Playing With Fire

by Carolyn Keene

  Brent sat down at his desk, and Nancy took the chair across from him. “Ask away,” Brent said, leaning back comfortably.

  “Is it true that you didn’t actually buy the Napoleon miniature—that you won it in a poker game?” Nancy asked.

  Brent smiled sheepishly. “Yes, that’s exactly how I did get it. Kind of embarrassing, isn’t it? Abdullah lost a lot of money, and I decided that I’d rather have the miniature than the cash.”

  “How did he take the loss?” Nancy asked. “Was he angry?”

  “Yes,” Brent said simply. “Nobody likes to lose. I think he was pretty attached to that miniature, too. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Do you think he was angry enough to try to get even with you?”

  Brent sat up straighter and looked at her. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “that never occurred to me. I suppose it is a possibility. He could have done it out of spite and glossed it over with a phony extortion note. Or maybe he really thought he’d get some money out of me.” Then he shook his head. “But, no, we’re friends. I can’t believe he’d do that.”

  “And there doesn’t seem to be any connection between the sheik and the other two crimes,” Nancy pointed out. “Still, it’s worth following up. Maybe we’ll find a connection. Can you give me his address?”

  “I don’t have it here,” Brent said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Any other questions, Nancy?”

  “Just one. About Diana’s dress. Do you know who might have burned it or how it might have been done?”

  Brent looked perplexed and shrugged. “Wish I did,” he said. “I still think Wellington’s the guy to go after. He seems just crazy enough to torch something he couldn’t have for himself. And Diana did tell me that he was really upset when she wouldn’t sell her gown to him. Now, if you could establish a connection between him and Amanda’s manuscript, I think you’d have it made.”

  I guess I’ll talk to Wellington again, Nancy thought.

  “As for how it could have been done,” Brent added, “I don’t have a clue. The insurance company’s really baffled by this thing, too. There are no clues.”

  “That’s true, unfortunately,” Nancy said. “And without clues, I have to fall back on motive and opportunity. And I’m not getting anywhere there, either.”

  Brent leaned forward. “Could we talk about something a little more pleasant for a sec? Preston called this morning to remind me about the costume gala at the hotel on Friday night. You know about it, of course.”

  Nancy nodded.

  “Anyway, it occurred to me that if you and your friends are still in town, you might like to go. And if you do, you’ll need costumes. Well, Kincaid Studios has a terrific costume department. You can be anybody you want: a Southern belle, a samurai, Cinderella—you name it, the costume is yours.”

  “Great!” Nancy said enthusiastically. “I’m sure Bess and George will be excited too.”

  Suddenly the door opened, and Bess and George burst into the office. “Michael Seaton just autographed his new tape for me!” Bess bubbled. She spun around, clutching a cassette. “I can’t believe it! Michael Seaton’s autograph!”

  • • •

  It was late afternoon by the time the girls got back to the hotel. George left for her date with Chad, and now Bess was lying on the floor listening to Michael Seaton’s new tape. Mark Thompson had to fly that night, so Bess was on her own. Nancy had just sat down to go over her notes on this complicated, frustrating case when she was interrupted by a knock at the door. A bellboy handed her an envelope, which she instantly opened.

  “ ‘I’d like to talk to you again, Ms. Drew,’ ” she read. “ ‘Come to Mr. Talbot’s office as soon as possible.’ ” The note was signed by Elaine Ellsworth.

  Nancy frowned. That woman had a lot of nerve. This sounded like a command. Nancy felt like not going—after all, it was seven o’clock. But her curiosity won out, and soon she found herself seated in Mr. Talbot’s office opposite Ms. Ellsworth.

  Elaine Ellsworth tapped a pencil against the desk, studying Nancy. For a long moment she didn’t say anything.

  Finally she spoke. “Miss Drew, I think it’s time for us to be honest with each other. I’ve identified the arsonist.”

  Nancy blinked. So, the case was over. For a moment Nancy felt a little jealous that the case had been solved without her help. But she pushed the feeling aside. The important thing was that Mr. Talbot was off the hook and the reputation of the hotel was safe.

