163 The Clues Challenge

by Carolyn Keene

  “Whoever sent that message is,” Nancy said. “Maybe

  we can . . .”

  Just then the door to SportsMania was pushed open,

  and a man wearing a yellow parka hustled in. His eyes

  zeroed in on C.J., and Nancy got only a quick glimpse

  of his tanned face and white-blond hair before he lifted

  a camera and began snapping off photos.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he murmured, circling C.J. to

  get shots from different angles. “Just act natural. These

  are going to look great.”

  Nancy blinked into the blasts of light that flashed

  from the camera.

  “You know this guy, C.J.?” she asked.

  C.J. opened his mouth to answer. Before he could

  get a word out, Mr. Lorenzo stormed out from behind

  the counter.

  “Hey, you can't barge into my store and harass cus-

  tomers,” he snapped. His jaw clenched as he reached

  out, grabbed the man by the collar, and yanked him

  toward the door.

  “I'm a reporter,” the man objected, his camera

  banging against his chest as he tried to twist free. “I'm

  here on assignment. C.J., tell him!”

  Mr. Lorenzo kept a firm grip on the man's collar.

  “You reporters are the lowest life-forms,” Mr. Lorenzo

  muttered angrily.

  The reporter blinked, straining against Mr.

  Lorenzo's insistent pushing. “What?”

  “Mr. Lorenzo, stop.” C.J. jumped forward, blocking

  the store owner's path to the door. “He's telling the

  truth. This is Randy Cohen. He's here to do an article

  on me for Sports World.”

  Mr. Lorenzo took a few deep breaths, as if he were

  trying to calm down. At last he let go of the reporter's

  collar, but he continued to stare at Randy with an in-

  tensity that surprised Nancy.

  That computer threat must have affected Mr.

  Lorenzo more than he let on, she thought.

  “A profile in Sports World?” George said, arching an

  eyebrow at C.J. “I'm impressed.”

  Shaking himself, Randy smiled at George and said,

  “Once people read my article, C.J. will be the hottest

  athlete in winter sports.”

  “Awesome,” Ned commented.

  Randy checked his camera, then reached into his

  jacket pocket and pulled out a notebook and pen. “I'll

  be like C.J.'s shadow for the next few days while I get

  material for the article,” he said.

  “This won't get in the way of the Clues Challenge,

  will it?” C.J. asked.

  “The treasure hunt you told me about?” Randy

  shook his head. “Trust me. You'll hardly know I'm

  there.”

  “I'm starved!” George commented a few hours later,

  her breath cloudy puffs in the cold night air as she

  headed into town. “You said the restaurant is close by,

  right, Ned?”

  Ned wrapped his scarf around the collar of his

  parka, then pointed ahead. “This path comes out on the

  main street, up there where those lights are. The

  Eatery is one of the first places we'll come to. They

  have a big room in the back where we always have the

  pre-challenge dinner. C.J. and Grant said they'd meet

  us there.”

  “Just hearing you guys talk about dinner makes my

  stomach growl,” Nancy said. “But I keep thinking . . .”

  “About that message you saw on Mr. Lorenzo's

  computer?” Ned guessed.

  Nancy nodded. “If someone is pressuring him to

  hand over the clues and answers, it must be one of the

  contestants. Someone who will be at dinner tonight.”

  “Or,” George said as their boots crunched over the

  frozen ground, “maybe the threat wasn't serious, like

  Mr. Lorenzo said.”

  Nancy hoped George was right.

  “Mmm. I smell pasta!” George sniffed appreciatively

  as she, Ned, and Nancy followed the maitre d' through

  the main dining room. A hallway at the rear led past

  the kitchen door and an alcove with a pay phone and

  rest rooms into a spacious back room.

  “Nice,” Nancy said, glancing at the large round ta-

  bles and the abstract paintings that hung on the walls.

  Almost every chair was filled, and the walls echoed

  with chatter and laughter. Nancy didn't see C.J., but

  Grant waved to them from across the room.

  You're just in time,” Grant said, nodding toward two

  waiters who pushed through the kitchen door with

  platters of ravioli. “It looks like the first course is here.”

  “About time,” said a guy who sat to the left of Grant.

  He had dark hair that curled over the collar of his

  corduroy shirt and a look of boredom in his big brown

  eyes. Grant introduced the guy as Dennis Garcia, from

  Sigma Pi. Two other Sigma frat brothers, red-haired

  twins named Philip and Jake, were also at the table.

  “Are you excited about the Clues Challenge?”

  George asked Dennis as she sat down next to him.

  Dennis leaned back to make room for their waiter to

  plunk down a platter of ravioli and a pitcher of soda on

  the table. “Excited, no. It'll be a piece of cake

  compared to facing off against Midwest conference

  football teams,” Dennis said, once the waiter left.

  “I forgot to mention that Dennis is Emerson's top

  quarterback,” Ned explained. “He was, anyway, before

  he injured his shoulder and had to be put on the

  disabled list.”

