handrails, set back from the sidewalk to allow a generous parking lot. The dining room was full of windows and savory smells. Betsy, a motherly woman with cat-eye glasses, welcomed us to Bitterroot, and did not ask for an inventory of weapons.

We dropped into our two shared beds that night, hot and sticky. Even though I was exhausted, I tossed and turned. Sleep seemed as far away as China. The acceleration of cars in the street below was like the beat of a poorly timed band of drummers. But I finally tuned out the noise and slept. In the morning, the chilly air through the open window gave me hope that the new day would be cooler.

Why is there an ambulance outside the chocolate shop? Larry asked from the window as we all finished our preparation for the day. Sun streamed in around him, spotlighting particles of dust sifting from the blinds.

Having just fastened on my wooden leg, I rushed to the window and peered through the glass. Below, red strobe lights flashed and a couple of emergency personnel slid someone into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher.

Hey! I elbowed Larry. That man holding the right side of the stretcher looks like Dr. Jefferson!

You can’t see him well enough to tell, Larry protested.

It was true. The view was not clear. But I had come to the window as a detective.

Right, but think about this, I told Larry. What is Dr. Jefferson doing in this town? He has to do something. Why not work on the ambulance since he’s used to taking care of hurt people?

Surgeons usually take care of people who are asleep. Uncle Aaron had come up from behind and was looking over our heads. But I’m not saying that your idea is bad, Gary.

Well, where are we going to eat breakfast? I asked. We could walk over there and check out the paramedic on the way.

I’m all for eating breakfast over there, Uncle Aaron said. They are open now, obviously.

I’m afraid it will be too late for a better view of the paramedic, Larry sighed.

Indeed, the ambulance men jumped into the vehicle, one into the front seat and one into the back. Doors slammed shut, and the ambulance pulled smoothly away from the curb. A few bystanders drifted into the chocolate shop.

I hope your idea was wrong, Gary. Larry stepped from the window. It would be terrible to start our search in Bitterroot by missing Dr. Jefferson.

2

The Creep Shop

We clattered down two flights of dusty stairs and out into the open air. The sun was up, but it was still cool. The city was alive with the roar of trucks pulling out of the feed mill and the rumble of a train on the tracks beyond.

We looked both ways and stepped across the street. A short man with a round stomach and a bald head exited the shop as we approached. Definitely not Dr. Jefferson.

The bell on the door of the chocolate and crepe shop jangled us into a cool dining room smelling of pine cleaner and pancakes. A woman with a bucket and mop disappeared through a door into the back of the shop. A few older men, about the age of the man who had exited the building, clustered at a table in the middle of the room, drinking coffee. Dressed in flannel shirts and overalls, they looked like a bunch of retired farmers. The rest of the place was vacant.

Good morning! A loud male voice greeted us from behind the glass-fronted counter which separated us from endless rows of brown, black, and white chocolates. A tall man with a white chef’s hat poured thin batter onto a round skillet. Have a seat wherever you’d like.

Do you think that’s actually Hugo himself? Larry asked me as we slid into chairs at a table by the window.

I shrugged. Maybe?

The woman who had carried out the bucket returned and washed her hands vigorously at a wall sink. She dried her hands on a towel, snatched up a coffee carafe and a paper booklet for taking orders, and walked our way. One man called to her from the table in the middle of the room.

Think he’ll be all right?

The waitress shrugged. I hope so!

Is it food poisoning? asked another man. One of us going down next?

Bob! The waitress tossed her head of frizzy blond hair, like a teacher about to scold a child. It takes hours for food poisoning to set in.

The man shook with laughter at his joke as the woman turned toward us.

The waitress welcomed us and poured Uncle Aaron a cup of coffee, spilling several drops.

I’m so sorry. She dabbed the stray drops with a cloth from her pocket. My nerves are rattled by the crazy morning we are having here. My name’s Candy, by the way.

Really? Larry asked. And you work in a chocolate shop?

Really. She smiled at him, tapping the name tag which had slid behind her apron ruffle.

We saw the ambulance outside, Uncle Aaron said. Is everyone okay?

Oh, I hope so. A diner was getting up to leave and started vomiting and shaking uncontrollably. No worries, I cleaned it all up before they ever got him in the ambulance. And the paramedic said he didn’t think it was anything contagious.

Do you have experienced paramedics here? Larry asked.

I almost rolled my eyes. Not only was he going into full question mode again, he was also trying to find out if Dr. Jefferson had taken a job with the crew. I kicked him under the table.

Candy hesitated. I don’t know, but I think so? My cousin used to be in the department, but I had no interest in dealing with sick people.

That’s fine, just curious. Larry glared at me. We’ve never been here before, and we are looking for a friend who we thought might work as a paramedic.

Oh, dear! You are newcomers to town and this is your introduction! She laughed. We’ll get you some delicious breakfast crepes for a proper Bitterroot experience. Check down at the fire station for your friend. They are a big family down there.

Candy explained that a crepe is like a pancake, only thinner.

Hugo makes the best crepes in Illinois. He grew up in France and learned to make them there, the right way. Candy’s voice sounded almost like a recording, as if she had recited this description many, many times. Still, her blue eyes sparkled as she talked, as if she really loved the crepes herself. For breakfast, we serve them with eggs and bacon, but we also serve them with ice cream, cream cheese, fruit preserves, and hazelnut spread.

What about the chocolate? Terry asked. "Is