Very Deadly Yours (3 page)

“We'll let ourselves out, Ms. Verle. Thank you so much for your time,” Nancy replied testily. She reached over and hit the elevator button with a decisive click.

“I knew as soon as I saw her that she wouldn't be any help,” Nancy said when the doors had closed. “But I kept hoping my hunch was wrong.”

Bess was still sputtering. “I can't believe that woman!” she fumed. “I bet she knows
exactly
who placed that ad. Well, I'm going to figure out some way to make her talk.”

“It's not worth it,” Nancy said soothingly. “We'll find our man without the help of Lena Verle.”

“Nancy, there is no way I can forget about a woman who called me desperate. And we still don't know how to track down that guy.”

“That's certainly true for now.” Nancy paused, thinking. “Look, I know some people who work here. I think our best bet would be to talk to the editor in chief. His name is Hank Whittaker. Since we're on our way down to the
lobby anyway, let's just check with the receptionist to see if he's in his office.”

But he wasn't. He was on vacation and not expected back for a week. “He did stop in briefly on his way to the airport this morning, but I guess you just missed him,” said the receptionist.

“Well, who else can we talk to?” Bess asked Nancy.

Nancy furrowed her brows. “There are a few reporters, and maybe a couple of editors—but I don't think any of them would be as helpful as Mr. Whittaker,” she said. “I really think our best bet is to wait for him to come back. And for now, you should try to put all of this out of your mind.”

“Put that guy out of my mind? When he tried to kill me?” Bess shrieked.

“Well, that's more pleasant than thinking about the creep, isn't it?” Nancy replied.

“You have a point,” Bess said. “So let's go get some ice cream. That should help me forget.”

• • •

After she had taken Bess home, Nancy drove out to the Bel Canto restaurant. Perhaps she'd be able to find a lead there. At the restaurant she asked to speak to the waitress who'd been on duty the night before.

“Sure, I noticed that couple,” the waitress told her. “I always notice couples who fight in public. She seemed nice, and he seemed like a real crank.”

“You didn't try to stop him? This was a little more than a fight,” Nancy told her.

“To tell you the truth, I was embarrassed. I would have felt really stupid trying to break up a lovers' quarrel—and they were talking so quietly there was no way to tell that anything else was going on. I knew that if it got noisy I'd have to step in, but until it did, I just kept out of the way.”

“And nobody else in the restaurant noticed?”

“They weren't talking loudly enough for anyone to notice. Besides, it was Sunday night. It's real slow for us.”

“So you didn't see when he left?” Nancy asked.

“No, I really didn't. Is your friend all right? You're making me feel terrible!”

“She's fine—and I guess you couldn't have known.” Nancy sighed. “But could you do me a favor? If you ever see the guy again, would you give me a call? Here's my number.”

The waitress promised to call, but Nancy knew there wasn't much chance that he would ever come back.

• • •

It wasn't until the following Sunday that Nancy talked to Bess again. She was giving herself a manicure when Hannah poked her head into her bedroom.

“Nancy, Bess is here to see you. She seems a little upset.”

“Uh-oh.” Nancy waved her left hand, trying to dry the polish. “Could you tell her to come up, Hannah? If I move, I know I'll bash my hand against something before my nails are dry.”

She heard Bess thumping up the stairs before bursting into the room.

“Have you seen this?” Bess demanded, holding out the Sunday paper.

Nancy took it gingerly, but when she read what Bess was pointing to she forgot all about her nails. In the Personals column was the same ad Bess had seen two weeks before. It was identical to the earlier one—except that it had a new last line.

“You'd better find me before I find you!”

W
OW
,” N
ANCY SAID
, putting the paper down, “This is more serious than I thought.”

Bess looked totally panic-stricken. Nancy gave Bess a little pat on the shoulder. “We'll find this character,” she said consolingly. “I promise you. I'll be talking to Mr. Whittaker tomorrow, and I'm sure he'll be helpful. The case will be wrapped up before you know it.”

Bess exhaled shakily. “Well, I certainly hope you're right. And try to get him to fire that horrible Lena Verle while you're at it.”

The next morning Nancy put on a khaki skirt, navy blazer, and white blouse with a floppy tie—what Ned always called her “future execu
tive of America outfit.” No matter how many cases she had handled, it was always awkward telling complete strangers that she was about to investigate them, and she wanted to look as professional as possible.

The ultra-efficient receptionist at the
Record
was no more helpful than before. “I'm sorry, but you won't be able to see Mr. Whittaker without an appointment,” she told Nancy, without looking up.

“Then I'd like to make an appointment,” Nancy answered pleasantly.

“I don't make his appointments. His secretary would have to do that for you.”

“Then I'll go up and see
her.
Which floor, please?”

“The sixth, but you can't go up to the executive floor without a visitor's pass.”

“Can you please give me a visitor's pass, then?”

“How can I, when you don't have an appointment?”

Nancy saw this conversation was going nowhere. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

“Well then, I guess I'll just have to forget about seeing Mr. Whittaker,” she said demurely. The receptionist looked up and smiled tightly. Nancy walked to the elevators. When she was inside one, she calmly pushed the button for the sixth floor.

She exited the elevator. Here there were no computer terminals—just offices—and Nancy marched by each one until she found the plaque reading Hank Whittaker, Editor in Chief. There was no secretary to be seen. Nancy rapped smartly on the door, and when a pleasant-looking young man answered it—Nancy always found it hard to believe he was in charge—she swept right into her prepared speech.

