Let's Talk Terror by Carolyn Keene
“Wow,” George murmured as a doorman in maroon coat and white gloves pulled a carved oak door open for their group.
“Pretty classy, huh?” Marcy said as she led the way into the large foyer with polished wood paneling and beams that arched gracefully overhead.
Susan reached into her handbag and took out three dark red cards with gold-leaf writing, which she handed to the hostess standing at the entrance to the ballroom, where the auction was to be held.
“You’re at table fourteen,” the hostess said with a smile.
Stepping into the ballroom, Nancy was taken with the immense crystal chandeliers hanging over each of the fifty or so large round tables.
“I’d better tell the people running this benefit that I’m here,” Marcy said, walking away in the direction of the stage, which was curtained in rich wine-colored velvet.
All of Chicago was there, it seemed to Nancy, as she walked past a table with several members of the city’s baseball teams.
“I see number fourteen,” George said, pointing to a table along the left wall, not far from the stage.
“Drew, Fayne, Ling—that’s us,” Nancy said, checking the place cards. Then she put her small sequined clutch bag on the table by her setting and walked around the table. “Let’s see who else is sitting with us. Mr. and Mrs. Ringer, Mr. Appleby, Ms. Fox—”
“That must be Brenda,” Susan said. “She warmed up the audience for Marcy today.”
“She seems really nice,” George said.
“Brenda’s a doll,” Susan said. “One of these days I predict she’ll be a top producer. She’s a hard worker and has everything it takes to succeed.”
“Like you,” Nancy said, complimenting Susan. “And here’s the last place—Ms. Kristoff.”
“Yes?” said a brunette who had just approached the table. She wore a black dress with sequins outlining the scooped neckline.
“Ms. Kristoff!” Susan exclaimed, sounding impressed. “I’ve always wanted to meet you! My boss, Marcy Robbins, has told me so many nice things about you. I’m Susan Ling, of ‘Marcy!’ and these are my friends Nancy Drew and George Fayne. We went to high school together.”
“How do you do,” the woman in black murmured.
“Ms. Kristoff is the executive editor of Teen Talk,” Susan explained.
“Please!” the woman said, laughing lightly. “Call me Karen. ‘Ms. Kristoff’ sounds like someone over forty. I have at least a decade to go before that.”
“You must be proud of Marcy,” Nancy said.
“I certainly am,” the editor gushed. “I picked her out of a bunch of applicants for her very first job. Now she’s doing better than I am!”
“You have a great eye for talent,” Nancy said.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Karen said, taking her place.
“Didn’t you and Marcy go to high school together?” Susan asked Karen. “I thought Marcy told me you did.”
“She was a freshman when I was a senior,” Karen explained. “But I didn’t really know her that well back then.”
“Marcy said you taught her everything she knows about communicating with people,” Susan said.
“Isn’t that sweet of her,” Karen murmured, and pointed to a vase in the center of the table. It was filled with foot-long placards with large numbers printed on them. Beside the vase was a stack of blank index cards and a crystal container holding several small pencils. “What in the world is all this?”
“Those are the bidding sticks for the auction,” Susan explained. “You raise yours to show you want to bid. You write the number of your bid on the cards.
“Hey, there’s Brenda,” Susan said, turning around as the assistant producer approached the table, smiling.
“Brenda, have you met Karen Kristoff, and my friends Nancy and George?”
“I met Karen at the last Lake Shore Hospital benefit—nice to see you again,” Brenda told the editor before turning to Nancy and George. “I noticed you two at today’s taping. You both said some good things.”
The ballroom was practically full now, and Nancy sensed from the buzz that the crowd was excited. Onstage Nancy could see Jack Cole adjusting microphone levels.
“I hear they’re going to auction the mayor’s socks,” Brenda said with a laugh. “Who’d ever bid on those?”
“A date with Vic Molina has a lot more appeal to me,” Karen Kristoff replied dryly.
