027 Most Likely to Die

  "Well! I guess the worst is over. The hive's still in there, though," Nancy said to Ned.

  "We'd better get it out. There may be some hornets still inside," Ned said.

  He looked around and found a long stick lying under the trees. "Maybe we can just poke the nest out with this."

  "I'll stay here and watch," said Bess with a shudder. "I don't want to be there if any more of those guys come flying out. What if that was just the first installment?

  "Call me when you're done," she added as Nancy, Ned, and George walked toward the car.

  Nancy peeked into the car from Ned's side. The papery gray nest certainly seemed quiet enough. No hornets flew out when she opened Ned's door.

  Ned jabbed the stick into the hive and carried it off into the trees. No hornets flew out.

  "Okay, Bess. All clear," Nancy called.

  Bess walked slowly up to them. Standing well away from the car, she leaned forward and peered into the front seat. "You're right," she said, relieved. "Let's get out of here. I've had enough partying tonight."

  The four of them climbed carefully into the car, and as Ned was turning the car around Nancy noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor at her feet. She picked it up.

  Like the note in Wendy's room, the words had been cut from newspaper headlines. Nancy's breath quickened as she read out loud. " 'Still a snoop, aren't you? Don't stir things up—or this is only the beginning!'"

  Ned pulled over to the side of the road and looked at the piece of paper. Then he passed it to Bess and George in the back seat.

  "Oh, no!" Bess gasped. "Someone's out to get you, too!"

  "Obviously," Nancy said. "But this npte seems like overkill. Didn't they think the nest would be enough?"

  "Well, someone's trying to stop you from investigating—as usual," Ned said. He started the car again. "I don't suppose it'll work."

  "Of course not," Nancy answered, her lips a tight line. She was already trying to figure out what this note—and the nest—had to do with what had happened earlier in the evening.

  " 'Still a snoop,'" she said aloud. "Do you guys remember that people used to call me Nancy the Snoop back in high school?"

  "Yeah," George said. "When you first decided you wanted to be a detective. But they were just joking then. This isn't a joke, Nancy. Not really."

  Not any more than the stabbed doll or the gasoline had been. Nancy didn't like being on the receiving end of a prank like this, but she was glad of one thing: The note and the hornet's nest were evidence that the culprit she was looking for was probably a guest at the party.

  "I wish you didn't have to start a new case without either me or Hannah around," said Nancy's father in a worried voice the next morning. "Why couldn't this have happened next week?"

  Carson Drew was an internationally successful lawyer, and he spent a lot of time out of town. Usually the Drews' housekeeper, Hannah Gruen —who was almost like a mother to Nancy—was there to keep her company when her father was away. But an old friend of Hannah's had broken her hip a few days earlier, and Hannah had flown to Buffalo, New York, to take care of her.

  "Now, Dad, you know I take very good care of myself." Nancy grinned at him across the breakfast table as she jumped up to clear her dishes. "Besides, this is just high school prank stuff. Nothing to worry about, really. Now, do you need help with anything before I head over to Wendy's? Are you all packed?"

  Carson Drew's face relaxed into a smile. "You just take care of yourself," he said. "Don't worry about me. I think I'll be able to pack my own suitcase—even without Hannah here."

  Before she had gone to bed the night before, Nancy decided to speak to Wendy Harriman first thing in the morning. She arranged to meet Wendy at eight o'clock at her house in River Heights.

  When Nancy got there, Wendy was still in her bathrobe, with her hair tousled and no makeup on. "Sorry," she murmured, yawning wide. "I meant to get dressed, but I'm still so tired from last night— Anyway, come in. We'll go to the kitchen."

  The beach house had been beautiful, but the house in town was unbelievable. Perfectly decorated and impeccably clean, it looked as though it had been made ready for a magazine spread. Even the kitchen was like a stage set and not exactly homey.

  Wendy poured them both some orange juice and drained half of hers before asking, "Well, what do we do?"

