Stalk, Don't Run Read online

  “I think so,” I said. “I guess I should text back, huh?”

  “You should ignore it, that’s what you should do, Nancy,” George said. “Sounds like a prank, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, Nance,” Bess said. “For all we know, this Shanager is a dangerous kook—or another crazy cult leader like Roland—”

  “Bess,” I cut in. “We’re not on Malachite Beach anymore—we’re home in River Heights. What can go wrong here?”

  “A lot,” Georges admitted. “Or we wouldn’t be in business.”

  I stared at my phone, more intrigued than worried. Who was this Shanager? Why did he or she want us to go to the house?

  “I want to check it out,” I said.

  “There you go following another clue, Nancy,” Bess said. “Whatever happened to wanting a nice, boring summer?”

  “I’ve been solving mysteries since I was eight years old, Bess,” I said. “Don’t stop me now.”

  Bess needed a little more convincing, but after I suggested that it might be a “Welcome Back to River Heights” surprise party, she caved.

  The three of us set out for Water Street, finding the house at the end of the block. Instead of looking broken-down and abandoned, it had a fresh coat of paint, new windows, and a neatly mowed lawn.

  “That’s funny,” I said as we made our way up the flagstone path through the front yard. “I didn’t know it was renovated.”

  “Which makes it even weirder,” Bess said.

  The wooden porch, also painted, creaked as we stepped on it. There was a brass knocker on the front door, but I chose to ring the shiny new doorbell. We’d waited a mere ten seconds when Bess blurted, “No surprise party here. Time to go.”

  “See?” George said. “I warned you.”

  “Wait!” I said as another text came through. “It’s that Shanager again.”

  “What does this one say?” Bess asked.

  “‘See you in the back,’” I read out loud.

  This time I quickly texted back, WHY?

  The reply: YOU’LL SEE.

  “Just ignore it, Nancy,” George said firmly. “Let’s go.”

  “No way.” I waved my friends off the porch. “Let’s see if this Shanager is waiting in the back.”

  “With a chain saw,” Bess said.

  The three of us rounded the house to the backyard. No one was there. Almost immediately my phone went off with another text.

  “Shanager again?” George asked.

  “We’re being watched,” Bess said quietly.

  I read the text. “Shanager wants us to proceed to the cellar door and open at our own risk.”

  The sensible, mature part of me said, Don’t even think about it. The curious detective part told me, Go for it.

  “Nancy Drew,” George cried as I made a beeline for the cellar door. “Are you nuts?”

  Before my friends could talk me out of it, I grabbed the handle on the door and pulled it open.

  Looking down into the cellar, I saw only darkness. I’d taken one step when I felt a bony hand grab my ankle.

  Needle-sharp nails dug into my flesh. The coldest chill ran up my spine. I screamed, “Bess, George! HELP!”

  REALITY CHECK

  I could hear Bess scream as I tried to loosen the grip. What had I been thinking, opening the stupid door? Shanager was probably a serial killer!

  From the corner of my eye I saw George grab a nearby shovel. She was about to bring it down on the hand when—

  “Stop! I let go, okay?” a voice shouted from below. It was a female voice, definitely familiar. When she climbed out of the basement, I could see why. . . .

  “Mallory?” I cried as the middle Casabian sister brushed herself off. A few seconds later her two sisters climbed out behind her.

  “Mandy? Mia?” Bess said incredulously.

  “So one of you was Shanager?” George asked.

  The sisters didn’t answer George’s question. Instead Mallory wiggled her fingers and said, “Sorry if I scratched your ankle, Nancy. I didn’t mean to hold on so tightly.”

  “It’s about time you guys got here,” Mandy told us. “That cellar was grossing me out!”

  “It was really dark, too,” Mia said. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the light before slipping on a pair of cool tortoiseshell shades.

  I couldn’t care less about the gross cellar. All I wanted to know was—

  “What are you doing in River Heights?” I asked.

  “Let me guess,” George said with a frown. “You meant to enter Rodeo Drive on your GPS and goofed.”