“I promised my son I’d bid on the date with Samantha Savage,” said Mr. Appleby, a portly man of about fifty who was just sitting down at his place. He nodded to the girls.
Nancy spoke quietly to George and Susan, “I want to keep an eye on Marcy. I’m going to look around backstage.”
Nancy made her way to the backstage entrance as the president of the country club took the stage and began to describe the work of the Lake Shore Children’s Hospital. Then he introduced Marcy and the fun began.
Marcy was bright and bubbly as she stepped up to the mike. “Okay, folks,” she said, “we’ve got lots of goodies to auction tonight.”
Slipping through the little door that led backstage, Nancy moved quickly past Jack Cole, who was standing by the prop table. Nancy waved casually, trying to act as if she belonged there.
Behind the table was a passageway leading to a large room with tall partitions and shelves. The area had been arranged to create individual spaces for changing, Nancy guessed. She weaved quietly around the partitions, looking for any sign of trouble.
Off in a corner, she spotted a shelf with black leather bracelets and metal arm bands. Samantha Savage’s tough-girl look came to mind immediately. The expensive-looking red suede jacket emblazoned with SS confirmed Nancy’s guess that this was where Samantha had changed and made up.
Nancy’s gaze fell on a typed letter, which lay on the floor right beneath the jacket. It looked as if it could have fallen out of a pocket. Nancy picked it up and glanced at it.
Sammy, dear, try to keep your feelings about Marcy Robbins under wraps tonight. There’s a lot of money in that audience. In fact, this might be a chance to acquire some new fans. Take a bit of advice from your old friend Mort: Stop trying to get Marcy. Remember, she’s on top of the heap right now. But sooner or later she’ll have to crash. Then you can walk all over her.
Chapter
Five
HER HEART RACING, Nancy thought about pocketing the note but immediately decided against it. The letter was Samantha’s personal property.
Nancy had to wonder, though. Exactly how much did Samantha hate Marcy Robbins, and what was the singer capable of doing? And who was Mort?
Nancy had just dropped the note back on the floor where she’d found it when she heard Jack Cole’s voice behind her. “Are you lost?” he asked.
“I was told the ladies’ room was back here, and I wanted to fix my makeup,” Nancy fibbed, reaching for her handbag and pulling out a tube of lipstick. She hoped he hadn’t seen her holding the letter. “But this mirror will work fine.”
“No one’s supposed to be back here but the performers and crew, you know,” Jack said suspiciously.
“So, you’re part of the crew?” Nancy asked casually.
“Not really. But where Marcy goes, I go. I make sure that things run smoothly for her.”
“Really? Well, I’m just leaving, anyway,” Nancy said with a quick smile. “Just let me comb my hair a minute. By the way, Susan mentioned that you knew Marcy when you were growing up. Is it true?”
“Yes,” Jack answered. “We both grew up in Cicero—out by the racetrack.”
“Marcy’s such an interesting person,” Nancy said, taking a brush to her hair. “What was she like as a kid?”
Jack frowned and rolled his eyes. “Less tense than she is now, that’s for sure,” he said. “We didn’t come from money, but we knew how to have fun.”
“How?” Nancy asked.
“Oh, we’d do all sorts of things, wild things,” he said with a little smile. “We used to sneak into
“Really? Wasn’t it locked up?” Nancy asked.
“Yes,” he said, “but we knew ways to get in. Near the stables were a couple of entrances to tunnels that go under Cicero. We went lots of places through those tunnels. It was like our secret.”
“There,” Nancy said, putting down her brush.
“You’d better get back to the ballroom,” Jack said, retreating. “You’re missing the whole auction. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
They were walking toward the door leading back to the ballroom, when Marcy stomped off-stage, followed by a very angry Vic Molina.
“If you have something to say, say it back here!” Marcy told him over her shoulder. “I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of hundreds of people!”
