Hidden Meanings (12 page)

The third number had a Chicago area code. Probably Karabell's home, Nancy assumed as she dialed. Then a voice answered,
“Chicago Post,
newsroom. Paula Rackow speaking.”

Nancy cleared her throat. “Oh, hi, my name is Nancy Drew,” she said. “I was wondering if you know a Harold Karabell.”

“Harold? Sure,” the journalist answered. “He and I worked together for a newswire service in Israel, four years ago. Why do you ask?”

“Have you heard from him lately?” Nancy asked.

“Who are you?” the reporter countered.

“I'm a private detective,” Nancy said, “and someone has been harassing a client of mine. Mr. Karabell was seen near the scene of several incidents, so I'm checking him out.”

The reporter laughed. “He's probably just snooping around for a story,” she said. “Though I thought Harold's specialty was politics. Is your client a sleazy politician, by any chance? That would attract Harold's nose for news.”

“Politics might be involved,” Nancy said cautiously. “Do you know where he is?”

“He called me yesterday from River Heights,” Ms. Rackow said. “But he just called to apologize for missing my housewarming party. He said he'd been called away unexpectedly. I thought he might be on a story, but he said he wasn't.” She sounded concerned. “He hasn't worked much, you know, since he lost his job on the wire service. The last story of his I remember seeing was two years ago—something about a political assassination in Rome.”

Rome! Nancy's heartbeat quickened. “Why did he lose his job on the wire service?” she asked.

Ms. Rackow sighed. “Who knows?” she said. “He's bright, witty, resourceful. He could always dig up hot leads. Sometimes he relied too much on informers, though. You know, shady anonymous sources. Harold liked the clandestine part of reporting. I used to kid him that he should have been a spy instead.”

The reporter drew a breath and went on. “To tell the truth, he's not a very good writer,” she said. “And he was never careful about verifying information. He wrote a couple of stories that were more hearsay than fact. It wasn't a very responsible thing to do.”

“But you don't think he's the kind of guy who might harass someone?” Nancy asked.

“Not really,” Ms. Rackow said. “He's too idealistic to stoop that low.”

Thanking her, Nancy hung up. She sat on her bed, digesting the information. Karabell was a reporter—that would explain the Evan Sharpless connection. Was he following Gina as part of a story? Or were his contacts from Rome using him to go after Gina?

• • •

Over dinner in the employee cafeteria, George told Nancy and Bess what she had heard from Paul. “He has a pretty solid alibi,” she said. “He was at the college, in the dining hall, working at his second job as a dish washer. I called the dining commons manager, and she vouched for him.”

Nancy appreciated how careful George had been not to take Paul's word at face value. “I'm glad he checks out,” she said. She speared a tomato from her salad. “And by the way, Jane Sellery's off the hook. It turns out Gina framed her for the break-in.”

“Ooh, that little witch!” Bess exclaimed.

“I've got lots more on Mr. Baggy Pants,” Nancy said, and she filled them in. “I guess he's our top suspect now.”

“Gary Ruxton said he'd never heard of Karabell,” Bess reported, buttering a baked potato.

“But Nick Kessler is still hanging around the hotel,” George put in. “You know that picture window across from the pool, where you can see everyone on the weight machines in the health club? I looked in and saw Nick Kessler working out. So I went in and asked him why he's still here.”

“George, you blew your cover!” exclaimed Nancy.

“He never saw me lifeguarding,” George argued. “Besides, he's too dumb to figure it out. Anyway, he told me he's still here because he wants to keep an eye on Gina. He seemed genuinely concerned about her safety. I almost felt sorry for him—he did lose his job, after all. But he isn't mad at Gina, only at Ned.”

“Where was he around noon today?” Nancy asked.

“He said he was out running. I guess there's no way to check that,” George said. “But I asked him if he'd ever been to Ben's Back Room in Washington. He looked offended and said he never goes to bars. He doesn't ever drink, because his body is a temple.” George raised her eyebrows. “Direct quote.”

The girls cleared away their dinner trays, and George and Bess headed for the banquet room. Nancy went upstairs to check in with Gina, as promised.

As Nancy turned into the corridor on the seventh floor, she saw Gina and Sally ahead, waiting by their room door. Ned was just slipping the keycard into the door slot. Nancy jogged down the hall to join them.

As she drew closer, Nancy saw that Ned had stopped just inside the door. Bending down, he picked up an envelope that must have been slipped under the door. “You want to see what it is?” he asked Gina uncertainly.

Gina took the envelope from him and briskly broke it open. Nancy watched as Gina removed a sheet of hotel stationery, with a typewritten message.

From her position, Nancy observed that the note had the same typeface as the note sent to the chef with the shish kebab skewers. She glanced up to ask Gina if she could take this note to compare them.

But before she could speak, Nancy took in Gina's wide-eyed, trembling look. Gina was staring straight at Sally, her hands shaking.