  Nancy didn't miss the cocky smile that spread across

  Dennis's face. He obviously was a lot less bored now

  that everyone was talking about how great he was.

  “You're not afraid of reinjuring your shoulder in the

  Clues Challenge?” she asked him.

  “I can handle it.” Dennis's eyes were filled with

  confidence as he reached for the soda. “Like I said, the

  Clues Challenge is peanuts compared to what a

  quarterback faces when . . .”

  All of a sudden he stopped talking, his eyes fixed on

  something behind Nancy. The room had gotten noisier,

  and when Nancy turned around she realized why.

  “It's C.J. and Dede and their one-man press en-

  tourage,” said Ned, who flicked a thumb at Randy

  Cohen. “Doesn't that guy ever put his camera down?”

  Hoots and calls rang out from one of the other

  tables. Looking over, Nancy saw Dede's Kappa Rho

  sisters waving Dede and C.J. over. Randy sat down

  with them, pulled his notebook out, and started

  writing.

  “Show-off,” Dennis grumbled.

  “Jealous?” Grant teased.

  Apparently Dennis didn't see the humor. Glowering,

  he got to his feet and threw his napkin on the table. “I

  need some fresh air,” he muttered.

  “What's his problem?” George asked as Dennis

  disappeared down the hallway.

  “Dennis has a thing about C.J.,” Ned said. “Dennis

  and Dede went out on a few dates. But once she met

  C.J. . . .”

  “I get the picture. Dennis hasn't forgiven C.J. for

  stealing his girlfriend,” Nancy said.

 
“Or his top-jock status,” Ned added.

  The red-haired twins from Dennis's frat shrugged

  uncomfortably. “Dennis is a great athlete,” said one of

  them. “But no reporter from Sports World ever wrote

  an article about him.”

  He leaned back as the red-faced waiter placed two

  platters of fried chicken in front of them.

  “All I know is, the Clues Challenge is the biggest

  blast of the winter,” Grant said, reaching for a couple

  of wings. “I'm not going to let Dennis wreck it for me.”

  “I'll second that!” George agreed.

  * * *

  For the next hour Nancy was too busy eating and

  talking to everyone about the Clues Challenge to think

  about Dennis. She and George met so many people, it

  was hard to keep them all straight. Nancy recalled

  meeting someone named Hanna from Joy's sorority, as

  well as another Sigma Pi frat brother—a guy named

  Malik, who had dark skin and braids.

  People floated from table to table, and the room

  echoed with teasing challenges about who would win.

  By the time dinner was finished, Jake and Philip had

  migrated to the far side of the room, and Dede, C.J.,

  and Randy had joined Nancy, George, Ned, and Grant

  at their table.

  “Can I get some quiet, please?” Mel Lorenzo called.

  He had floated from table to table while everyone ate.

  Now, he stood next to Joy's table and tapped a glass

  with a spoon.

  Nancy noticed Dennis behind him, at the end of the

  hallway to the main dining room. He was leaning

  against the brick wall, his arms crossed in front of his

  chest.

  “I'll keep the motivational speech short,” Mr.

  Lorenzo said. “I hope you all ate a lot, because you're

  going to need every ounce of muscle power and brain

  power you have during the next two days.

  “Remember, the challenge runs from sunup to

  sundown tomorrow and Sunday,” he went on. “We

  meet at the foot of the bell tower tomorrow morning at

  sunrise. I blow the whistle precisely at five-thirty.

  That's when you race for the first clue, at the top of the

  tower. Just to remind you, all the clues will be inside

  containers like this one.”

  He held up a plastic snowflake container about four

  inches in diameter. Its two plastic halves were hinged

  together.

  Mr. Lorenzo put the container back on the table,

  then stepped to the side as the waiters came into the

  room with custardlike desserts.

  “Man, oh, man. That looks good,” Mr. Lorenzo said,

  eyeing the dessert. “Just a few more things. First, all

  searching for clues must be done outside. If there's a

  clue on a building . . .”

  “Is there?” called out one of Dennis's teammates,

  the guy with braids who was named Malik.

  Mr. Lorenzo shook his head. “You know I can't an-

  swer that. Like I said, if there's a clue on or near a

  building,” he said, resuming his speech, “you have to

  get to it without going inside the building.

  “Second, searching the campus for clues is off-limits

  from sundown till sunup. Any team that doesn't abide

  by that rule will be disqualified,” Mr. Lorenzo went on.

  “Third, the Clues Challenge HQ is in the lobby of the

  Sports Complex. That's where I'll be with all the

  equipment. And last but not least . . . Good luck!”

  Nancy clapped along with everyone else. “Mmm,”

  she said as the waiter placed the serving bowl on their

  table. “That does look good. What is it?”

  “Tiramisu,” the waiter announced in an uninterested

  voice. “Italian cake soaked in espresso, with custard

  and powdered coffee on top.”

  As he passed out dessert plates, everyone grabbed

  one—except Randy. He hadn't even turned back to the

  table until the waiter plunked a plate down in front of

  him.