  "First of all, whoever's after you tried to scare me off the case last night." Quickly Nancy told Wendy about the hornet's nest and the note. "I want you to be careful," she finished. "In a way, these pranks worry me more than the fact that your jewelry was stolen. Robbery's pretty straightforward, but there's something twisted about all these pranks. Do you have any idea if someone in our class has it in for you?"

  Wendy's green eyes were wide. "Of course not!" she said. "Why? I mean, lots of people were jealous of me." She shrugged as if to indicate she knew Nancy could understand that. "But I don't know anyone who didn't like me."

  "You mentioned something last night about your boyfriend being out of town."

  "Rod? But he'd never do anything like this, even for a joke. Anyway, he really is out of town. He's doing a show in Philadelphia."

  "Oh? Is he an actor?"

  Suddenly Wendy looked a little uncomfortable. "Yes, he is," she said shortly.

  Well, whoever he was, Rod definitely wasn't a suspect. But what about Celia? "I was wondering how well you knew Celia Quaid," Nancy began.

  Wendy's face hardened. "What has she been telling you? All right, I admit I wasn't the nicest to her in high school, but she deserved it. You remember what she looked like back then. It drives me crazy when people don't even try to get in shape!"

  Nancy didn't answer. She couldn't think of anything to say to an insensitive remark like that.

  "Anyway, why do you think somebody wants to get me?" Wendy asked. "I mean, look at that little trick with the charcoal starter. Whoever put the gas in there couldn't be sure who'd get zapped."

  "That's true," said Nancy. "It's possible that the culprit is after more than one person."

  "Well, if Celia did it, the joke's on her. She's always been in love with Patrick."

  "I didn't know that," said Nancy, startled. "Did she tell you that?"

  "She didn't have to. Back in school it was obvious. You should have seen her face when she'd pass him in the halls. I used to tease him that he should go with her. I said she'd be a lot nicer to him than I was. That was before she got so gorgeous, of course."

  "Was that before or after you broke up with him?"

  "I didn't break up with Patrick!" Wendy exclaimed, slightly red-faced. "He broke up with me—in the middle of senior year. I was pretty upset for a while, but we did stay friends. And it was just as well we broke up, anyway. It's hard to stay together when you're at different colleges."

  "I guess that depends," said Nancy. She was thinking of Ned. "Well, thanks for talking to me, Wendy. Give me a call if anything occurs to you—any reason someone might think of you as an enemy. Where are your parents, by the way?" she added.

  Wendy's face grew red again. "Well, actually, they're in Europe. I didn't tell the police that. I didn't want them to think I'm the kind of person who rushes out to have a party the minute her parents leave town."

  "I understand," said Nancy. But she felt uneasy. She wasn't sure Wendy could handle any problems that might come up. "Well, I'll talk to you soon."

  It turned out to be a lot sooner than she'd expected. Nancy had only been home for a few minutes when she heard brakes screech in the driveway, a car door slam, and feet pound up to her front door. "Nancy!" Wendy screamed. "Let me in!"

  Nancy opened the door—and Wendy almost fell into her arms.

  "Look at this! Look at this!" she said, practically babbling. "Someone delivered it to our house right after you left. I was upstairs getting dressed when I thought I heard a car in the driveway. By the time I got down, there was no one there—but I found this by the front door. What are they—what are they going to do to me
?"

  Wendy was holding a battered yearbook. The cover was black with scribbles, and messages had been scrawled in thick black ink throughout the book.

  "I—I don't understand. It's a mess, but what's so scary about it?" Nancy asked.

  "Look at my class picture!" Wendy gasped. She flipped through the pages until she came to the right one. Then she pointed a shaking finger at her graduation picture.

  It was a beautiful picture—of course. Wendy was smiling serenely at the camera, completely oblivious to what had been scrawled under her name:

  Most Likely to Die!

  Chapter Five

  "The yearbook's not all, either!" Wendy said. "This note fell out of the package when I opened it."

  Nancy knew what the note would look like even before Wendy held it out. She was right. The letters had been cut from newspaper headlines, and this time the message read, "You'll never steal the scene again."

  " 'Steal the scene'?" Nancy repeated as she led Wendy into the Drews' living room. "Do you know what this is about?"

