Let's Talk Terror Page 2

  “These guys are selling their images, so that women will drool over them. What do you think about that? Is this sexist? Is it exploitation?” Marcy ambled toward the audience and pointed her microphone at George.

  “Well,” George began, sounding slightly nervous, “it’s not hurting anyone. I think it’s okay.”

  “Just okay? I think it’s fantastic, Marcy,” a girl behind George piped up. “Why shouldn’t girls have a chance to appreciate good-looking guys?”

  “This is more than appreciating, isn’t it? It’s ogling!” Marcy said. “And a lot of people say it hurts everyone. Some even say it’s immoral! What do you think?”

  Nancy realized Marcy was zeroing in on her. “I don’t know about immoral,” Nancy said. “To me, it’s—well, kind of silly.”

  That comment drew an unexpected laugh from the audience, and Nancy found herself blushing.

  Feeling herself out on a limb, Nancy explained, “I guess I basically don’t think it’s great when we treat people as bodies, and not as individuals.”

  “Hmm.” Marcy walked over to a young man on the other side of the aisle. “What do you think about that?”

  Nancy was struck by the ease with which Marcy handled the opinions of the studio audience. When her theme music came on to signal the end of the show, Marcy signed off to enthusiastic cheers.

  “You were all terrific!” Marcy told the audience as she walked among them, greeting them. Several fans asked for autographs, and Marcy busily scrawled her signature for them.

  Just then Nancy tugged on George’s sleeve. “There’s Susan,” she said, making her way down the aisle.

  Susan was standing between Jack and Brenda Fox, who were all smiles. “Good show, wasn’t it?” Brenda was saying.

  “Susan, can I speak to you for a minute?” Nancy asked, approaching the small group.

  “Sure,” Susan said, stepping away from the others.

  “Can we look at that photo again?” Nancy asked. “And take a look around Marcy’s office?”

  Susan led them to the backstage doors. “I heard the show on the loudspeaker,” she said. “You sounded terrific.”

  “You mean you couldn’t hear my heart pounding?” Nancy asked with a laugh.

  Susan stopped at a small cubicle just outside Marcy’s office. “This is my work area,” she explained. “I put the photo in my desk.” After unlocking a drawer with a key she took from her pocket, Susan pulled out the envelope and handed it to Nancy.

  “Jack Cole was in Marcy’s office when we were,” Nancy said as she dumped the pieces of the photo onto Susan’s desk. “But he left when we did, right?”

  “Right,” Susan said. “And in that next five minutes anyone who works here could have gone in and ripped up the photo. Besides, I don’t think Jack could possibly be a suspect. He’s been friends with Marcy since they were kids.”

  Nancy stared at the pieces of the torn photo. “Right now,” she said, “everybody’s a suspect. Hey, look,” she added excitedly, “there’s writing on the back of these pieces.”

  Working quickly, Nancy pieced the photo together like a jigsaw puzzle. The writing, done in thick magenta marker, began to form words.

  “I didn’t see that before,” George noted.

  “I was afraid it might be something like this,” Nancy murmured. She stepped aside so the others could read the note.

  “Get the message, Marcy? Quit the show—or die!”

  Chapter

  Three

  WE’D BETTER show this to Marcy right away,” Nancy said, shuddering slightly.

  “Show me what?” Marcy’s voice came from the doorway of the small office. She approached the desk with an anxious expression on her face.

  Nancy pointed to the message and frowned. “This.” Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen the first time. “Check this out,” she said. “The marker was running out of ink at the end.”

  “ ‘Quit or die?’ ” Marcy read out loud, her voice catching on the last word.

  “Marcy,” Nancy said, gently touching her arm, “this is a real death threat. I think it’s time to contact the police.”

  “But I hate to do that, Nancy,” Marcy said. “If my producers or the network find out about this, they might think twice about extending my contract. I had a hard time finding sponsors for this show, you know. Not many want to take a chance on a talk show exclusively for young people. Even though my show seems successful—oh, no,” she said, interrupting herself. “The Tribune! They wanted that photo this afternoon!”