“All right,” Vic said, oblivious to Nancy, Jack, and the other stagehands. “I will. Every time a pretty girl bid for that date with me, you totally ignored her!”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Marcy said. “I just called out the bids I saw. Now, why don’t you go out there and have dinner like everyone else?”
“What’s the matter? Are you jealous?” The producer’s dark eyes were fixed on Marcy’s face. “You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me either, is that it?”
“What’s the big deal, Vic?” Marcy asked. “This is just a silly auction. Don’t you think you’re blowing it all out of proportion?”
“I’ll show you proportion!” Vic said, grabbing an old stool and smashing it against the wall.
“Vic!” Marcy said, her hands flying to her cheeks.
Nancy stepped back, making sure she was out of the producer’s path. What a violent temper, she thought. Glancing over at Jack Cole, she saw his hands ball into fists, ready to join the fight. Luckily, he didn’t get the chance.
Vic stormed away. At the ballroom door, he turned back to Marcy and muttered something Nancy couldn’t make out.
As soon as he left, Marcy turned to Nancy and Jack. “I have to get back onstage,” she said. “It’s time to auction off the date with Samantha.”
Nancy went into the ballroom as Marcy returned to the stage. But first she noticed Jack staring after Marcy with a hard look on his face.
• • •
When the event was over, Marcy’s limousine dropped off Susan, Nancy, and George at Susan’s house. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Marcy,” Susan said as they entered the building, “but I couldn’t believe how much Vic Molina bid for that date with Samantha Savage!”
“He sure helped the benefit. It was the biggest single contribution of the night,” George said.
“I loved when the kids from the hospital sang,” Nancy said as Susan fished her key from her handbag. “They were so cute.”
“Hey, would you two like to go out for some dessert?” Susan asked suddenly.
“How can you think about dessert after that dinner?” George asked.
“True,” Susan said, opening the door and leading her friends inside. “I just wanted to show off my neighborhood. It’s really the best. But it is kind of late.”
“And I have a lot of work to do tomorrow,” Nancy said, following Susan up the stairs.
Susan unlocked the door of the apartment and flicked on the light so they could enter.
“I’ll help open up the bed,” Nancy said, walking over to the futon and unhooking one end.
“What’s tomorrow’s show about, Susan?” George asked, getting her nightgown from her suitcase.
“Parents and teens who don’t speak to one another,” Susan answered.
“Sounds intense,” George said. “What will you be doing?”
“I’ll stay with the guests before the show—keep them comfortable, get them soft drinks—stuff like that,” Susan explained, sitting on the edge of the futon. Then, changing the subject, she asked, “Who do you think is doing all these awful things to Marcy?”
“Ordinarily, I’d say it would have to be someone at the studio,” Nancy said. “But with those missing pages from the security log, I’m not sure. So far, it seems to me that the two people with the most against Marcy are Vic Molina and Samantha Savage. Neither of them works at Stern Productions.”
“Speaking of people with something against Marcy,” George said, “Karen Kristoff said a lot of nice things about her tonight. But she seemed to be laying it on a little too thick.”
“I got the same feeling, George,” Susan said. “Hey, I have an idea! Teen Talk’s offices are right around the corner from the Media Center. My friend Laura is an intern there. Why don’t you go over there and look up back issues with information on Vic, Samantha, or Marcy? You could check out Karen Kristoff while you’re there.”
“Good thinking, Susan,” Nancy said, flopping down on the bed. “That’s what I call killing three birds with one stone.”
• • •
After a quick breakfast the next morning, Susan dropped Nancy and George in front of Teen Talk’s offices. “My friend is Laura Salvo,” she told Nancy and George. “Just mention my name and tell her what you need. Oh, and here are your tickets for the show today. The taping is early today. I’ll see you later.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said, sticking the tickets in her bag.
“ ’Bye, Susan!” George called as the hatchback pulled away.
