Carolyn Keene - This Side of Evil

“ ‘Dig up’ is right,” Ned said, pulling out a notebook. “It looks like there’s plenty of dirt in this case.” He tore out a couple of pages and handed them to Nancy. “Annette LeBeau, as you already know, is a prominent TV personality up here. Sort of a cross between a gossip columnist and an investigative reporter. She makes a lot of money finding out who’s up to something dirty and then tattling on them.”

George grinned. “Sounds to me like an ideal blackmail victim. Poetic justice, you might say.”

“What about Dutch Medina?” Nancy asked.

“The plot thickens. Medina, it turns out, is a big-time mobster, a real creep. The police have been after him for years, but he’s slick, and they’ve never been able to pin anything on him.”

“According to the blackmail note,” Nancy said thoughtfully, “Annette LeBeau kept Dutch Medina out of jail.”

“So,” Ned said, “things are getting a little more complicated. Looks like we’ve jumped from bargain-basement blackmail up to the real thing.” He took a bite of his broiled fish. “I wonder what Annette LeBeau is like.”

“Well, we’ll know tomorrow,” Nancy told them. “I’ve got an appointment with her at eleven—courtesy of our not-so-friendly client, Ashley Amberton.”

“Why ‘not-so-friendly’? What’s she like?” George asked eagerly.

“Brisk and businesslike,” Nancy replied. “If it weren’t for the flowers she took to Monique and the money she’s lent Jacques, I’d say she was as warm as an Arctic glacier. Now, who knows?” She grinned and pulled out the typewritten blackmail notes she had collected. “How about an assignment for the two of you?”

“Sure,” George agreed with a shrug. “It doesn’t look like I’m going to get to run in Olympic Stadium, anyway. The track’s there, but it turns out that it’s covered with Astroturf most of the time. They only uncover it for track meets. So, what do you have in mind, Nancy?”

“Typing detail,” Nancy said, spreading the notes on the table in front of them.

“Oh, I get it.” Ned picked up one of the notes and studied it. “You want us to check out the typewriters and letter-quality printers at Cherbourg Industries, to see if the blackmail notes were typed there.”

“You got it,” Nancy replied. “I’d say that these notes were all typed on a typewriter rather than done on a word processor. Anyway, it’s possible that the blackmailer is connected with Cherbourg since three of the victims are company employees. We need samples from all the machines in the building—and that’s going to take quite a while. You’d better polish up your typing skills.”

“ ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party,’ ” Ned murmured, flexing his fingers.

George gave Ned a disdainful glance and laughed. “Speaking of parties,” she said, leaning toward Nancy and Ned, “how about trying out that club down the street? Chez Soda, it’s called.”

“Sounds like a winner to me,” Ned said enthusiastically. He carefully refolded the notes and put them in his pocket. “Especially if there’s dancing,” he added. “Maybe I’ll even get to put my arms around my favorite girl for a while.” Ned flashed Nancy a grin.

“Sure,” she said a little absently. She was already preoccupied with thoughts of her interview with Annette LeBeau the next morning. How would Annette feel, being the target of somebody else’s questions for a change?

But after an hour at Chez Soda, Ned’s arms tight around her and his lips against her cheek, Nancy had nearly forgotten Annette—and the case, too. And George had discovered that she could get along fine in Montreal without speaking French.

“All I have to know how to say is oui ,” she said when she got back to the table after a slow dance with a cute French guy.

Nancy shook her head, laughing. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that saying oui too much could get you into trouble?”

George flushed. “Yes, Mom ,” she said teasingly.

Chuckling, Ned reached out to squeeze Nancy’s hand. “How about another dance?”

And Nancy was delighted to say, “ Oui .”

At the television studio the next day, Nancy met Annette LeBeau. The newswoman was in her dressing room, getting ready to film an interview with a suburban chief of police on the problem of crime in his area. She was just putting the final touches on her makeup.

“So, you’re Nancy Drew,” she said, turning away from the mirror to look at Nancy curiously. “I’ve heard about you. You’re supposed to be some sort of hotshot supersleuth, aren’t you?”

Nancy smiled. “I’ve had a few successes,” she said modestly.

Annette turned back to the mirror and began to brush on mascara with expert strokes. “So, what do you want with me?” she asked. “Ashley Amberton said it was urgent.”

“It is,” Nancy said. She sat down at the makeup table so she could see Annette’s face in the mirror. “It’s about blackmail.”

Annette’s hand jerked, and she smudged the black mascara on her cheek. But she recovered immediately. “Blackmail?” she asked in an innocent voice as she wiped away the smear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Nancy replied casually. “I’m talking about you and Dutch Medina.”

Annette swiveled her chair around, her eyes narrowed. “Listen,” she hissed, “if you think you can come in here and threaten me—”

“I’m not threatening you,” Nancy assured her. “I want to help, if I can.” She took out the letter Becky Evans had given her. “I think this was meant for you.”

Annette paled under her makeup as she read the letter. “How did you get this?”

“The blackmailer sent it to one of his other victims by mistake,” Nancy said. She leaned forward. “How did you help Dutch Medina?”

Annette’s face became a mask, with her mouth pressed into a tight line. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said in a hard voice.

Nancy stood up. “No,” she replied pleasantly. “You don’t have to say a word to me.” She picked up her blazer, which she had put on the back of her chair. “You can go on making blackmail payments until the money runs out. Or you can go to the police and tell them—”

“But I can’t,” Annette burst out. Her composure was beginning to unravel. “I can’t go to the police! If I did, everyone would find out that I was involved with Medina—that I faked his alibi!”

“So that’s what the blackmailer meant when he said that you kept Medina out of jail?”

The woman slumped in her chair. “It was a long time ago, more than ten years. The prosecutor couldn’t convict him because I swore that Dutch and I were together when a shooting occurred. I was such a fool! I was so sure he was innocent!”

“And now you can’t afford to have people know about this,” Nancy went on.

Annette bit her lip. “It would mean the end of my career.” She turned to Nancy, her eyes pleading. “Listen, Nancy Drew, you’ve got to catch this blackmailer. He’s making my life absolutely miserable—and not just my life, either!”

Nancy looked at her. “You know about other victims?” Of course! Annette had probably gotten Becky Evans’s blackmail letter.

But she hadn’t. Instead Annette explained, “Her name is Lake Sinclair. She was involved in a hit-and-run accident a year or so ago. She’s been paying the bills for the victim’s plastic surgery, not to mention whatever it cost to fix her own fancy yellow Mercedes. And now she’s paying a blackmailer, too.”

“How’d you find out about this?” Nancy asked.

“A few days ago Lake tried to sell me a piece of her family jewelry. I asked her what was going on, and she broke down and told me why she had to have the money.” Annette shivered nervously. “I assumed that we were dealing with the same blackmailer, but maybe we’re not. It could be someone else.”