  “I, uh, think I've got enough material for today,”

  Randy said, reaching out to shake C.J.'s hand. “See you

  tomorrow morning at five-thirty.”

  C.J. waved and gave him the thumbs-up, but he

  seemed relieved to see the reporter go.

  “It's good to get publicity,” C.J. said. “But I'll be glad

  to have my privacy back after Randy's done with the

  article.”

  “He's a little pushy,” Ned commented, grabbing the

  serving spoon for the tiramisu. He was about to dig into

  the dessert but paused with the spoon in midair.

  “What's that white powder mixed in with the coffee?”

  he asked. “Sugar?”

  Nancy took a second look at the tiramisu, then

  frowned. “The coffee powder is dusted on in a per-

  fectly even layer,” she said. “But the white stuff is in

  clumpy little bits. It's like someone just dumped it on.”

  “Check it out,” George said, leaning back in her

  chair to look at the next table. “Their tiramisu doesn't

  have white stuff on it.”

  “These look like bits of pills,” Nancy said. “See the

  round edges on some of them.” She looked for their

  waiter, but he was already halfway back to the kitchen.

  “Maybe we should ask someone in the kitchen about

  this,” she said.

  “I'll go with you.” Ned grabbed the dessert, and he

  and Nancy followed the waiter.

  As they entered the hallway, Nancy glanced into the

  alcove where the telephone and rest rooms were.

  “Hey!” She stopped short, staring at some spots of

  white powder on the burgundy carpet beneath the pay

  phone. “Do you see what I see?”

  Ned dropped to his knees and fingered the powdery

  bits. “It's just like the stuff on our tiramisu,” he said.

  “But . . . what is it?”

  “Hmm.” Nancy's eyes flew around the alcove— until

  something on the small shelf beneath the phone caught

  her attention. “Pills!” she gasped.

  There on the shelf were half a dozen white tablets.

  Some had been partially crushed into powdery bits that

  were identical to the ones on their dessert.

  “Some kind of medication?” Ned guessed.

  Nancy scooped the pills into her hand, frowning. “If

  it is,” she said, “someone spiked our dessert.”

  3. Deadly Medicine

  Nancy felt a knot twist deep in her stomach. “Someone

  wants to make us sick so we can't compete in the Clues

  Challenge,” she said.

  “But . . .” Ned blinked in confusion. “People from

  different teams were mixed up at all the tables,” he

  said. “How could anyone make sure only people from

  another team would eat the spiked tiramisu?”

  “Think about it,” Nancy said. “No one was moving

  around when dessert was served. Almost every person

  at our table right then was . . .”

  “From Omega Chi Epsilon,” Ned finished. “Except

  Dede, of course.”

  Nancy nodded, closing her hand around the tablets.

  “That makes it pretty likely that whoever did this isn't a

  Kappa,” sh
e said.

  She looked up as the kitchen door pushed open.

  Their waiter came into the hallway carrying a tray of

  coffee and mugs.

  “Excuse me,” Nancy said, walking up to him. “Could

  we talk to you for a minute?”

  The waiter paused, his face red and sweaty. “This

  thing weighs a ton. Can you make it quick?” he said.

  “Sure. Did you see anyone near the phone booth

  about the time you served dessert?” Nancy asked.

  “Or maybe you saw someone in the kitchen?” Ned

  added. “A customer, someone who didn't belong

  there?”

  The waiter let out an annoyed sigh. “They don't pay

  me to keep track of customers,” he said. “I just serve

  food. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

  “Wait!” Nancy angled in front of him, blocking his

  path. “If you'd only try to remember . . .”

  “What is it with you people?” the waiter said, rolling

  his eyes. “Do I have a sign over my head that says

  bother the waiter? Customers have been tripping me

  up all night.”

  “I'm sure if you . . .” Nancy blinked as his words

  sank in. “Someone else talked to you?” she asked.

  “I wouldn't say he talked to me. Practically bowled

  me over is more like it,” the waiter corrected. “My

  tiramisu would have been all over the floor if the guy

  hadn't caught it.”

  “What guy? Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  Nancy asked. “Please . . . it's important.”

  The waiter stared at her blankly. “Sorry,” he said,

  indicating he wasn't at all apologetic. Hoisting his tray

  higher, he pushed past Nancy into the back room.

  “What a grump,” Ned muttered.

  Nancy barely heard him, she was so lost in thought.

  “Well, we don't know who spiked our dessert,” she

  said. “But I'm pretty sure I know how.”

  “Whoever knocked into the waiter must have

  sprinkled the crushed tablets on top,” Ned said. “That

  waiter's been serving our table all night. Anyone paying

  attention could figure out that he'd serve the dessert to

  us rather than to the other tables.”

  “Exactly.” Grabbing her boyfriend by the arm,

  Nancy dragged him through the kitchen door. “We'd

  better make sure this gets thrown out,” she said,

  nodding at the spiked dessert Ned still held. “And

  while we're at it, maybe we can get a plastic bag to put

  these pills in.”

  Ned nodded. “Not to mention a dessert that hasn't