027 Most Likely to Die

  The walls were entirely covered with pictures of Monica—not an inch of wallpaper showed anywhere, and pictures were stuck in the windows and mirror as well: Monica smiling for a publicity shot; Monica looking wistful in a torn-out page from a magazine interview; Monica glowering at a gorgeous actor who looked vaguely familiar to Nancy.

  "That's Gordon Ray," Monica said when she noticed where Nancy was looking. "We did a dinner-theater thing just outside New York. Not quite Broadway, but still— Anyway, there I go again. Sorry! You said you'd been talking to Wendy?"

  "Yes—and I've been wondering about a few things." Nancy sat down in a small flowered armchair while Monica perched on the edge of her bed. "First of all, do you have your old yearbook around?"

  Before coming to Monica's, Nancy had tucked the one from Wendy in her big shoulder bag so it wouldn't show.

  "My yearbook!" Monica said in a startled voice. "Why do you want to know?"

  "It may be important to the case." Was Monica stalling?

  "Well, as a matter of fact, I—I don't have it here. I had my parents send all that stuff to New York when I got my apartment there."

  "So this one's not yours?" Nancy pulled the defaced yearbook from her shoulder bag and watched Monica's face closely to see what her reaction would be.

  But Monica's reaction was exactly what Nancy's would have been if anyone had shown her the same book. "No!" she said blankly. "Of course that's not mine. I didn't let people write on the cover. What's going on, Nancy? Look around—you can see for yourself that I don't have any old school stuff here. I would never have let my yearbook get so messed up, anyway."

  "Well, this one was messed up on purpose," Nancy said. "Someone sent it to Wendy this morning. All that writing on it was meant for her—and this is why I wondered if you might have been the one who owned it." She opened the yearbook, flipped to the pictures of the class musical, and held the book out to Monica.

  Monica silently studied the pictures and their message to Wendy. Then she began/leafing through the yearbook page by page. When she came to the "" page, she flinched—but she still didn't say a word.

  Finally she slammed the book shut. "I can see why you'd suspect me," she said bitterly and sarcastically. "I'm just the kind of person who'd do something like this. You know actors— they're so touchy and temperamental. And I had such a good excuse, too! Is that what you thought?"

  "I don't really have any opinions yet," said Nancy mildly. "But I'm sure you can see why I came here."

  "Oh, sure." Monica jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth. "Well, one thing's certainly true. I can't stand Wendy Harriman. And it's not only because of that musical." She turned around and glared at Nancy. "Did she mention Rod to you?"

  "The guy she's going with?"

  Monica nodded. "That's the one. The guy I used to go with." Suddenly her voice broke, and defiantly she brushed away a tear with the back of her hand.

  "I met Rod in a summer stock theater near here last year," she continued, sinking down into an armchair. "We really— I know love at first sight sounds silly—but that's just what happened to us. It was all so perfect until I moved to New York. I had introduced him to Wendy at a party, and she just latched onto him when I left. Well, you can imagine the rest. With a girlfriend who was out of town all the time—and Miss Cheerleader coming on to him here at home—next thing I knew, he'd dumped me and was going with Wendy."

  Monica blew her nose. "At least he didn't come to the party," she said. "He had a show to do out of town. I read about it in the paper. I wouldn't have gone if he'd been there. So now you can see why I can't stand Wendy," she added. "There's no way I can pretend to like her—even if that makes you think I'm totally guilty."

  "Monica, I don't have any clear suspects at this point," Nancy said. "I'm glad you told me all this, though." Better to hear it from you than from somebody else, she thought. "But there's one thing I don't understand—why did you go to the party last night if you hate Wendy so much?"

  Monica sighed. "I didn't really want to. But I thought I would feel like a coward if I stayed home. And anyway, I wanted to see everybody else."

  "Well, that makes sense," said Nancy. "Look, thanks for talking to me. Will you be around later if I need to ask you anything more?"

  "Oh, yes. I'm not going back to New York until next week."

  "Good. Ill be in touch, then."

  "Uh, Nancy? I wonder if you could do one of your suspects a favor," Monica said. "My car's in the shop, and I've got to go downtown. Is there any chance you could drop me there?"