  “I’ll get the photographer to print another one and send it to the paper,” Susan suggested.

  “Good thinking, Susan,” Marcy said, then added, “Why is this happening to me?”

  “Marcy, we really need to talk to you,” Nancy said.

  “Let’s go into my office,” the talk show host said quietly. “It’s more private there.”

  Susan had already picked up the phone on her desk to call the photographer. “I’ll be in soon,” she said. “By the way, Marcy, Vic Molina called and wanted you to call him right back.”

  “Vic Molina, the television producer?” George asked.

  Marcy’s face brightened for a second but then collapsed. “I almost forgot he’s threatening to sue me,” she said, going into her office before Nancy could ask her about the lawsuit.

  After replacing the pieces of the photo in the envelope and stuffing the whole thing into her bag, Nancy joined the others. Inside the office, Marcy picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Excuse me while I handle this,” she told Nancy and George.

  Nancy listened with one ear as she glanced around the office. Marcy’s desk was positioned so that someone could be at the desk but not be seen from the corridor, she noted.

  Marcy didn’t say much on the phone until she blurted out, “Vic, you’re out of control! You’re really losing it!” She slammed down the receiver. “You’d think he’d be too busy producing ‘Southern Star’ and ‘Miller’s Dream’ to bother me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Those are the two most popular dramas on TV,” George remarked.

  “The guy’s twenty-nine years old, and he’s already done more than most fifty-year-olds,” Marcy said, her face softening slightly. “I guess you could call him driven.”

  “Why is he suing you, Marcy?” Nancy asked, settling in a director’s chair next to her desk.

  “Oh, it’s really stupid,” Marcy said, running her slender fingers through her hair. “You see, Vic was my boyfriend until six months ago. In fact, he was the one who first suggested I create a talk show. But when I did do it, he got jealous, and we broke up. So I went to the Sterns to produce the show, and, well, Vic went nuts. Now he’s claiming the show is half his, and he’s suing for fifty percent of the profits!”

  “Maybe he’s the one who tore up your photo,” Nancy suggested. “He sounds pretty angry.”

  “But, Nancy, how could he have gotten in here? Security is so tight,” George said.

  “Oh, he could have,” Marcy said reluctantly. “ ‘Southern Star’ is taped here in the Media Center, up on the fifth floor. Still, it wasn’t him, Nancy. I’m sure of it.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Nancy asked.

  Marcy gave Nancy a startled look. “Because I know him,” she insisted. “His feelings are hurt now. That’s why he’s striking out with this stupid lawsuit. But basically he’s a good person.”

  “It sounds like you think a lot of him,” Nancy observed, making a mental note to check the sign-in sheets in the lobby to see if Vic had been to the Stern Productions offices that morning.

  “We’ve been through a lot together,” Marcy explained. “I know Vic still likes me—deep inside.”

  “Marcy, can you think of anyone who might have made these threats?” Nancy asked.

  Marcy frowned and glanced at her watch. “Well, I know a certain bad-girl singer who’s pretty upset with me,” she said, aiming a remote control at a TV across the room. “You can s
ee her right now, in fact.”

  “Bad girl singer? Do you mean Samantha Savage?” George asked.

  “Samantha Savage,” came the announcer’s voice from the TV as the picture came on. “How bad can a girl get? We’re going to find out today on ‘Jenny’s Place’!”

  “Jenny’s Place” was a show hosted by the overweight, old-fashioned, but still popular Jenny Dean, one of America’s first TV talk show hosts.

  “Samantha Savage is here today, everyone! So say hello!” Jenny announced as the camera cut to the sultry singer.

  “That black leather skirt of Samantha’s couldn’t be much tighter,” Susan remarked dryly as she came in.

  On the screen Samantha had taken a seat and shaken out her flowing bleached blond mane. “It’s great to be on a show where you’re treated with a little respect, Jenny,” Samantha said, pouting.

  “Oh? Have you had a bad time on talk shows before, Samantha?” Jenny asked sympathetically.