  “I’m glad to hear that you’ve solved the case,” she said. “And I’m sure Mr. Talbot is delighted.”

  At that moment Nancy’s eye fell on a notepad at the corner of Mr. Talbot’s desk. The notepaper was gray, with a distinctive red border—the same paper that the extortion notes had been written on!

  Watching Nancy, Elaine Ellsworth smiled triumphantly. “Ah, I see that you’ve made the connection too.”

  Nancy looked up. “What connection?”

  “Why, the connection to your employer, of course. Preston Talbot—he’s the arsonist!”

  Chapter

  Eight

  PRESTON TALBOT!” NANCY said, not trusting her ears. “Where’s your evidence? And what kind of motive could he possibly have?”

  “Motive? Why, the oldest motive in the book,” Elaine Ellsworth said. She sat back in the chair, her eyes on Nancy’s. “Money. Preston Talbot needs the million dollars that he tried to extort from Brent Kincaid. He tried extortion with Amanda Hyde-Porter and with Diana Normandy. But he didn’t count on the fact that his victims would refuse to pay, so he had to destroy the objects.”

  “But that’s all conjecture,” Nancy objected angrily. “Where’s your evidence?”

  “The motive is the evidence, Ms. Drew. Mr. Talbot is in desperate need of money. You may not know it, but this hotel is in the red. He needs every cent he can get. And besides . . .”

  Ms. Ellsworth leaned forward again and reached for the notepad without taking her eyes from Nancy’s. “Do you recognize this?” she asked, holding up the pad.

  Nancy swallowed hard. “I-I’m not sure,” she said, stalling for time.

  “Well, I am,” Elaine Ellsworth answered in a satisfied tone. “It’s the same paper that was used for the extortion notes. It came from Mr. Talbot’s desk. And if that’s not enough . . .”

  She reached for a sheet of ledger paper covered with rows of figures. “I suppose you know that the hotel vault contained the week’s cash receipts, well over a quarter of a million dollars—or at least that’s what they’re claiming.”

  Nancy nodded. What was this all about?

  “We’ve gone over the records of the hotel’s various accounts,” Ms. Ellsworth said, running her finger down the ledger page. “We don’t believe there was that much money in the vault. In fact, we’re not certain that there was any money in it at all.” She fixed her eyes on Nancy again. “It’s possible that what was burned was just paper—something that would leave ashes that looked like burned bills.”

  “But that doesn’t connect Mr. Talbot to this case,” Nancy protested.

  “No, not by itself,” Ms. Ellsworth replied. There was a slight smile on her lips. “But when you put all the pieces together—”

  “Ms. Ellsworth,” Nancy interrupted, “if Mr. Talbot is really responsible, why would he use his own notepaper? Why extort money only from people with Napoleonic relics? And why bring me in to investigate the case?”

  Ms. Ellsworth arched her brows. “You tell me, Ms. Drew,” she responded softly. “You tell me.”

  Nancy stood up. Was Ms. Ellsworth trying to suggest that Nancy and Mr. Talbot were in it together? This was ridiculous! There was no point in trying to reason with the insurance investigator. She had made up her mind. “If you’re finished,” Nancy said, “I have work to do.”

  Ms. Ellsworth looked startled, as if she’d expected more of a reaction. “Yes, I’m finished,” she said. “For the moment.” She gave Nancy a stern look. “But make s
ure that your ‘work’ doesn’t get in the way of this investigation.”

  • • •

  “They found the notepad on Mr. Talbot’s desk?” Bess asked, sitting cross-legged on her bed. She was wearing a pink nightshirt and digging a fork into a bowl of shrimp salad that she’d ordered from room service.

  Nancy picked up her hairbrush and nodded, frowning. “I just talked to him a minute ago on the phone. Of course, he knows that Elaine Ellsworth suspects him. He says that the notepad does belong to him, but that anybody could have taken paper from it. Lots of people have access to his office. The hotel does have money problems, as does the airline, he says. In fact, if you just look at motive alone, Mr. Talbot is a likely suspect. And of course, if he’s charged it’ll be all over the newspapers. Then he’ll really be in trouble. Which means we’ve got to work fast to keep him from being formally accused.”

