Free The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up by JoAnna Carl Page B

must have been the dining room. When the camp closed down, a group of the summer people started a nondenominational chapel there.”
    “Like the Lake Shore Chapel?”
    “I think that’s what it turned into. This location was so remote that the congregation found a more central site and built a real building.”
    “So the old chapel was just abandoned?”
    “As far as I know. Oh, people used it for picnics or family reunions. But there’s no plumbing—or maybe just a well.”
    “And it’s posted,” I said. I stopped the van with the headlights on a sign. “Private Property,” it read. “No Trespassing.”
    “I don’t think we can let that stop us,” Aunt Nettie said.
    “It certainly wouldn’t have stopped Hershel,” I said. “According to Patsy Waterloo, he prowls everywhere—all around Warner Pier.”
    “I think she’s right. I know I’ve seen him over on our road and on the beach, just trudging along. I wouldn’t go so far as calling him a window peeper—but . . .”
    “But he spies on people, I gather.” I took a deep breath and edged the van forward. “At least the old chapel doesn’t seem to have a gate.”
    I had spoken too soon. Around the next bend in the road a barred gate appeared. “I’ll open it,” Aunt Nettie said. Before I could say more than, “Aunt Nettie . . .”, she was out of the van and over to the gate. She shoved at it. It wiggled, but it didn’t open. She came back.
    “The gate’s padlocked. We’ll have to walk from here. I hope you have a flashlight.”
    We’d come this far; neither of us was going to balk at going the last few feet. I reached into the bin under Aunt Nettie’s seat and produced a heavy flashlight—the kind my dad says every vehicle should be equipped with.
    “I’ll leave the van’s lights on,” I said. “At least we’ll be able to find it on our way back.”
    Aunt Nettie and I climbed over the gate. The road was not graveled but was merely a sandy lane—the type with grass down the middle. The trees, of course, met overhead and were crowding into the road.
    “It can’t be far,” I said.
    “It’s not. In fact—Lee, shine the flashlight up ahead.”
    I was terrifically relieved to see a structure less than a hundred feet away.
    “We can make it,” I said.
    I dropped the light back onto the ground immediately in front of us, and the two of us walked up to the building. As Aunt Nettie had said, it was a rustic pavilion suitable for use for picnics or outdoor worship. The roof, which probably had holes in it, was held up by posts—four on each end, and eight down each side. There were no walls, and the floor—I could see bits of cement slab—was covered with matted leaves and other forest debris.
    The place was deserted. Nobody called out to us, and I didn’t see Hershel standing there waiting. Aunt Nettie stepped under the roofed area, and I used the flashlight to check my watch. “It’s five till twelve,” I said. “I vote that we don’t wait long.”
    “Lee!” Aunt Nettie’s voice was tight. “When you lifted the flashlight—there’s something over in that corner. Shine the light over there.”
    She gestured, and I turned the flashlight where she directed. I saw nothing.
    “Farther back,” Aunt Nettie said. “It was outside the pavilion, I guess.”
    She clutched my arm as I inched the light farther and farther away, directing the flashlight’s beam to the edge of the pavilion, then beyond. Now I saw something, too. It was a lump, huddled on the ground. I turned the light full on it.
    We were looking at a bright green shirt.

Chapter 7
    A unt Nettie and I clutched each other.
    “That’s Hershel’s shirt,” I said.
    “He’s hurt,” Aunt Nettie said. “We’d better see if we can help him.” She took a step toward the heap.
    “Wait!” I grabbed her arm. “Let’s look around first.”
    “But, Lee . . .”
    “Hershel can wait another minute,” I said. I guess I’d already decided Hershel hadn’t been