  "Of course I don't!" Wendy said. "That is— well, I—no, of course not."

  But she wasn't meeting Nancy's eyes. "Are you sure?" Nancy asked. "It could be important, you know."

  Wendy was still looking away. "Well, there was that musical at the end of our senior year. If you remember, I was in it." She tossed her auburn hair defiantly. "Whoever wrote all over the yearbook kind of—refers to it."

  "Can you show me where?" Nancy asked gently.

  Reluctantly Wendy held out the book. "On page eighty," she said.

  As Nancy leafed through the pages, angry scribbles kept leaping up at her. "Voted the prettiest brat in the class" was written over a shot of Wendy in the homecoming parade. "Pretending she cares," it said next to a shot showing her cheering a winning tackle. "Guess which one is stupider?" asked another scribble next to a shot of Wendy hugging the cheerleaders' mascot—a teddy bear.

  Some of the scribbles were more ominous. "You're on your way out. You won't even know what hit you." And, simply, "Get ready."

  Then Nancy found the two-page spread of pictures from the senior spring musical—and all at once she did remember what had happened.

  It had been the most important play of the year, with a huge cast and a packed auditorium.

  As usual, Monica Beckwith had had the lead. Wendy—who'd never been in a high school play before—had had a small part. But no one would have guessed it was small from the way she hammed it up. The audience had been packed with Wendy's friends, and by the second act they were applauding wildly whenever Wendy came onstage.

  Someone had been playing tricks on the cast that night—and Monica had borne the brunt of them. A door on the set had crashed to the floor when she'd touched its knob. The tea she was supposed to drink onstage had been salted. Worst of all, someone had cracked a raw egg into the pocket of a coat Monica was supposed to wear onstage. Monica hadn't noticed until she'd reached into the coat pocket. When she'd felt the egg, she'd screamed, burst into tears, and rushed offstage. Her understudy had had to finish the play.

  They hadn't ever found out who'd played all those tricks. But Nancy was starting to have a pretty good idea now.

  "I was there that night," Nancy said aloud. "It was horrible for Monica."

  "Well, you have to admit it was funny," Wendy said, trying not to smile at the memory.

  "It might have seemed funny to you, but that was Monica's last school play! Can you imagine

  how she must have felt?" Nancy protested. "Were you the one who played all those tricks, Wendy?"

  Again Wendy refused to meet Nancy's eyes. "Yes, but Patrick thought of some of them. Anyway, that was so long ago," Wendy said slowly. "Why does it matter?"

  Patience, Nancy told herself, taking a deep breath. Out loud she said, "Because if you did play them—and someone knows you did—that person might be trying to get even:with you now."

  "Get even with me!" Now Wendy sounded frightened again. "For a few tricks I played back in high school? They were just jokes! Where's everyone's sense of humor?" She was almost wailing now.

  "But, Wendy, it wasn't funny to Monica. Or to anyone else who'd worked so hard on the play."

  Now Wendy was off on another tangent. "So you think Monica's the one!" she gasped incredulously. "She stole my jewelry and wrecked my room? Are you going to have her arrested?"

  "Hang on, hang on!" Nancy said. The last thing she wanted was for Wendy to start jumping to conclusions about the case. "No one's making any arrests or even accusations yet. I'd like to talk to Monica, though. Maybe I should—"

  Just then the phone rang. Nancy picked it up.

  "Is that you, Nancy?" came a cheerful voice. "This is Patrick Emmons."

  "Patrick! How are you feeling? How's your face?"

  Patrick laughed. "It's still a little red. It looks as if I'm blushing—all the time. Listen, Wendy told me last night that you're going to be investigating this case. I was wondering if there was any way I could help. I mean, I don't want to get in your way, and I do only have a couple of days before I have to get back to school, but if there's something I could do—"

  "That's nice of you," Nancy said sincerely. "The thing is, I don't really have enough to go on to know how you could help. But thanks. I'll definitely keep your offer in mind."

  "I hope you will. I keep thinking about that doll last night—it gives me the creeps. Do you know how Wendy's doing, by the way? I called her just a minute ago, but I guess she's not home."