“Mr. Whittaker? I don't know if you remember me. We met very briefly a few months ago. My name is Nancy Drew, and I'm a private detective. I'd like to talk to you about your Personals column. A friend of mine received some very nasty threats from a man whose ad your paper ran, and I have reason to think he may be following her still. With your permission, I'd like—”

“Nancy Drew, you say?” Mr. Whittaker said, interrupting her suddenly. “Are you the same girl who investigated the Ann Granger case?”

Ann Granger had been a reporter on his newspaper. Although she now worked for a Chicago paper, she and the Drews were still close friends. Ann had uncovered a citywide scandal in which Nancy's father had been framed.

“I—yes, I am,” Nancy answered, startled.

“Then everyone at the paper is in your debt,” said Mr. Whittaker, shaking her hand warmly. “Ann's a fine reporter, and I know how grateful she was when you helped her out.”

“And I'm grateful to her for helping to clear my father's name,” Nancy said. “I'm sorry that my business here today is less pleasant, but—”

“Come right in and sit down.” Mr. Whittaker interrupted her again. When she was settled, he said, “Now, start again.”

Nancy did, and he listened closely. “Well, I'm not sure, if we'll be able to provide you with the identity of the person who placed that ad.”

“Because it's confidential?”

“No, not because of that. It's just that
we
may not know who he is. If he paid by check, that's one thing—but if he paid with cash, we'll have a lot more trouble tracking him down.”

“I see,” Nancy said.

“But if you'd like to spend a couple of days checking out the Personals column, be my guest,” Mr. Whittaker said. “Maybe this creep will take out another ad. You helped
us
out once, and it would be a pleasure to do the same for you. Besides, it's to our advantage to have this all cleared up as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. I was hoping you'd feel that way,” said Nancy, relieved. “I wonder—I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible for now. Do you think you could try not to—”

“I won't say anything to the staff. Don't worry. Of course, I'm not closely involved with the day-to-day work on the Personals column,” Mr. Whittaker added. “But you can work as closely as you need to with our Personals editor, Lena
Verle. I guess we'll have to tell
her
what you're up to, but I'll ask her to keep it to herself.”

Nancy's heart sank. She'd been hoping she wouldn't have to deal with Lena Verle again, but obviously avoiding the woman was going to be impossible. “Actually, I met Ms. Verle yesterday,” she said. “She—she wasn't sure there was any way to figure out who'd placed the ad.” Nancy didn't want to say how unpleasant she found Ms. Verle.

“Oh, I'm sure she'll be helpful,” said Mr. Whittaker heartily. “Come on. I'll just bring you down to her pod—that's what we call the cubicles around here—and fill her in.”

Lena Verle didn't look too thrilled when the two of them walked up, but at least she didn't say anything nasty.

“She can work hand in hand with you, Lena,” Mr. Whittaker said, finishing up. “Why don't you give her a little tour around the place now? Ms. Drew, it's nice to have you aboard, even under these circumstances. If I can be of any help, just let me know.” With a cheery wave he left Nancy and Lena alone.

There was a little silence after he had gone. “Look, I know this isn't going to be much fun for you,” Nancy finally said. “I'll try not to get in your way, and maybe I can even help you out a little once I know the ropes.”

“I doubt it,” Lena said listlessly. “He wanted me to show you around—should I do it now?”

“Please.” Nancy was determined to keep things pleasant.

Nancy wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but the
Record's
offices looked pretty much like most modern offices. Besides Lena's floor—the newsroom—where the writers had cubicles, and the floor above where the executives were, there was a floor for the paper's business staff. Another floor contained the file rooms and library, and the building's first two floors were taken up with printing equipment. There was a locked room filled with huge, quietly humming computers in addition to a mailroom and a small kitchen filled with what seemed to be thousands of discarded coffee cups.
Please
keep this room clean! advised a tattered sign above the grimy sink.

What distinguished the offices as those of a newspaper was the noise level—at least in the newsroom. Telephones rang constantly; reporters talked at the tops of their voices; and the wire-service machines clattered away. This, to Nancy, seemed like what a typical newspaper should sound like.

“Any questions?” Lena asked.

“Where's all the cigarette smoke and the guys yelling ‘Copy'?” Nancy asked, smiling.

Lena Verle looked at her humorlessly. “That's only in the movies,” she said. “We don't need copyboys now that everything's computerized. And hardly anyone smokes anymore.”

Before Nancy could respond, a woman in her
early twenties rushed up to them. “A new face!” she said to Nancy. “Is this your first day?”

“This is Nancy Drew. She's a—” Lena Verle began.

Nancy cut her off. “I'm going to be working with Lena for the next couple of days, but I'm not on staff,” she said.

“Too bad. We could use some new blood around here. By the way, my name's Lucy Price. I write for the Home section. Do you know any celebrities? I've got to write a piece about celebrity bathrooms, and none of the celebrities' agents I've called will let me interview them. I'm already down to the
B
list, and the article's due in two days. You're not famous, by any chance?”

Nancy smiled. “Not exactly.”

“Well, let me know if you think of anyone—that's my phone! Maybe a star is returning my call! See you around, Nancy.” And she rushed off to her desk.

It made Nancy a little uncomfortable that Lucy hadn't even said hello to Lena Verle. She turned back to the silent woman next to her. “Well, thanks for giving me the tour,” she said. “If you have time, I'd love to hear a little about how your job works.”

“I've got time,” Lena said curtly. “Come back to my desk.”