  “Just one, hosted by Marcy Robbins,” Samantha said. “That Marcy is a real—oops, I guess I can’t say that on television.” The TV audience chuckled, more from nervousness, Nancy thought, than agreement.

  “Well, why don’t you tell us all about it?” Jenny suggested with a syrupy smile.

  What followed was a harsh attack on Marcy. “I was on her show two weeks ago, trying to tell her about my new album, Heartless, but she was, like, obsessed with talking about my past!”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?” Jenny asked. “We’re supposed to get to the bottom of things, honey.”

  Swinging one ankle of her crossed legs, Samantha frowned. “She accused me of being a Girl Scout, Jenny.”

  At that, the audience let out a big laugh. “She said I never had a date till I was nineteen. In fact, her whole show was about my being a good girl!”

  “That is a horrible insult, I suppose,” Jenny Dean quipped. Then she turned to face the camera. “We’re talking with Samantha Savage. How bad can she get? Find out after these messages!”

  Marcy clicked off the TV, fuming. “She makes my blood boil!”

  “What happened when she was on your show?” Nancy asked, bursting with curiosity.

  “I found out the truth about her, that’s what happened!” Marcy said hotly. “Her entire bad-girl image is totally bogus. She says she grew up on the streets, poor and abused, and that she’s always been a rebel. Well, guess what? She was raised in a rich suburban town and given every advantage, including singing lessons. In grade school she was big in the Girl Scouts, and in high school she was an honor student.”

  “I guess she wasn’t too happy when you revealed all that on TV,” George said. “Samantha’s built her whole career on her bad-girl image.”

  “You got it,” Marcy agreed. “Now she’s saying I’m the reason her new album isn’t selling the way the others have!” She rolled her eyes. “The worst thing is, I have to see her tonight at a benefit for Lake Shore Children’s Hospital.”

  Susan turned to Nancy and George. “I hope you’ll come. It’s a celebrity auction.”

  “That sounds like fun,” George said.

  Marcy let out a sigh. “To tell the truth, I’m not in the mood for it. I think I’ll go home and spend some time with my cat before the benefit. At least he and I get along.” Marcy stood up and grabbed a purple satin jacket with the logo of her show on the back, and threw it over her shoulders. “My limo will be at Susan’s to pick you up at six forty-five sharp. Be ready, okay?”

  “We will,” Susan promised. When Marcy was gone, Susan turned to her friends. “We can go now, too. I’m done with my work.”

  “Not me,” Nancy replied. “I want to check out a few things around here, including the sign-in sheet.”

  “Okay,” Susan replied. “I’ll take you and George around, in case anybody gives you a hard time.”

  “What exactly are we looking for, Nan?” George asked.

  Nancy frowned. “Well, for one thing, how about a magenta marker that’s low on ink?”

  “It is an unusual color,” Susan said.

  Nancy and the girls checked Marcy’s office. There were no magenta markers. “You and Susan check the rest of the offices,” Nancy instructed George. “Meet me here when you’re done.”

  After they had gone, Nancy figured how much time it would take to enter Marcy’s office, write the message, rip up the photo, replace it in the envelope, and sneak away. Not much time at all, Nancy decided. Any Stern employee could have done it.

  Then there was Vic Molina. It would have been easy enough for him to get down from the fifth floor, using the fire stairs.

  “Four magenta markers between us,” George said, holding them up as she and Susan returned.

  “But all of them have plenty of ink,” Susan added, shaking her head.

  “Oh, well,” Nancy said. “I guess we’d better get going, huh?”

  Susan checked her watch and nodded. The girls headed back down the corridor to the front office, where the receptionist was just preparing to leave.

  “Ginger,” Susan asked, “did Vic Molina come by today? Or anyone who doesn’t work here?”

  “Not when I was here,” the receptionist told her. “But I took a long lunch and couldn’t find anyone to cover for me.”

  Susan gave the girl a stern look. “You could have called me. Relieving you is part of my job.”

  Ginger bit her lip. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Ginger,” Nancy said, “could you be extra alert about who comes into the offices from now on? It’s important.”