  “So not!” Mandy said, shaking her head. “We happen to be in River Heights for a good reason.”

  Mallory swept her hand toward the house. “Welcome to Casa Bonita!” she declared. “That means ‘beautiful house’ in Spanish.”

  “I like to think it means beautiful houseguests,” Mandy said, flipping her long, dark hair over her shoulder.

  “Houseguests?” Bess asked. “You mean you live here?”

  “Just temporarily,” Mandy explained. “We’re here to try out a concept for a new reality show we’re planning to pitch.”

  Oh, help. It seemed like everybody—including the Casabian sisters—had a reality show in Los Angeles, but what did that have to do with River Heights?

  “The show would be called Get Real with the Casabians,” Mia said. “The idea is we would live in a real house in a real town just like here.”

  “Instead of making appearances at movie premieres, clubs, and Hollywood parties,” Mandy continued, “we’d try out real jobs in real places.”

  “Like banks, grocery stores,” Mallory added. “Hopefully beauty salons and spas—if there are any here.”

  I still didn’t get it. Mandy, Mallory, and Mia already had a reality show called Chillin’ with the Casabians. Their producer and camera crew on Malachite Beach followed them everywhere they went.

  “So . . . you’d have two reality shows?” I asked.

  “Omigod—no!” Mia said with a shudder. “The other show was canceled. The network said the episodes became too disturbing. You know, with the cult and the sweat lodge and all.”

  Mia’s face fell while she spoke about the cult and the sweat lodge. Out of all the sisters, she was the most sensible one, but also the most vulnerable. She had fallen under Roland’s spell, joining his cult and becoming totally brainwashed.

  Thanks to us, Mia had been rescued from the cult, but she obviously still harbored awful memories of it.

  “Of course it got too disturbing,” George told the sisters. “Your camera crew followed you wherever you went.”

  She looked around before saying, “Where’s your crew hiding now? And that pushy producer of yours . . . what was her name . . . Beth?”

  “It was Bev, but don’t worry,” Mandy said. “There’ll be no cameras until the show gets picked up.”

  “This is so awesome,” Bess said excitedly. “With all the towns in the United States, what made you pick River Heights?”

  “Yeah,” George said, not as excited. “What makes us so special?”

  “While you were staying on Malachite Beach, you told us about your hometown,” Mandy said. “When we decided to stay in a small town, we thought of River Heights.”

  “She means quaint,” Mia said quickly.

  “Hold on, you guys,” I said. “River Heights is anything but quaint. We have a university, thriving businesses—”

  “A modern shopping complex, parks,” Bess put in. “There’s even the River Heights Theater with its own company.”

  “Okay, okay!” Mandy said. “We get it.”

  “The most important thing is that we wanted to go somewhere where we’ve never, ever been to before,” Mallory said.

  The Casabian sisters invited us inside. Once there I saw brand-new furniture and freshly painted walls.

  “It’s not exactly Villa Fabuloso,” Mandy said. “But it’ll do, even if we have to lift open the garage door all by ourselves.”
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  It certainly wasn’t Villa Fabuloso—the sisters’ private villa on Malachite Beach in Malibu—but how many homes were?

  I looked at the sisters’ suitcases and duffel bags, still unpacked in the entrance hall.

  “Who are you here with?” I asked. “Your agent . . . your manager?”

  The sisters traded grins.

  “That was our next surprise,” Mandy told us. “Since our manager dropped us after the show was canceled, we hired a temporary manager right here in River Heights. She’s upstairs. Let me call her.”

  But before Mandy could say a word, a pair of black high heels came down the staircase, followed by someone I knew well. Too well.

  “Deirdre Shannon.” I groaned under my breath.

  Deirdre stopped at the bottom of the stairs. In her black suit, she looked more like the CEO of a company than an eighteen-year-old. “Nancy, Bess, George,” she said coolly. “I see you’ve met my clients.”

  Clients? The Casabian sisters’ new manager was Deirdre Shannon?

  “So you were Shanager,” Bess told Deirdre.

