Very Deadly Yours (2 page)

“I'm sorry. I—I just got scared, that's all. I started to wonder whether anyone had heard me make that call and was just
pretending
to be you at the door.”

“Bess Marvin, you're driving me crazy. Now come out, get in the car, and calm down.”

• • •

“My goodness, girls! What are you doing up so late?” asked Hannah Gruen, the Drews' housekeeper, when Nancy and Bess came in a few
minutes later. “Bess! What's happened? You look as though you've seen a ghost.”

“I wish that were all I'd seen,” Bess said. “Nancy's letting me spend the night here, Hannah. I hope that's all right.”

“Of course it is,” said Hannah. “I'll go and make up the spare bed now.”

“Oh, and do you have any hot chocolate?” Bess asked Nancy in a tiny voice. “I think I deserve some tonight.”

“Good idea,” Nancy said. “Let's go make a pot.”

Over mugs of steaming hot chocolate—Bess's wearing a huge cap of whipped cream—they settled down on the sofa in the living room. “Now,” said Nancy, “I want it all. From the beginning.”

Bess took a sip and sighed. “Well, the first thing I have to say is that I'll never break a promise to you again.”

“That's good to hear. What promise did you break, anyway?” Nancy asked.

“The one where I told you I'd meet that guy from the Personals in a safe, busy place. But let me start at the beginning.” Bess took another sip before continuing.

“I wrote him a note with my phone number on it in care of the newspaper. That was last Monday. He must have gotten it right away, because he called me Wednesday night. Nan, he sounded so great! Polite, interesting, cute—”

“You could tell all that over the phone?” Nancy said, interrupting.

“I
thought
so, anyway. We talked for a little while—just about our interests and stuff like that—and then he asked when we could get together. Well, I did remember what you'd said. I suggested the Pizza Palace, but he sounded really disappointed. He said
that
was no place for a first date and that he'd had someplace more romantic in mind. All I could think was how great it was to meet someone who actually used the word ‘romantic.' I said okay, and
he
said to meet him at a little restaurant called Bel Canto, at Eightieth and Main, tonight at seven.”

Nancy could vaguely remember seeing Bel Canto, a pretty little place on the outskirts of town. “So you said you would?” she asked, prompting Bess.

“Yes. But when I got there, I started to get the creeps. The place was in the middle of nowhere and the parking lot was so dark and deserted that I almost changed my mind right there. Could you pour me another cup of hot chocolate? Thanks.

“So, anyway, I went in, and the restaurant was just about empty. Except that there was one cute guy sitting at a table. He
was
pretty cute,” she repeated, as if to herself. “He was blond and blue-eyed too. I went up and introduced myself and sat down.”

“What was
his
name?” Nancy asked.

“Oh! Steve. He told me that when I first called
him. Steve Beldon. He gave his phone number in the ad. It's not in the phone book, though—I checked when I got home tonight. So, anyway, I sat down, and the waitress came up to take our orders. He only ordered coffee! At seven at night! I mean, if this was going to be so romantic, you'd think he'd at least have been thinking
dinner.
So that got my suspicions up.”

“I should think it would,” Nancy said gravely. Bess darted a look at her, then continued her story.

“So I couldn't do anything except order coffee, too, could I? But, Nan, do you know what he said when the waitress had brought the order and gone away?”

“He asked if you took sugar?”

“Nancy!” Bess said indignantly. “Will you get serious? He leaned forward and grabbed my wrist—hard—and said, ‘Where's the money?' ”

“What money?” Nancy asked, bewildered.

“That's what
I
said, but he just repeated the question. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. He looked at me for a second, in kind of a creepy way, and then he said, ‘All right, if that's the way you want it. But how could you leave the Glove to die? I thought you loved him!' ”

“What?”

“And he kept saying it, too,” Bess said. “He just kept asking me both questions over and over, in this mean little whisper, until I decided
it was time to get out of there. I said, ‘Well, thanks for the coffee,' and stood up. I couldn't see the waitress anywhere—she must have been in the back.”

Bess's voice was shaky now. “He grabbed my wrist again and just
yanked
me back into my seat. He said he'd be watching me from now on—and that if I made one false move, he'd—he'd kill me! Then he said he was leaving. He told me not to watch him go and not to tell anyone in the restaurant what had happened. Then I had to wait five minutes after he'd left before I got up myself.”

Bess looked bleakly at Nancy. “So I did everything he said, and then I drove home and called you—and here I am. Now go ahead and say ‘I told you so.' ”

“Oh, Bess. What a night you've had,” said Nancy, leaning forward and putting her hand on Bess's shoulder. “Especially when you were looking forward to meeting this guy so much.”

“Do you think he really is watching me?” Bess asked.

“Oh, no,” Nancy said reassuringly. “Not a chance.” She knew there was no way to be sure of that, but she didn't want to make Bess even more nervous.

“Well, could you get your father to sue the paper for my mental anguish?” Bess asked. Nancy's father, Carson Drew, was one of the best-known lawyers in River Heights.

Nancy had to laugh. “I'm afraid not. The paper hasn't done anything illegal. They're not responsible for what happens to people who answer their ads.” She paused for a moment, thinking.

“All the same, it wouldn't hurt to go by the newspaper offices tomorrow and tell them about this creep. I know that some people who advertise in the Personals are weird, but they're not supposed to be
this
weird. A responsible paper would want to know about this guy.

“Now let's get some sleep,” she continued. “And the first thing in the morning we'll go over and talk to the person at the paper in charge of these ads.”

