Out of Bounds

by Carolyn Keene

  “Excuse me,” Nancy asked. “Is my brother still here? Rob? Rob Matthews?”

  The receptionist looked up and gave her a surprised look. “He just left,” she explained.

  “Oh, no,” Nancy lamented. “I was supposed to pick him up.”

  “Well, he didn’t say anything about being picked up. Are you sure?”

  “I thought I told him I’d get him,” Nancy answered, letting her shoulders drop. “I guess we’ve all been so worried about Rob. How did it go today, anyway?”

  The receptionist looked confused for a minute. “He wasn’t here for any treatment. He just picked up his test results.”

  “Yes, I know,” Nancy said, putting on a worried frown. “Were they okay?”

  “Sorry, we can’t give out test results, honey,” said the woman with an apologetic smile. She pointed to the sign on the wall. “Not even to the immediate family.”

  “It’s that bad, is it? Poor Rob—” Nancy made the most of her acting talents.

  “It’s tough,” clucked the receptionist. “Believe me, I know what you’re going through. I had a nephew once—a wrestler. No matter what we said, he just wouldn’t quit. Why do they want to do that to themselves? It’s a shame.”

  Nancy felt goosebumps rising on her arms. “I know what you mean,” she said, wishing she did.

  “Listen, you’re his sister,” said the woman, her eyes sympathetic. “Can’t you get him to cut it out? His liver can’t take it forever, you know. They never think it’ll happen to them, but it does. And liver damage can be permanent,” she added ominously.

  An elderly client stepped into the clinic just then and walked up to the desk. The receptionist turned to him and gave him a form to sign.

  “Well, thanks,” said Nancy, slowly retreating outside, and into her car.

  Liver damage? Nancy tried to figure every angle. As far as she knew, Rob didn’t drink. But the woman in the clinic had said, “Can’t you get him to cut it out?”

  Full of concern for Rob and his unknown problem, Nancy turned off Bedford Avenue and pulled into Touchdown’s parking lot. Through the front window, Nancy saw a red-faced Pete Shepard standing close to Edgar, whom Pete had backed up against the counter.

  Nancy rushed into the empty restaurant in time to hear Pete bellowing at Edgar.

  “You’d better have a good explanation for this!” the manager was shouting. “Do I have to fire every single employee in this place? How many times am I going to get ripped off, huh? I put you in charge of watching the registers, and what happens? The biggest chunk of change yet is missing, that’s what!”

  “But P-Pete,” Edgar stammered pathetically. “It wasn’t me!”

  Nancy approached the scene carefully, not wanting to incite Pete’s anger by asking any questions.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut the mustard, Chessman!” Pete screamed. “Stop protecting people. Just spit it out—who stole the money, huh?”

  “I—I don’t know, P-Pete,” Edgar hedged. “Honest, I don’t.”

  In his terror Edgar backed off to one side, knocking over a metal dispenser of straws. The straws scattered as if they were in a giant game of pickup sticks.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you idiot!” yelled Pete, bending over to scoop some of them up. Nancy got to her knees and started helping, and so did Edgar.

  “Sorry!” said Nancy as she accidentally bumped into Pete. She turned to look at him and caught sight of something bulky falling out of his pants pocket.

  The manager must have felt the package drop to the floor because he reached down in a flash to snatch at it.

  But Pete’s hand wasn’t as fast as Nancy’s eyes. Before he could stuff the package back in his pocket, Nancy spied a small, flat silver key at Pete’s foot. And clenched in the manager’s hand was a fat envelope—stuffed with cash!

  Chapter

  Ten

  NANCY COULDN’T HELP but stare at the envelope as Pete grabbed it off the ground and fumbled for the key. Pete glanced up at Nancy and knew she had seen the contents of the envelope. He shot her a poisonous look and stuffed the money in his jacket pocket. Clutching the key protectively with one hand, he used the other to point at Nancy.

  “Mind your own business, Edwards,” he snarled. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

  Pete backed out of the restaurant as the others stood in stunned amazement.

  “What was in that envelope anyway?” Edgar asked. “Explosives?”

