Let’s Talk Terror (7 page)

Samantha came up behind Vic, her eyes flashing fire. “Who are these girls? Do you know them?” she asked him.

“They were at the benefit,” Vic answered, sourly. “I believe they're friends of Marcy's.”

“Fans
of Marcy Robbins, Mr. Molina,” Nancy corrected him, thinking fast. “And fans of
yours,
too. Your show, ‘Southern Star,' has
changed my life! It's the greatest show I ever saw!”

“And you're the best singer in the world, Samantha,” George added, playing along. “Your new CD,
Heartless
—it's totally awesome!”

At this, Samantha's face lost its hard edge. “Thanks,” she told George.

“That's why we came down here,” Nancy went on. “To try to get autographs. Oh, please, could you?” Reaching into her pocket, she brought out the pad she always carried to take notes on.

Vic didn't know whether to believe Nancy and George or not. “I don't like people sneaking up on me,” he muttered angrily. “And we don't give autographs!” Taking Samantha's arm, he guided her down to his car. With a slamming of doors and a screech of tires, Molina backed out of his spot and sped from the lot.

“Sorry, Nan,” George said, shaking her head. “I really goofed. I should have seen that soda can.”

“Come on, don't be so hard on yourself,” Nancy said comfortingly. “At least we learned something. Vic and Samantha obviously have it in for Marcy. But if either one of them knew I was a detective, they did a good job hiding it.”

“They were having a secret meeting here!” George said, her voice rising with excitement. “Maybe he and Samantha are working together to get Marcy. Maybe we just broke the case!”

“I wish I agreed, George,” Nancy told her friend. “But we can't prove a thing against Vic Molina, Samantha Savage, or anybody else. We can't prove they were anywhere near the studio when Marcy's photo was ripped or when the phony bomb was planted.”

“True,” George said, sounding discouraged now.

“We'll just have to keep on working,” Nancy said with determination.

After a quick lunch at a coffee shop, Nancy and George drove back to the Media Center and parked in the underground garage. Upstairs in the Stern offices, they found Susan in the corridor going to her cubicle.

“Nancy! George!” she cried when she saw them. “Guess what?” she said with a smile. “The crowd not only stayed around, it grew! The Sterns think the bomb threat could send our ratings through the roof.”

“Life sure is strange,” George said.

“Especially life in TV,” Susan joked.

“Look who's here,” Nancy said as Lieutenant Dunne appeared at the end of the hall. Beside him was a short, dark-skinned man
dressed in a blue shirt and black pants. “Hi, Lieutenant Dunne,” Nancy called.

“Oh, hi, everyone,” he said, walking up to the three girls. “Meet Eddie McCormack. He's setting up phone taps. If any more phone threats come in, we can trace the call and get the voice on tape. Come on, Eddie, let's check with the front switchboard.”

“Lieutenant Dunne,” Nancy said, stopping him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“If it's about that marker, I don't know a thing yet,” he said. “The lab is a little backed up. I should hear something by tomorrow morning.”

“It's not about that,” Nancy explained.

The lieutenant sighed a little impatiently and leaned against the wall.

“There was a break-in at Susan's apartment last night, the place where George and I are staying.”

Lieutenant Dunne became instantly alert. “What did they take? Why didn't you call right away?”

“It's not what they took,” Nancy said. “It's what they left—a broken mirror and a note warning me off the case.”

“Shook you up a little, huh?” he said.

Nancy smiled. “Not exactly, but you might want to send someone over there to dust for prints. If there are any, they'd be on the terrace
door. You can get the key from George or Susan.”

“Yeah, well, I might just do that,” the lieutenant replied, taking out his notepad and making a note. Then he stood up straight and stuck his pen behind his ear. “I guess I don't have to tell you to be careful. I mean, a famous detective like you.”

There was a touch of humor in his voice, which Nancy noted.

“Just keep in touch, you hear?” Then he headed off in the direction of the switchboard.

“Ten minutes to show time,” Susan said from behind Nancy. “Here are your tickets, guys. Enjoy Dr. Helen.”

Nancy and George headed toward the studio, and on the way saw Brenda and Dee talking in one of the offices. Nancy poked her head in. “Excuse me, you two,” she said apologetically. “I know it's almost show time, but I have a couple of important questions. Do you have a second?”

Brenda checked her watch. “A second,” she said tentatively, “but that's about it.”

“I understand Susan told you about me before I got here. Did either of you repeat that information to anybody?”

Brenda and Dee shared a guilty glance. “Well, we talked about it with Ginger, actually. You know how hard it is to keep a secret,” Brenda said.

“And I think I told Midge,” Dee confessed. “I knew I shouldn't tell her, but somehow she wormed it out of me.”

“Thanks for your time,” Nancy said. “And one other thing, do either of you know anyone in Stern Productions who might have something against Marcy?”

Brenda shook her head. “Lieutenant Dunne asked me the same thing yesterday afternoon. But, no—everyone here is nuts about Marcy.”

“That's right,” Dee agreed. “We all love her to pieces.”

“Even Jack Cole?” Nancy prodded.

“Especially Jack,” Dee said with a little laugh. “He's got a crush on her, if you ask me. They go way back. It's like he's appointed himself her watchdog or something. Always looking out for her. Why would he do anything to hurt her?”

“Well, the other day, he seemed a little annoyed with her,” Nancy said. “He called her Queen Marcy, for one thing.”

“Oh, that's just his sense of humor,” Brenda explained. “He's a little strange that way. But he cares about her a lot.”

“Well, thanks,” Nancy told them. “I don't want to keep you any longer. Have a great show. Come on, George.” With a wave, Nancy led George into the studio where they found their way to their seats in the packed house. Everyone was buzzing about the bomb threat.