  Deirdre nodded and said, “Shannon . . . manager. You mean you didn’t figure it out, girl detectives?”

  Bess, George, and I were too stunned to say another word. As Deirdre breezed past us to the sisters, she said, “I’m not officially their manager . . . yet. For now, I’m going to help Mandy, Mallory, and Mia land jobs here in River Heights.”

  “When the show gets picked up,” Mandy said, “we’ll work out a more permanent situation.”

  “How did you find Deirdre?” I asked the sisters.

  “We found Mr. Shannon first,” Mandy said. “We called him, thinking he was a real estate agent who could help us locate a furnished rental house.”

  “We had no idea he was a lawyer,” Mia said. “He put us in touch with a real estate agent and with Deirdre.”

  George looked at Deirdre. “So, Daddy got you your new job?” she said.

  “So what?” Deirdre said. “With all my connections in this town I’m just what Mandy, Mallory, and Mia need. Besides . . . River Heights could use some real celebrities for a change.” She laughed.

  I had an idea that was for our benefit, but I wasn’t letting Deirdre off so easy.

  “If you’re such a good manager, Dee-Dee,” I said, using Deirdre’s hated nickname, “why didn’t anyone know that the sisters were in town?”

  “Yeah,” Bess said. “Didn’t you alert the media?”

  “What media?” Mandy asked. “The only paper around here is some free one called the River Heights Trumpet.”

  “You mean the River Heights Bugle, Mandy,” I said. “And it’s anything but a PennySaver.”

  “We just did an interview for the Bugle,” Bess said proudly. “It’ll be in tomorrow’s edition. Page four!”

  Deirdre tapped her chin thoughtfully, which told me her conniving wheels were spinning. “Which reminds me,” she said. “I have to contact Ned Nickerson. Maybe he can write a story in the Bugle about the sisters being in town.”

  Hearing Deirdre mention Ned made me want to shriek. There she went again, trying to get near my boyfriend, but I forced a smile and through gritted teeth said, “Good luck.”

  Mandy, Mallory, and Mia saw us to the front door.

  We waved good-bye to them as we walked away from the house. Once we were out of earshot, I said, “Good luck is right. Deirdre will never get Ned to write an article about the Casabians for the Bugle.”

  “You’re right about that,” Bess said. “The Bugle doesn’t do celebrity gossip. Period.”

  “I still can’t believe Mandy, Mallory, and Mia are in River Heights,” George said, shaking her head. “They better not try to turn this place into Malachite Beach!”

  “We can only hope!” Bess said, her eyes lighting up. “Deirdre was right when she said we never had such famous celebrities around.”

  “That may be true,” I said as we walked up Water Street. “But we’re going to be on page four of the Bugle tomorrow.”

  The three of us traded high fives.

  “I have an idea,” Bess said. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning at my house when the paper arrives? That way we can all read it together.”

  “We’d have to wake up at the crack of dawn,” George said with a groan.

  “Works for me,” I said. “Since Hannah is on a baking and cooking roll, I’ll ask her to whip up some of her famous cinnamon buns.”

  George grinned and said, “Now that’s worth waking up for.”

  As we turned the corner I said, “Isn’t it great to be home and back to normal again?”

  “With the Casabian sisters in town?” George said. “Trust me—nothing will ever be normal again.”

  For the rest of the day I couldn’t stop thinking about Mandy, Mallory, and Mia—and Deirdre. Her new job as their manager seemed to prove that she really did get whatever she wanted.

  But I have something she wants but can’t get, I reminded myself. Ned Nickerson.

  That night I turned my thoughts from the Casabians to someone sinister: Roland!

  While my dad watched two lawyers arguing on TV, I browsed the web for any information I could get about the runaway cult leader.

  All I could find besides old articles about Roland’s disappearance was the website for his notorious and defunct Renewal Retreat and Spa. The sight of his logo made me gulp—a bright yellow sunburst with shimmering rays.

  How could a psycho madman like Roland come up with such a cheery design? I wondered.