  Nancy ran a hand through her silky hair and blew out a deep breath. “Beats me,” she said softly.

  “Are you okay?” Mark asked, putting a comforting hand on Nancy’s shoulder.

  Thinking quickly, Nancy called upon her acting talent. “Not really,” she murmured weakly. “I hate it when people yell at me. It really upsets me.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, hoping to squeeze a tear out of her eyes. “Why does Pete hate me like this?” she asked helplessly.

  From the corner of her eye, she spied Pete’s car screeching out onto Bedford Avenue, turning in the opposite direction from McCann’s Gym. Where was he going this time? She’d give anything to find out.

  “Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. He’s just got a lot on his mind these days,” Mark said reassuringly.

  She gulped hard and put her hand to her forehead. “Maybe I’m super sensitive today because of this headache. It’s killing me. I think I’m coming down with the flu or something,” she complained.

  “Well, if you’re not feeling well, you should take the rest of the day off,” Mark said quietly.

  Convincing Mark wasn’t very hard, Nancy thought. Her plan was working—if she hurried she would be able to follow Pete. “Won’t you be shorthanded?” she asked, doing her best to sound sincere.

  “It’s okay,” said Mark. “Pete shouldn’t go around upsetting the help, you know.”

  “Thanks, Mark,” said Nancy, brushing away a big crocodile tear.

  Nancy walked slowly out of the restaurant. As soon as the door closed behind her, however, she raced to her car.

  Traffic was heavy, and Nancy despaired of ever finding Pete’s white car. In a few blocks, though, she did catch sight of him, stuck trying to turn left in a line of cars at the intersection of Main and Bedford.

  Nancy finally caught up with Pete again when he pulled into the parking lot of the redbrick post office near the municipal building. Slowing down, Nancy watched as he got out of his car and trotted inside, his hand against the bulge in his pocket.

  “That must have been a post office box key he was holding,” Nancy murmured to herself as she steered into a space directly across the street from the entrance. Was Pete going to put the money in a box?

  When Pete came out, the bulge was gone from his pocket, and Nancy assumed she had the answer to her question. She slid down in her seat as he glanced around.

  Now Nancy faced a dilemma. She could wait to see if anyone she knew showed up possibly to claim the money, or she could follow Pete to see where he was going now. She had no idea which mailbox Pete might have used, so Nancy decided she had to follow Pete.

  She glanced at her watch before starting her car. It was twelve-thirty.

  “Stealing from your own restaurant?” Nancy whispered. “Is that where you got the money?”

  From a safe distance Nancy followed as Pete drove to a modest neighborhood on the west side of town. He pulled up in front of a small white house that needed a paint job. In front of the house was a mailbox with the name Shepard in large gold letters. Pete checked the mailbox and, finding it empty, went inside.

  Nancy was frustrated that all she’d found out was where Pete lived. Hardly big news.

  Glancing into her rearview mirror before pulling away from the curb, Nancy froze. A battered Chevy puttered down the street and parked several cars in front of her. Sliding down in the seat, Nancy peeked out as a tall, birdlike figure slid out of the car and strode up Pete’s front walk.

  Nancy squinted against the glare, then blinked to make sure
she was seeing correctly.

  Edgar Chessman!

  Opening Pete’s storm door, Edgar dropped an envelope between it and the main door, then loped back to his car and drove off. The whole sequence had taken maybe twenty seconds.

  Nancy knew she shouldn’t, but she walked briskly up the walk and slipped the envelope out from between the doors, praying that Pete wouldn’t catch her.

  The envelope was sealed shut and had no address or any other writing on it. Shoving the envelope into her jacket pocket, Nancy ran back to her car to head back to River Heights.

  At home she could steam the envelope open. That way if it needed to be sealed again, no one would be the wiser.

  • • •

  Nancy raced into the kitchen, where she filled the blue enamel kettle with water and turned the fire on under it. Then she went to the phone and dialed Bess’s number.

  “Bess?” she said when her friend picked up. “Can you and George come over right away?” she asked. “I think I may have found something that’s going to help us break this case.”