Nancy and George entered the black granite building through a revolving door. A sign in the lobby told the girls that the magazine’s editorial offices were on the fifth floor. The elevator let them off near a metal door emblazoned with the logo of Teen Talk. Next to the door of the Teen Talk offices was a glassed-in cubicle with a window for talking to the receptionist.
“We’re here to see Laura Salvo,” Nancy told the young woman seated there, whose hair was pulled back in a thick French braid.
“That’s me,” the girl replied with a smile.
“Hi, Laura. We’re friends of Susan Ling,” Nancy said.
“I’ll buzz you in,” Laura told them without hesitating. After she pressed a button, the door clicked open.
“Hi,” Laura said, greeting them at the door. “What can I do for you?”
“Susan thought you could help us out. We’re looking for background material on Samantha Savage, Vic Molina, and Marcy Robbins,” Nancy explained. “Back issues, whatever.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Laura said with a laugh. “We have lots of old stories on those three. Wait right here, okay? I’ll go check for you.”
Nancy and George sat down to wait in two wooden chairs with a small table between them. “This place isn’t as nice as I thought it would be,” George remarked, looking around.
“I know,” Nancy said in agreement. “Maybe the magazine isn’t doing very well.”
Laura returned a few minutes later. “I’m awfully sorry,” she said, looking perplexed, “but any issues with those three seem to be missing.”
“What?” George asked, surprised. “How can that be?”
“I wish I knew,” Laura said. “It’s weird. I’m as baffled as you are. The only thing I can think of is that someone else is checking on the same people. But the magazines should have been signed out.”
“Is there anyone you can ask?” Nancy asked.
“I can call Ms. Kristoff. She usually knows everything that goes on around here.” Laura sat down and punched in a single digit on the phone. “Hmm, Ms. Kristoff seems to have left her office,” she said, hanging up. “I can try her again later. Do you want to wait?”
“No, thanks,” Nancy said. “George and I have to get back to the Media Center. Maybe we’ll stop by later.”
“Do that,” Laura said, nodding. “Hopefully, I’ll have everything straightened out by then.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said. She and George got up and left the office.
Outside in the hallway, George checked her wristwatch. “Yikes,” she said. “Taping is early today—it starts in ten minutes.”
Nancy and Georg
“Susan told me why,” George replied. “It’s because they have to work around the guests’ availability. It doesn’t much matter because the show airs at five every day. Just as long as it’s taped by then, it’s okay.”
The music came on for the start of the show, and Marcy made her entrance. “We’re talking today with people who’ve stopped talking—to each other,” Marcy told the audience, plopping down on the sofa. Across from her sat three teens and three adults. Nancy thought they all looked pretty uncomfortable.
“Meet Trina Myers and her mom, Barbara. And here are Amy Jeffers and her mother, Linda, and Phil Dugan and his dad, Phil senior. These teens and their parents all have something in common. They don’t speak to each other! Phil, when was the last time you talked to your dad?”
“Um,” the boy said, “it must be a couple of months now.”
“It’s been over six months, Marcy!” his father corrected angrily.
“Tell us about it,” Marcy said to them. “How did it happen?”
What followed were fireworks and tears. The teens and their parents directed their comments to Marcy, almost as if they were communicating through her. It seemed to make it easier for them all to open up.
“Trina claims you never loved her,” Marcy told Barbara Myers, who was staring stonily in front of her. “That’s a heavy accusation.”
“It’s totally wrong, too!” Mrs. Myers protested. “Of course, I love her!”
“Hold on to the rest of your thoughts while we break for these messages.” Marcy was reading the rolling TelePrompTer that was off to the side and out of camera view. It contained messages for Marcy, such as reminding her of commercial breaks.
All at once, Nancy saw Marcy’s face turn white. “Folks, I-I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered nervously to the audience. “Please don’t panic, but we’re all going to have to get out of here right away. I just received a message that there’s a bomb planted somewhere in this studio—and it’s set to go off any minute!”