“Yeah,” Bess said more cheerfully. “We'll tell them it's just not acceptable to ruin my life like this.”

• • •

“You do the talking, Nancy,” Bess said nervously the next day. The two girls had just gotten out of Nancy's Mustang in the visitors' parking lot at the
Morning Record.

“No problem,” Nancy answered. Then she stopped for a minute and looked at the building. She knew it all too well—one of her most important cases had involved a
Record
reporter. Just standing there brought back a flood of memories.

The building looked ordinary enough. Its right side was covered with scaffolding, though, and a few workmen were sandblasting the facade.

Nancy glanced quickly at Bess. “What's the matter?” Bess asked.

“Nothing,” Nancy said, pulling herself together. “Let's go.”

She began walking briskly toward the main entrance, Bess following a couple of paces behind.

Just as the girls were about to walk through the door, there was an ominous rumbling sound. Then a brick crashed to the ground right next to Nancy's foot. Startled, she glanced up.

A huge, dark shape teetered precariously on the edge of the scaffolding overhead. It blocked out the sun as it hurtled down.

Nancy gasped. A cartload of bricks was falling straight at them!

I
T ALL HAPPENED
in seconds.

Bess screamed. Instantly Nancy grabbed her arm and yanked her backward so fast that both girls fell to the ground. Before they could scramble to their feet, an avalanche of bricks had crashed to the sidewalk inches in front of them. Then there was silence. The two girls watched, dazed, as the dust settled.

“Are you all right?” A man rushed up to them and helped them to their feet. “That was unbelievable! I was behind you and could see it about to happen, but there was no way to get to you in time.”

“I think we're okay,” Nancy said. “Bess?” She
turned to her friend, and Bess nodded. “Did you see what happened?” Nancy asked the man. “Was there anyone up there?”

“Not that I saw,” he said. “The cart just toppled over and the bricks came shooting down. Maybe they hadn't been loaded right.”

“It still seems strange—” Nancy glanced up at the scaffolding. If there had been anyone there, he certainly wasn't there now. “Well, you must be right,” she said. “Anyway, thanks for checking on us. I guess we were just lucky this time.”

“Guess so. Lucky no one else was here, too.” The man walked away, and Bess turned to Nancy.

“You see?” she said. “He's still trying to get me!”

“Oh, come on, Bess,” answered Nancy. “I'm sure it was just a coincidence. Not a very nice one, I admit, but what else could it have been? If this guy wanted to get you, there are lots of easier ways to do it.” She hoped she was right. “Anyway, let's go in and tell them about him.”

“Well,
I
think dumping a load of bricks on a girl would be a
very
easy way to get rid of her,” grumbled Bess as she followed Nancy through the double doors of the
Record
building.

“May I help you?” asked a businesslike receptionist as the girls walked inside.

“I hope so,” Nancy answered, smiling. “We need to speak to whoever is in charge of your Personals.”

“Do you wish to place an ad?”

“Not exactly,” said Nancy.

“May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?” the receptionist asked silkily.

“We need to make a complaint,” blurted out Bess before Nancy could say anything.

The receptionist sighed. “All right. Go up to Lena Verle on the fifth floor.”

“Lena Verle?
Doesn't she sound mean?” said Bess as they walked toward the elevator.

“Well, maybe she's nicer than she sounds,” Nancy answered.

But she wasn't. The fifth floor was a hive of computer terminals. When they asked the nearest man which one belonged to Lena Verle, his face clouded for a second.

“She's over there, in the corner,” he said. “And I hope for your sakes that it's urgent.”

Hunched over the terminal in the corner was a young woman dressed in the drabbest clothes Nancy had ever seen—a droopy olive green cardigan, a limp beige blouse, and a shapeless gray skirt. She looked up irritably as they approached.

“Ms. Verle?” Nancy asked. “I wonder if we could talk to you for a minute.”

“Well, go ahead—talk,” said Lena Verle.

“It's about something private. Is there someplace we could be alone? This will only take a little while.”

“Look, I'm not a real editor,” said Lena.
“I
don't have an office of my own. We can talk here or out in the hall. It's up to you.”

“The hall would be fine,” Nancy said politely.

Ms. Verle stood up without a word and swept past them to the hallway—where she sat in a chair next to the elevator. It was the only chair.

Nancy didn't waste any time. “My friend here had a pretty unpleasant experience when she contacted one of the people whose ads you ran in your Personals column. We thought you might know who it was.” She held up the cut-out ad. Lena Verle's eyes flicked over the paragraph, but she made no move to take it.

“How should I know?” she answered tersely. “It could have been placed by anyone. I don't keep track of the people who come in here.”

“Are the ads placed in person or by mail?” asked Nancy.

“Both,” snapped Ms. Verle.

“Maybe you could check your files to see if this one was mailed,” suggested Nancy. “We'd like to trace this person if we possibly can. He made some very unpleasant threats.”

“I'm sorry,” said Ms. Verle, who didn't sound sorry at all, “but that would violate confidentiality. And of course you realize I can't possibly do that.”

“But the guy threatened to kill me!” protested Bess. “You can't keep a person like
that
confidential!”

“Look,” said Ms. Verle rapidly, “I'm not re
sponsible for people who are desperate enough to answer these ads. I'm not paid to baby-sit people like you. It's your own fault if—”

“But don't you think it's important for us to find this guy?” Nancy asked. “We wouldn't have to bother you—we'd just like to take a look at your records.”

“No!” Lena cried.