  “You’re kidding!” Bess said excitedly. “I’ll get George, and we’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The water was bubbling inside the kettle. Soon white steam was pouring out of the spout. With Hannah’s kitchen tongs, Nancy held the envelope over the stream of hot vapor until the glue came undone.

  Inside was a single sheet of plain white paper, folded once. The message on it was composed of glossy letters cut from magazine ads.

  “You’re still short five thousand,” the message said. “Have it at the post office by Friday noon, or kiss your dreams goodbye!”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  EDGAR CHESSMAN?” George said after Nancy filled her in on what had happened. “A blackmailer?”

  “I know. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? But I saw him.” With a shake of her head, Nancy laid the blackmail note down on the kitchen table.

  “ ‘Kiss your dreams goodbye,’ ” Bess read, focused on the letter still. “What dreams?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Nancy, sitting down at the table and leaning back in her chair.

  “What’s next, Nan?” asked George, pulling up a chair for herself and sitting down next to her friends. “Are you going to put this back in Pete’s doorway?”

  “Not right away,” Nancy answered, lightly fingering the letter. “I have a feeling I can learn more by not delivering it. I want to see what Edgar does when Pete doesn’t come up with the money.”

  “But wouldn’t it be the perfect trap to return the letter?” Bess urged. “You could call the police—”

  “And they could catch Pete in the act of handing over the money!” George finished for her cousin.

  “Not so fast, guys,” said Nancy, running a hand through her hair. “There’s nothing illegal about giving somebody money. Also, we don’t know why Pete’s being blackmailed, or what that guy Doc has to do with this whole thing. There’s a lot more we have to find out.”

  “You’re right,” murmured George, leaning on an elbow with her cheek on her palm. “This case is weird.”

  “Let’s concentrate on what we do know,” Nancy suggested. “Sometimes that helps.”

  “We know Edgar is blackmailing Pete,” Bess offered.

  “It sure seems like that’s the case,” said Nancy with a nod. “But, remember, Pete doesn’t necessarily know who his blackmailer is. This letter is anonymous.”

  “True,” George agreed.

  “I think it’s rotten of Pete to accuse Cynthia of stealing when he’s the one taking money from his own restaurant to pay a blackmailer!” Bess said in a sudden outburst.

  “Hold on, Bess,” Nancy replied reasonably. “We don’t have any proof that Pete is stealing from Touchdown, though it certainly does look that way.”

  “Are you going to tell Cynthia what’s going on?” George asked.

  “Maybe I’d better,” Nancy said thoughtfully. “She’s been so anxious.”

  “The news should help her enjoy the party more. I’m really excited about it—assuming Bedford beats Montvale tomorrow.”

  “Are you coming with us, or do you have to work, Nancy?” George asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss the game for anything,” Nancy said with a smile. “After all, Pete’s going to be there. And wherever Pete goes, I go.”

  • • •

  “It’s all so incredible,” said Cynthia, shaking her head in disbelief the next day before the opening kickoff. “I can’t believe Pete’s stealing the money from Touchdown.”

  The stadium was packed for the big game, and anticipation was running high. Nancy, Bess, and George had gotten front-row bleacher seats just behind the cheerleaders’ bench. Cynthia was looking up at them, her eyebrows drawn together and her mouth open slightly.

  “Well, I can’t say for sure yet,” Nancy went on. Looking down on the field, Nancy saw Rob practicing tosses. “Oh, and Cynthia,” she went on, “there’s something else—it’s about Rob—”

  The referee’s whistle blew, signaling the teams to enter. A roar went up from the excited crowd.

  “It can wait till later,” Nancy said. “You’d better start cheering. The team needs you.”

  “Right. See you later, Nancy. And thanks for all the good work.” Cynthia went off to join the other cheerleaders on the fifty-yard line as the players were introduced one by one. When Bill Ellman’s name was called, Nancy noticed a puffy white bandage around his finger. “Hey, Bess, what happened to Bill?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Bess said. “He broke his ring finger at practice yesterday.”