  "No problem," said Nancy. It did seem a little strange to be going out of her way for a possible suspect, but she found it hard to believe Monica could be guilty.

  On the other hand, Nancy reminded herself, Monica was an actress—and a good one. She could make herself into almost any kind of person. . . .

  They were starting downstairs when the phone rang. "I have to get that!" Monica said, dashing into the kitchen to pick it up.

  "Hello?" she said eagerly.

  Her face fell. "Oh, hi, Wendy," she said coldly. "Yes, she's here. Just a minute." She turned without another word and handed the phone to Nancy.

  "Nancy?" Wendy's voice was wobbling. "I— sorry to bother you, but you've got to come over here. I'm in River Heights. Please hurry!"

  "I'll be right over," Nancy assured her. She hung up and turned to Monica. "I've got to go to Wendy's before I do anything else. I'll still be glad to take you downtown, though. Do you want me to come back and pick you up?"

  "No, no. That'd be too much trouble for you. I'll just come along. It won't kill me to see Wendy. I hope."

  "Can you believe this? They took everything! Except for the books, I mean—and who'd bother with those?"

  Nancy and Monica had just arrived to find Wendy standing wild-eyed in the family room. Like the rest of the house, the room looked designer-perfect—except for the big, empty gaps in the bookcase where the CD player, tuner, stereo, TV, and VCR had been.

  "It must have happened when I was over at your house," Wendy continued. Shivering, she glanced nervously out the window. "It gives me the creeps to think that someone was just hanging around waiting for me to leave! What should I do, Nancy?"

  "Well, let's take first things first. Have you called the police?"

  "No!"

  "I know some of the River Heights police," Nancy said confidently. "We've worked together a few times. I know they'll be helpful—and you don't have a chance of recovering that stuff without them. Let me just give them a ring myself."

  In a second she turned around and gave Wendy a reassuring smile. "They're on their way."

  When the two officers arrived, Nancy was relieved—she knew both of them. She and Wendy were explaining what had happened when Monica—who had been staring out the window until then—tapped her on the shoulder.

  Monica hadn't said a word since they'd gotten to Wendy's. Now she looked worried.

  "I hate to cause trouble, but I just remembered that I left some things at home that I'm going to need downtown. But I can see that you should probably stick around here. If you could just drop me off at home, I can call a cab to pick me up."

  "Oh, you won't need to do that," said Nancy. "There's nothing more I can do here anyway." She turned to Wendy, who was trying to remember what model the VCR had been. "Wendy, I've got to go," she said. "You're in good hands, I promise. I'll give you a call as soon as I can." But Wendy kept Nancy there with questions. It was twenty more minutes before they left.

  "That's strange," Nancy said to Monica as they were pulling up to her house. "I could have sworn you locked the front door when we left."

  Monica's front door was half open and swinging gently on its hinges.

  "I did lock it," said Monica. "I heard it click. Maybe my mother's home. But I don't see her car anywhere. I wonder if the wind—"

  She was out of the car and racing up the walk before Nancy could get out.

  Nancy followed slo
wly. She had a nagging feeling she knew what they were going to find.

  And she was right. A grim-faced Monica met her at the door.

  "Someone's been here, too!" she gasped. "And whoever it is may still be in the house!"

  Chapter Seven

  MONICA'S teeth were chattering. "The living room is wrecked/' she whispered. "And I heard—I think I heard—someone running upstairs when I came in."

  Then she gasped. "My screen-test video! I left it up in my room!" And before Nancy could stop her, she had turned and rushed into the house again.

  "Monica! Come back! The burglar may be in your room!" Nancy called frantically. But all she could hear were Monica's feet thudding up the stairs,

  There was nothing Nancy could do but follow her. If the burglar was still in the house, both girls were in terrible danger—but it was too late to hold back now.

  Nancy threw a glance at the living room as she rushed by. It looked as though it had been torn apart, and both the TV and VCR were gone. She'd have to check that out later. She dashed up to Monica's room.