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  “No way,” Nancy replied emphatically. “He wouldn’t try to bail out his hotel through extortion or by faking receipts. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

  Bess speared a shrimp. “You know, Nan,” she mused, “this case is really crazy. A portrait that burns up in a locked vault, a gown that bursts into flame with George in it, a manuscript that’s torched under a guard’s nose—” She looked up, her eyes round. “Do you think there could be something supernatural going on? I mean, like a curse or something?”

  Nancy smiled. “No, I don’t think there’s something like a curse,” she said gently. “Our problem is that we don’t know how the fires start. And even though we’ve got four suspects, none of them is connected to all three of the cases.”

  “Four suspects?” Bess began to count on her fingers. “Peter Wellington, Professor Ronsarde, and Sheik Abdullah—who’s the fourth?”

  Nancy stopped brushing and looked at Bess. “Chad Bannister.”

  “Chad? You mean George’s date tonight?” Bess frowned. “How could he be involved?”

  “I don’t know,” Nancy said. “But he was asking Wellington questions, and then he showed up at Diana’s party—just in time for the Flame to burn. He’s tied in somehow.”

  At that moment there was noise in the living room. Putting her finger to her lips to caution Bess, Nancy went to the bedroom door and opened it wide enough to peek through. It was George, and she was saying good night to Chad—with a lingering kiss.

  “What is it, Nancy?” Bess asked worriedly.

  “George,” Nancy told her with a grin. “She’s winding up her detective work with Chad.”

  In another moment George came into the bedroom, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed pink.

  “Okay, George,” Bess said meaningfully. “How was your date?”

  She smiled. “Fantastic,” she said. “We started out at this wonderful little sushi bar—”

  Bess wrinkled her nose. “Ugh,” she said. “Raw fish. FU take mine cooked, thank you.” She speared another shrimp.

  “Then we went to a funny little Italian restaurant and had ravioli, and then we went to a Greek place to dance.”

  “That’s not a date,” Bess protested. “That’s a world tour.”

  “Did you find out anything about Chad?” Nancy asked.

  George frowned. “You mean, did I carry out my detective assignment?”

  “Well, something like that,” Nancy admitted with a grin.

  “He’s from La Jolla,” George said. “He graduated from UCLA. He’s got a boat at Marina del Rey, and he’s just moved into a new house in Beverly Hills. He’s a terrific dancer, a great conversationalist, and one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever met.” She looked defensive. “Is that what you’re after?”

  Nancy sighed. With her logical mind and her athletic prowess, George was usually a great help. But sometimes she managed to get herself emotionally involved in a case, and when she did she usually went overboard. Nancy hoped fervently that this wasn’t going to be one of those times.

  “One more thing,” Nancy said. “Did you happen to find out how he supports himself? How can he afford a yacht and a house in Beverly Hills?”

  “He made some good investments,” George said briefly. She began changing. “I’m really tired. Do you think we could postpone the rest of the questions until tomorrow?”

  • • •

  Bess sighed as she sat beside Nancy in the front seat of the white Lincoln on Tuesday morning. “This view is gorgeous. Why do people complain about L.A.?”

  “But this isn’t L.A.,” George objected from the backseat. “It’s Malibu.”

  “Wherever it is,” Bess said, “it’s heavenly. Just look at that ocean!”

  Nancy quickly glanced to her left as she drove. The cliff on the side of the road fell away steeply to the rocks below, where the surf thundered in heaving white billows. “The view may be beautiful,” she said, “but this road certainly is dangerous.” She slowed down to let another driver pass her. “I wish people wouldn’t pass on these blind curves. You can’t see what’s coming.”

  “How far is it to the sheik’s?” George asked.

  “Another three or four miles,” Nancy replied. “So far Brent’s directions have been good.” Brent Kincaid had called that morning with the phone number and address, and the sheik was expecting them at eleven sharp. Nancy felt a little nervous. She’d certainly never interviewed a sheik in a Malibu mansion before!