  "Well, you can find out in person," Nancy said. "She's right here."

  "Oh, Patrick, this is all so awful!" Wendy wailed into the receiver. "Rod's not coming back till later this week, and some maniac's out to get me. ... I couldn't tell my parents! They're in Europe! Look, can you have lunch with me? Nancy's on her way over to Monica's now, and I

  don't have anything to do. . . . Oh. . . . Oh, okay Well, have fun."

  "He's got to do something downtown," she said, disappointed. "Something about lining up a summer job with a law firm for next year. Well, I guess I'll head home."

  She looked as if she were hoping Nancy would ask her to come along with her, but Nancy didn't take the hint. She needed to talk to Monica alone.

  "Okay," Nancy said. "Talk to you later, Wendy. Is it all right if I take the yearbook with me?"

  "Is it all right? Please do." Wendy shuddered "I never want to see that thing again."

  Nancy knew that Monica Beckwith spent most, of her time in New York. The River Heights papers loved pieces about local celebrities, and a week never went by without some mention of the local actress making good. But when she was in River Heights, Monica stayed with her parents.

  Their house was a couple of miles away from Wendy's. It was a modest two-story cape, nothing at all like Wendy's, and not at all the kind of place where you'd expect a rising star to live. Nancy eased her blue Mustang up to the curb and turned off the ignition.

  As she walked up the path to Monica's house, Nancy noticed that the front door was slightly ajar. Then she thought she could hear Monica talking inside, but she sounded strange.

  Nancy quickened her pace. Was everything all right in there?

  Suddenly Monica's voice turned to a shriek. Nancy raced up the front steps, her heart poundingt.

  "Now I've got you where I want you!" screamed Monica, laughing insanely.

  Bang! went a gun inside the house.

  Chapter Six

  Nancy was about to burst through Monica's front door when she froze in her tracks. What if she startled either Monica or whoever had the gun? They might fire at her. She decided to tiptoe.

  On the threshold of the front door she heard a whirring noise—and Monica screamed again.

  "Now I've got you where I want you!" Again she gave that eerie laugh.

  Bang! went the gun.

  There was another whirring sound.

  "Now I've got you where I want you!" screamed Monica.

  Bang!

&n
bsp; "Now I've got you where I—"

  All of a sudden Nancy knew what the whirring noise was. Trembling with relief, she leaned against the doorframe. "Monica!" she called.

  "What are you doing in there?" Shakily she ran a hand through her hair and stepped into the front hall.

  "Oh, hi, Nancy," Monica said sheepishly from the living room, pushing a button near the TV. "I was just watching myself on the VCR. This is a screen test I did for a soap opera. My agent sent it to me a few days ago." She pushed the Play button.

  Monica was grinning at Nancy, slightly embarrassed. But on the TV screen, Monica's face was so contorted with fury that Nancy would never have recognized her. She was dressed in black | leather and stiletto-heeled black boots, and she 1 was half crouched in the middle of a city street, pointing a gun at the windshield of a gleaming limousine. All around her, passersby were I screaming and scrambling to get out of her way. ! Monica gave that strange laugh and pulled the trigger again. The car's windshield shattered. Monica stepped forward. . . .

  And the real Monica stepped forward to press the VCR's Rewind button. The VCR whirred for a few seconds and then clicked off.

  "Is that what soaps are like now?" Nancy asked in amazement. "It's been a while since I watched one."

  "Oh, no. The producers just wanted to see what kind of range I had. Boy, that screen test put me through everything." Monica giggled. "You should see the part where I had to flirt in a Southern accent. And the part where I had to ride a horse—but anyway, have a seat! Fm sure you didn't come here to watch my screen test."

  "Well, you're right," said Nancy. "I've been talking to Wendy this morning."

  "Oh, yes?" Monica's face showed nothing but polite interest. "You know, let's go up to my room instead. It's more comfortable up there."

  The living room seemed perfectly comfortable, but Nancy followed Monica upstairs anyway.

  "Wow!" she said when she saw Monica's bedroom. "I never realized you were so photogenic!"