  One of the windows in the room was open. Nancy rushed across to it and stuck her head out, being careful not to touch the sill in case there were any fingerprints. She could see that there wasn't much of a drop from there, and the thick hemlock bushes below would have broken the fall of anyone who had jumped. Were those footprints in the dirt bed which bordered the bushes? She couldn't tell.

  Nancy turned to Monica, who was standing in the middle of the room. "Well, I found the tape," said Monica with a bleak smile.

  She was holding an empty VCR cassette. The tape had been yanked from it and draped all over her room. Festoons of it hung from the ceiling light and the curtain rods, and a tangled mass of tape lay snarled on the bed.

  That wasn't all. The pictures on Monica's walls had been covered with angry black scribbles. Childishly drawn beards adorned some of the faces, but most of the pictures had messages on them. Ugly messages—and probably the work of the same person who'd defaced that yearbook.

  "I know that window was closed when we left," said Monica. "We always keep the windows closed when the air conditioning's on."

  "Then this must be how he or she got out."

  "Probably a she. Look at this, Nancy." Monica pointed at a piece of paper on her desk.

  The cut-out letters were all too familiar: "Don't waste your time. You couldn't act your way into a used-car commercial."

  "Nice style, don't you think?" Monica asked dryly.

  "Lovely," answered Nancy. "But why do you think it's from a girl?"

  "Because Celia Quaid once said those exact words to me back in high school. I'd asked her if she was going to see a play I was in that weekend. I was just making conversation, but I guess she must have thought I sounded conceited or something. So she said that to me right in front of everyone. Then she stood up and walked out of the room. I couldn't have made a better exit myself."

  "I can imagine," said Nancy. It looked as though Celia would have to be the next person she interviewed. And it also looked as though Nancy could rule Monica out as a suspect. There

  was no way Monica could have robbed her own house while she was at Wendy's.

  "Look, Nancy, I'm going to forget going downtown after all," Monica said. "I'll cancel my appointment. I think I'd better be here when my mother gets home."

  "Good idea," Nancy said. "And you'd also better call the police. We need to report another robbery."

  "But Nancy, it's one o'clock!" Bess protested. "Don't you want to eat first?"

  Nancy was calling Bess from Monica's house. She wanted to see Celia right away, and now that the police had arrived she felt it would be all right to leave Monica alone.

  "No. I really can't think about food until I've seen Celia," she told Bess. "And I'd love it if you could be there to back me up. Could you possibly meet me in, say, forty-five minutes? Thanks, Bess. . . . No, you don't need to bring me a sandwich!"

  Nancy hung up the phone. Monica was showing the two officers the damage in the living room.

  "Monica, if you think you can handle this on your own, I'm going to go," Nancy said. "Does Celia live near here?"

  "About twenty minutes away. Good luck," Monica added.

  When Nancy arrived at Celia's apartment building, Bess wasn't there. So she decided to park her car and take a walk while she waited the twenty-five minutes.

  The late-summer sun felt wonderful, and Nancy suddenly realized she had spent the last five and a half hours—since eight o'clock—either inside talking to Wendy and Monica or in her car on the way to their houses. She checked her watch. There was a little park near there, she knew, and if she walked fast she'd get tjiere and back in plenty of time.

  But she hadn't made it all the way to the park when she heard footsteps pounding up behind her. A male voice called out, "Nancy! Wait up!"

  It was Don Cameron.

  "What an incredible coincidence!" he said. He was beaming with happiness, and his brown eyes were sparkling. "First the party, and now this! Boy, I'm glad I decided not to go back to school early. What are you doing here, anyway?"

  "I—I was just going to ask you the same thing," Nancy said. She knew she sounded cold, but she couldn't help it. Talking to Don was pretty low on the list of things she felt like doing right then. But Don hadn't noticed her tone— and he didn't seem to want to answer her question.

  "You know, Nancy," he said, "seeing you at the party yesterday really got me thinking. I thought you were out of my system, but—well, do you think we could try again? I haven't met anyone like you at college. And we had such great times together, didn't we? I can't have imagined the whole thing, can I?"

  What is the matter with him? Nancy thought despairingly. Anyone else would have gotten the message yesterday! She cleared her throat and tried again.