As the show's music faded, Marcy Robbins stepped into the spotlight, wearing a loose-fitting floral-print dress with a scoop neck.

“Thanks, everyone,” she said, answering the enthusiastic applause that flooded the studio. “Welcome to ‘Marcy!'—that's me!” She flopped down on the edge of one of the blue sofas and talked to the audience in a more personal way. “Hey, do you have a problem with your mom, dad, boyfriend, or girlfriend? I guess we all have problems of one sort or another. Today we have someone here who can help solve them all! After the break we'll meet Dr. Helen Cavallacci—better known to you as Dr. Helen!”

Wild cheers exploded in the audience, and the show went to its first commercial break. When it came back on, Marcy introduced her guest.

“She's a lot younger looking in person,” George whispered as the famous psychologist stepped on the stage and took a seat on the sofa. Her snowy hair fell in soft curls around her smiling face, and her bright blue eyes seemed to twinkle merrily.

“What a nice welcome,” she said appreciatively.

“Practically everybody in the world looks to you for advice, Dr. Helen,” Marcy said as her guest sat down. “Everyone reads your newspaper column, too—princes, corporate leaders,
schoolteachers, and plumbers. Why do you think that is? And how did it all begin?”

“Oh, stop flattering me. It isn't necessary,” Dr. Helen said in her down-to-earth, grandmotherly way. She brushed aside Marcy's compliments with a wave of her hand. “I'm just an old lady who's been around a little, that's all.”

The audience broke out in laughter at the psychologist's folksy modesty.

“Wait a minute,” Marcy challenged. “Isn't it true that you've been getting calls from the White House lately?”

“How did you know?” the psychologist asked, surprised.

“Hey, that's what I do for a living. Find things out,” Marcy quipped.

“Well, it's true, Marcy,” Dr. Helen admitted. “I get calls from the President and his family from time to time. Everyone thinks people in high positions are invulnerable, but they have little personal problems, too. Everybody does.”

“Could you share some of the questions someone in power might have for you?” Marcy asked.

“I can't reveal my clients' secrets,” Dr. Helen said, laughing off the request. “That's confidential. They'd never call me again if I did!”

Nancy joined the rest of the audience, laughing
at the candid remark. “Well, there you have it, folks,” Marcy told the audience. “She's the secret consultant to the powers-that-be, and today she's here to talk to
you
! Just call 1-312-555-TALK to talk to Dr. Helen. Are you ready to take the first call, Dr. Helen?”

“Fire away,” the psychologist said, smoothing out her deep green skirt.

“Okay, then, let's go to our first caller,” Marcy said, pressing a button on a rectangular box atop the coffee table in front of her. “This is Marcy. You're on the air, talking to Dr. Helen.”

Over the sound system came the voice of an extremely timid-sounding girl. “Dr. Helen, I have a boyfriend who is totally into watching sports on TV. That's all he ever wants to do, and I find it very boring. But he says if I really like him, I'll watch with him. What should I do?”

George gave Nancy a nudge and whispered, “Sounds like my kind of guy.” Nancy giggled. George was a big sports fan.

“I think you should find a boyfriend who likes to do the things you like to do,” Dr. Helen answered the caller. “I'm with you, he sounds very boring. Either tell him to limit his TV viewing or go find someone else!”

The next caller was the mother of a teenage girl. “My fifteen-year-old daughter doesn't
think that she should have a curfew on weekends. She says having a curfew means I don't trust her.”

“Of course you don't trust her,” the psychologist said. “No parent should trust a teenager! Right?”

The way she said it made Nancy, George, and the rest of the audience laugh again. But then the psychologist turned more serious. “No, really, parents and children need to be able to trust each other, but they've got to
earn
one another's trust. I believe the curfew is really in your daughter's best interests. Once she understands that it's for her protection I think she'll accept the idea of it more easily. If she doesn't, tell her to write to me!”

Marcy smiled and went on to the next call. “This is Marcy,” she said, “and you're talking to Dr. Helen. Go ahead, please.”

This time the voice that came through the sound system sent a cold chill up Nancy's spine. “Dr. Helen,” it said in a weird electronically distorted pitch, “how do you explain a person who won't take a warning?”

“What kind of warning are you talking about?” the psychologist asked.

“A warning to quit hosting a certain TV show,” the weird voice said. Nancy bit her lip and listened even harder. Marcy's face had turned white, she noticed.

“Please, stop being so coy,” Dr. Helen said, sounding annoyed. “Why don't you just say what you called to say.”

“All right, then. I'm not the person who set the phony bomb—but I know who did. Let this be a warning to you, Marcy. The person who did it means business and is running out of patience. Quit this show now—
today
, Marcy—or you're dead!”

W
E'LL BE RIGHT BACK
after these messages,” Marcy said as a fearful stir swept through the studio. She fell back against the sofa, stunned. The murmur from the audience grew louder.

From behind the set, Lieutenant Dunne appeared, asking Dr. Helen to keep the caller on the line.

Brenda Fox, who was sitting on a stool off the set but in plain view of the audience, got to her feet instantly. “Folks, what we need now is quiet,” she told the crowd.

“Caller? Are you still there?” Dr. Helen asked, her voice firm and calm.

“Yes,” the electronically altered voice replied. “I'm still here.”

Nancy gripped George's arm tightly. “I hope
the police will be able to make a trace,” she said.

“Nancy, do you recognize the voice?” George asked.

“I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman,” Nancy said in frustration.

“You're very angry, aren't you? Obviously you want to talk about it, or you wouldn't have called today,” the psychologist persisted. “I want to understand where your anger is coming from.”