  “He broke a finger?” Nancy said, amazed.

  “Yeah, but he won’t let it stop him from playing,” Bess added.

  “That’s incredible,” Nancy murmured, wondering if her friend was finally starting to tire of going out with a guy so obsessed with football. “How can he play with a broken finger?”

  “Beats me,” Bess confessed. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder about Bill. He’s so completely wrapped up in himself and the team. All I did was ask him if his finger hurt, and he told me it was none of my business.”

  “Bess,” George said with a shake of her head, “maybe it’s time to dump this guy.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Bess mumbled.

  George and Nancy exchanged a knowing look over Bess’s head, but they didn’t say anything more about Bill.

  “Here comes the kickoff!” shouted Bess as the players lined up on the field.

  The whistle blew, and the Bedford kicker booted the ball downfield. The Montvale man caught it but was wiped out by Lonnie Price before he could run a yard.

  “Boy,” said George with a little whistle, “that was some hit.”

  The game got rougher. On the next play a Montvale player had to be helped off the field, limping badly. After that, Lonnie delivered a late hit to Montvale’s quarterback, sending him to the sidelines, too. By the end of the first quarter, the officials were blowing penalty whistles almost every other play. Even though five of the Montvale players had been sidelined, the team had scored two touchdowns because of all the calls against Bedford.

  Down at field level, near the team’s bench, Nancy spotted Pete, standing up and screaming, “Go get ’em!” Whenever a Bedford player came off the field, Pete would go over and pat him on the back. Bill and Lonnie gave him high fives, but most of the other Bedford Bears either ignored him or pushed him aside.

  “How can he enjoy this?” George wondered, observing Pete. “It’s just the kind of thing that gives contact sports a bad name.”

  “He’s that kind of guy,” Nancy said with a disgusted shrug.

  Down on the field a Montvale player took a shot in the head from Bill Ellman and ran off, clutching at his nose.

  “This is horrible!” Bess cried, turning away in shock. “Can’t the officials do something?”

  “They’re doing all they can, Bess,” George answered. “Bedford is rac
king up penalties like crazy. They just had a touchdown called back, remember?”

  In the end, though, Bedford came out on top. They’d defeated Montvale by a score of seventeen to ten. The jubilant team marched around the field, their faces ghostly from the unnatural glare of the stadium lights, with their coach on their shoulders. A core of their most ardent fans crushed in on them from all sides.

  Nancy turned to George and Bess. “Some game, huh?”

  Bess seemed a little stunned. “I guess that’s what they call ‘winning ugly,’ ” she said ruefully.

  “Check it out,” George said, pointing to the field, where a Montvale player tried to shake Lonnie Price’s hand, Lonnie gave him a shove instead. The rejected ballplayer shook his head in disbelief.

  “I wonder what the college scouts will think of that,” Nancy mused as the three girls walked down the two steps to field level. Cynthia was waiting for them, her eyes welling up with tears.

  “Oh, Nancy,” she said, her breath turning to puffs of white vapor in the cold November evening. “I’m so ashamed. They acted like brutes!”

  “Hey, cheer up, Cyn,” said one of the other cheerleaders, trotting by and giving Cynthia a pat on the back. “We’re one game away from being state champions! Watch out, Carlisle, here comes Bedford!” The happy cheerleader ran off to join the crowd circling the players.

  “Even Rob,” Cynthia moaned. “That wasn’t football, it was— I don’t know what it was.”

  “Cynthia,” said Nancy, putting an arm around her. “I need to talk to you privately.”

  George and Bess had to leave to get ready for the party, so they said goodbye. Nancy led Cynthia off a short distance to where they couldn’t be overheard. “Cynthia,” Nancy asked gently, “Rob doesn’t drink, does he?”

  “Rob?” Cynthia’s eyes grew huge. “No way. He’s too involved in training to mess up like that.”

  “Are you sure?” Nancy asked.

  “Positive!” was Cynthia’s reply. “What made you even think that?”

  Nancy hesitated and decided not to tell her what she’d learned at the clinic. The girl was upset enough already.