  "Yes, we did have some good times. But, Don, that was a long time ago! I think you're a great guy, but I'm in love with Ned. I just can't see you and me getting back together. I'm sorry."

  Now Don looked as though she'd slapped him. "But now that I've been away, I'm more convinced than ever that you're really special!" he pleaded. 'There's really no one like you at college."

  "Well, Don, I'm sorry about that, too, but there's really nothing I can do," said Nancy. "Maybe it'll take you a little time—"

  "Don! Nancy! How's it going?"

  Startled, both Nancy and Don turned to see Patrick Emmons's black Corvette pulling up next to them. "Hi, guys!" he said cheerfully. "Hey, this is just like old times, seeing you together!"

  "Not exactly," Don muttered.

  "Just don't let Nickerson find out you're here,

  Don," Patrick said jokingly. "He wouldn't want you stealing his girl in broad daylight—"

  Then he suddenly seemed to sense the tension between Don and Nancy, and he looked away. "Uh-oh. Sorry if I'm interrupting anything," he said awkwardly.

  "You aren't!" Nancy said a little more emphatically than she had meant to. "I was on my way to Celia's, and"—she checked her watch again— "it looks as though Fm going to be really late. Nice seeing both of you!" She dashed away before either boy could say another word.

  Bess was waiting in her car in front of Celia's house. She jumped out when she saw Nancy. "I thought you said this was urgent!" she protested.

  Nancy sighed. "It is. Sorry I'm late," she said. "I ran into Don Cameron on the way. Getting rid of him took a lot longer than it should have." If she'd succeeded at all, she reminded herself miserably.

  Celia lived by herself in a small apartment near the local junior college. The apartment was on the first floor of a small brick building. Her name was printed in tiny letters under the doorbell. Nancy pressed the bell firmly and waited. No answer. She rang the bell again. "I hear someone in there," she whispered, and she rang again. "She knows we're coming. I called her from Monica's."

  It took two more tries before they heard someone walking up to the door. Then it opened a crack, and Celia peered ou
t at them.

  Again Nancy was amazed at how beautiful Celia had become—and how angry she seemed. "Oh, there you are," Celia said coldly, as though they'd been the ones keeping her waiting. "I was back in my room."

  Silently she led the way into the apartment. She plopped herself down in a chair without inviting them to join her. After a moment's hesitation, Nancy sat down, too, and Bess followed suit.

  Nancy decided to get to the point right away. Her high-backed wooden chair was too uncomfortable to relax in, and Celia's expression was so sour that she couldn't imagine trying to have a conversation with her.

  "A lot of weird things have been happening since Wendy's party last night," Nancy said. "I was wondering if you knew anything about—"

  "Kerchoo!" Bess reddened with embarrassment. "Sorry," she said, blowing her nose.

  Nancy tried again. "For example, is this your yearb—"

  "Kerchoo! Kerchoo!" Nancy and Celia both turned to look at Bess. "I'm really sorry," she said again.

  "Someone sent Wendy this yearbook earlier today, and I was wondering if—"

  "Kerchoo!" Now Bess was beet red. "I don't know what's going on," she said. "I must be allergic to something. I can smell paint. Are you painting?"

  "Yes," Celia responded.

  "The only thing that gets me started this way is oil-base paint, and—"

  "I'm using oil-base in my room," Celia interrupted.

  "Oh, no," Bess said. "Then we have a little bit of a problem. This sneezing's not going to let up. Believe me, I know it's not." She blewher nose and cast an apologetic look at Nancy. "I could go wait in the car or something—"

  "Why don't we all go outside?" suggested Nancy. "I started to take a walk earlier, and I didn't get to finish it. Celia, would that be okay?"

  Celia shrugged. "I guess there's no reason why not," she said.

  This is a total dead end, Nancy thought wearily, thirty minutes later. Not that I expected Celia to confess—but she's not going to tell us any-thing!

  Nancy had described the robberies at Wendy's and Monica's, and Celia hadn't responded at all. She had shown Celia the yearbook as they had been walking along, and all Celia had done was cackle with laughter and say that Wendy had it coming to her. Celia utterly refused to talk about anything that had happened in high school.