  During the commercial Dad turned to me from his favorite spot on the sofa. “What are you so busy with tonight?” he asked with a smile. “You couldn’t possibly be working on a case, could you?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “It’s about one particular enemy on the lam.”

  “You mean Roland?” Dad said with a frown.

  “Exactly,” I said. “So far there’s nothing about Roland being arrested—which means he’s still somewhere out there.”

  Dad gave me his serious lawyerly look—the one he used when helping me with my cases.

  “You’ve got to be patient, Nancy, and trust that Roland will be apprehended sooner or later,” he said.

  “But he had plastic surgery, Dad,” I said. “Major plastic surgery to look like a totally different person.”

  “You can change your appearance,” Dad said. “But you can never disguise evil.”

  Wow. Dad never ceased to surprise me. He was right.

  “Smoothie break!” Hannah’s voice called out.

  I turned to see her carrying two tall smoothie glasses into the den.

  “Hannah, I’m going to gain ten pounds!” I said, smiling as I took the glass. “And it will definitely be worth it!”

  Later I had no trouble falling asleep. But sometime in the middle of the night my deep sleep was interrupted by a sudden jangling tune. At first I thought it was part of my dream—until I realized it was the ring tone of my phone.

  Who was calling me in the middle of the night? Who was calling me at all? My friends usually texted. My first thought was the Casabian sisters. They were probably still on California time.

  I fumbled in the dark for my phone and pulled it to my ear. “Hello?” I said groggily.

  No answer.

  “Hello?” I asked again. “Who’s there?”

  By now I was wide awake, sitting up in bed. I listened for any sign of life on the other end. Was it just dead air? Then I heard a faint click.

  I turned to the menu, checking the last incoming call. It was labeled UNKNOWN.

  “Great,” I told myself.

  There was something creepy about getting a strange call in the middle of the night—especially when the person on the other end didn’t say a word.

  I tried telling myself it was a wrong number as I turned off my phone. What else could it be?

  You’re not on Malachite Beach anymore, Nancy. Relax, I thought as I fell back on my pillow.

  “Do you
have the cinnamon buns, Nancy?” Hannah called from the doorstep while I made my way to the car.

  “Got them,” I called back, lifting the plastic container in my hands. “Thanks again, Hannah.”

  She gave me a thumbs-up before going into the house.

  I drove toward the Marvin house, surrounded by the smell of warm cinnamon and vanilla. It was then that I decided to deliver some cinnamon buns to my new—if only temporary—neighbors, Mandy, Mallory, and Mia.

  I steered my trusty hybrid onto Water Street, parked at the curb, and carried the container up the flagstone path to the front door.

  “Casa Bonita,” I said to myself. Leave it to the Casabians to make an ordinary house in River Heights sound like a villa on Malachite Beach.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. I knew it was early, especially for the sisters, but as George said, Hannah’s cinnamon buns were worth waking up for at any hour.

  After ringing several times—with no answer—I figured the Casabians probably had jet lag.

  “So much for that idea,” I decided.

  I was about to leave when I heard thumping noises from inside the house, followed by one loud thud.

  What was that? I wondered.

  Placing the container on the porch, I raced to a window and peered inside the house.

  Sprawled at the bottom of the stairs was Mandy!

  CARELESS OR RUTHLESS

  I banged on the window and called Mandy’s name over and over. She didn’t move a muscle.

  Desperate to get inside, I tried opening the front windows, but no luck.

  The garage! I thought, jumping off the porch.

  I remembered Mandy saying it had one of those old-fashioned garage doors—the kind you lifted up and down. When I pulled the door up, I heard the sound of a car engine . . . running!

  Carbon monoxide! I thought in a panic. Carbon monoxide was colorless, odorless, and deadly!

  “How could they leave the car on?” I asked myself as I ran toward the car. “How can they be so stupid?”

  I flung the car door open, found the keys, and turned off the engine. Then I bolted through the side door into the house.

  Was I too late? Had the noxious gas killed the Casabian sisters?