  “Look at that view!” Bess marveled again.

  “I can’t look, Bess,” Nancy said testily. “If I do, we’ll all end up in the drink.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. A small blue sports car had been behind them for the last ten minutes. She’d slowed a couple of times, hoping it would pass, but the driver had hung behind, and Nancy had momentarily forgotten about it. Now, however, the car had caught up with them again. It was practically hugging their bumper. “I wish that driver would make up his mind to pass,” Nancy said.

  George turned to glance out the rear window. “Looks as if he heard you,” she said.

  The blue car was speeding up and swinging to the left. Nancy couldn’t tell whether the driver and the passenger were men or women. The car’s smoked-glass windows were so dark that all she could see was the outline of two people. She turned her attention back to her driving. They were coming into a particularly nasty hairpin curve, and she needed to focus all her concentration on the road ahead.

  But as the blue sports car pulled alongside them, Nancy glanced quickly to the side. Someone in a rubber Dracula mask was leaning out the window. He had a large cup in his hand, which he tossed at Nancy’s windshield. In an instant the glass was completely covered with a thick black liquid, like engine oil. Nancy couldn’t see a thing! The car began to lurch out of control.

  “Nancy!” George screamed. “Watch out! We’re going over the cliff!”

  Chapter

  Nine

  HANG ON, EVERYBODY!” Nancy yelled, gently pumping the brakes.

  The curve was littered with loose gravel. Nancy felt the car skidding and sliding sideways toward the edge of the cliff. She eased the steering wheel in the direction of the skid, trying not to panic—and hoping to regain control before they crashed through the low guard rail. Then, just as it seemed they were going to spin off the road and crash onto the rocks below, Nancy turned the wheel and the car responded. She swung it into a scenic overlook.

  George whistled. “That was close!”

  “What were they trying to do?” Bess demanded when she caught her breath. “Kill us?”

  Nancy fell back against the seat and stared at the windshield. “It sure seems like that’s what they were trying to do.”

  George opened the door and got out to look at the black oil on the windshield. “One thing’s for sure—this isn’t the kind of stuff you’d just happen to be carrying while you’re driving around. They were definitely trying to kill us!”

  Just after they cleaned the windshield and were climbing back in, the car phone rang. Nancy picked it up to
hear Mr. Talbot, his voice tense and strained.

  “Mrs. Malone, the clerk who checks the money into the vault, has just been taken to the police station for questioning,” he said. “Apparently the insurance company’s convinced that there’s been some kind of monkey business about last week’s cash receipts.” His voice broke. “I can’t believe she’s got anything to do with what’s happened. She’s one of my oldest and most trusted employees. And the D.A. has just told me that a grand jury may be convened. If that happens, Nancy—if this ugly business gets into the newspapers—I stand to lose everything!”

  “Don’t worry,” Nancy told him, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this soon.”

  “I hope so,” Mr. Talbot said. “It’s not just the reputation of the hotel any longer—it’s my whole future and the futures of all my employees that’re at stake!”

  • • •

  Sheik Hassan Karim Abdullah’s mansion was palatial and overlooked the ocean. The front courtyard, cooled by tall palms and filled with blooming flowers, had a waterfall that bubbled down over rocks into a pool. It looked like something out of a movie.

  “The set’s beautiful,” George whispered as the three girls followed the sheik’s male secretary through the courtyard. “But I can’t say much for the cast.” Two mustached and fierce-looking men had stopped them at the gate, and two others stood guard at the door to the house.

  The secretary overheard George and smiled at her. “Of course,” he said in a clipped British accent, “we must be very careful, for security. Sheik Abdullah has a priceless art collection.” He opened the door and ushered them in.

  Nancy swallowed. The hallway was like a museum, with huge oil paintings flanking both walls. Massive sculptures stood in each corner. A case at the middle of the hall held the most beautiful jewelry Nancy had ever seen. On the top shelf was a golden diadem studded with pearls and diamonds.