  “Okay,” the receptionist agreed, but Nancy wasn’t convinced she’d follow through.

  “I hope we have better luck with the guard in the lobby,” Nancy said as the girls passed through the double doors. Nancy quickly approached the guard and asked, “Would you mind if we take a look at today’s sign-in sheets?”

  “Fine with me,” he said, passing the clipboard to Nancy.

  “How many pages should be here?” Nancy asked, riffling through the pages.

  “Oh, by this time at least ten,” he replied. “This is a busy building.”

  “Were you ever away?” Nancy asked, handing him back the clipboard.

  “Not really,” he said. “I might have left for a minute or two to use the men’s room.”

  “There are only four pages here. One from early this morning and three for the past hour and a half,” Nancy told him. “Unless I miss my guess, somebody stole the rest.”

  “Look,” said the guard, “I work alone from nine to five, okay? I got to take a short break now and then. I can’t—”

  Just then Nancy let out a gasp. A cleaning lady had emerged from the Stern offices, pushing a bin of trash in front of her. Before she disappeared through another door marked Staff Only, Nancy noticed something on top of the pile of trash. A magenta marker!

  “Where does that door go?” Nancy quickly asked the guard.

  “Huh? Oh, to the trash compacter, that’s all. Hey! Where are you going?”

  Nancy was already halfway across the lobby. She reached the heavy steel door just before it slammed shut. Throwing it open, she raced through. Ahead of her at the far end of the dimly lit room stood the cleaning lady, opening the huge compacter door.

  “No, wait!” Nancy screamed.

  It was too late. The woman was already tilting her load of trash into the compacter!

  Chapter

  Four

  FORTUNATELY NANCY’S scream startled the cleaning lady, causing her to jump just as she tilted the trash. The magenta marker slid off the pile and clattered to the floor at Nancy’s feet.

  After pulling a tissue from her pocket, Nancy picked it up. “Thanks,” she murmured as the cleaning woman watched with a confused expression. “Everything’s fine,” Nancy assured her, backing away slowly.

  “What was that all about?” George asked as Nancy reappeared at the security desk.

  Nancy held up the marker to show them. “Let’s try it out,” she said
, and scribbled on a piece of blank paper lying on the guard’s desk. The marker was just about dry. “I knew it. People don’t throw out markers when they’re still working.” A grin spread over Nancy’s face. “I think this is clue number one.”

  The girls made their way through the lobby to the front door. After the valet brought Nancy’s car around, she and George followed Susan’s car out of the downtown area to a neighborhood of town houses and storefronts, where they turned onto a quiet side street and parked. “Like my neighborhood?” Susan asked proudly as she joined them as they unloaded their bags. “It’s called Old Town, and it’s really cool—lots of art galleries and clubs and antique shops.”

  They followed Susan into an old brick building, and she led them up to her second-floor apartment. “It isn’t big, but it’s mine,” she said, unlocking the door and ushering them inside.

  Susan’s decorating skills were what made the place seem cheerful and welcoming, Nancy thought. “I really like these chairs,” she told Susan. “Are they antiques?”

  Susan laughed. “Nope. I painted them to look old. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place. We have to get changed, but it’s a very short tour.”

  Off the living room were a small terrace, where Susan stored her bike, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a tiny bedroom. “This pulls out into a futon bed,” Susan said, pointing to the sofa in the living room. “I’ll open it up for you later tonight. And that, I think, is the whole tour. So now we can get changed.” Susan checked her watch and said, “Uh-oh. Marcy’s limo will be here in twenty minutes. Can you be ready in time?”

  “No problem,” Nancy said with a grin. “George and I are a regular Rapid Deployment Force.”

  • • •

  “This place is fabulous,” Nancy said as Marcy’s limo pulled up to the Harms Wood Country Club, located in posh suburban Evanston, north of the city.

  “I love old stone buildings,” George said, admiring the facade.

  Exquisitely dressed men and women were streaming into the building, and an air of wealth hung over the entire premises.