Taking the note, Nancy read it quickly:

Don't take any more photos. Next time, you may be the one to be set on fire.

Nancy knew what Gina must be thinking. The threat wasn't meant for Gina at all.

It was meant for Sally!

L
ET'S GO INSIDE THE
room,” Nancy said to the girls quietly. As they all stepped inside, she firmly shut the door behind them.

Gina and Sally sat down meekly on their beds. Ned perched on the edge of a nearby desk. “Sally,” Nancy said in an even voice, trying not to alarm her. “We've all been assuming that Gina is the target of these incidents. But could someone possibly be trying to harass
you?”

Sally, looking shocked, began to twirl her hair nervously around a finger. “Me?” she said. “Why would anyone harass me? I'm just an ordinary high school kid.”

“The note specifically calls attention to the photos in the display,
your
photos,” Nancy pointed out. “Let's consider the other incidents. The first break-in, we know, was a hoax. But what about the second one? Nothing was taken. The room wasn't even messed up. What could the thief have wanted?”

Sally squirmed. “Gina's jewelry wasn't touched,” she said. “My only valuable was my camera, but I had it with me that morning. It wasn't in the room.”

Nancy nodded, her mind racing. “Suppose the intruder wanted your camera,” she said, talking out the case. “He would've realized then that you always have it with you. It's possible, then, that the dead rat in the pasta was a way to scare you out of your room.”

“After the rat appeared, we went to the café,” Ned recalled. “But you took your camera, Sally.”

“Ralph, the bellman who was guarding your room then, did tell me that a man dressed as a maintenance worker tried to get in your room then,” Nancy said. “Maybe he was looking for your camera. Luckily, Ralph wouldn't let him in.”

“I did leave my camera in the room when the fire alarm went off,” Sally said. “When I came back, it was gone. But Gina's clothes were ruined, too.”

“I'll bet our culprit burned Gina's clothes as a diversion, so we'd still think she was the target,” Nancy said.

Gina shivered. “We mounted the prints of Sally's photos on the display,” she said. “Next thing we knew, it went up in flames.” She frowned. “But what about the poisonous shish kebabs?”

“I haven't figured out that part yet,” Nancy admitted. “It's hard to imagine that anyone would go to all that trouble for the slight chance that Sally would choose a shish kebab out of that big buffet.”

“Except that I love shish kebabs,” Sally said quietly. “And I had said so at lunch that day. We were sitting around talking about Middle Eastern food.”

“Who was there when you said that?” Nancy asked.

Sally thought for a moment. “Mr. Ruxton and Mr. Sharpless were there—and Jane Sellery and her roommate, Karen. The boy who got sick that night was there, too. I forget his name, but Jane knows him.”

“What about the very first day of the conference, when Gina was knocked into the water?” Ned asked.

“I had just been taking a picture of Sally,” Gina said. “The camera was in my hand. It was knocked into the water with me.”

“And I had been taking pictures with it a few minutes earlier,” Sally added. “I was finishing off the roll of film I'd started in Florida.”

An image popped into Nancy's mind, and she snapped her fingers. Of course—the photos of Harold Karabell with Evan Sharpless!

“I think I know who may be behind all this,” she said tersely. “A journalist named Harold Karabell. Remember the bearded guy in the picture with Mr. Sharpless? That's him.”

“Karabell?” Gina asked. She turned to Ned. “You just asked me if I knew him.”

Ned nodded. “Nancy told me he was one of her suspects,” he explained. “You didn't recognize the name, but that doesn't matter now. What matters is why he wanted the pictures Sally took of him destroyed.”

Sally winced. “Whatever his reason, he's gotten his way,” she said. “He stole the negatives and he burned up all my prints. The pictures are gone for good. If we can't look at them, we'll never know what it was he wanted to hide.”

“Well, if they're gone for good, maybe all this trouble will stop,” Ned said. “Let's hope so.”

But Gina's eyes flashed. “How dare he go after my friend?” she declared. “He must be punished. Two fires, the shish kebabs—someone could have been badly hurt. Nancy, we need you now more than ever. You must catch this Harold Karabell!”

“I'll do my best,” Nancy said gravely.

• • •

After a sleepless night, Nancy had a hard time getting up the next morning. Bess, scheduled for the breakfast shift in the banquet room, was long gone when Nancy finally sat up groggily. George was just putting on her lifeguard suit. “Call room service and order some breakfast,” she advised Nancy.

“No, thanks,” Nancy said, yawning. “Seeing that dead rat the other night really put me off room service.”

George laughed. “Well, you've missed the breakfast downstairs,” she said. “Make sure you stop by the snack table. What's on your agenda for today?” The night before, Nancy had told George and Bess about the startling new twist in the case. They had agreed that their top priority now should be finding as much proof as possible to link Harold Karabell to the crimes.

Nancy stretched her limbs. “I guess I'll go try to grill Harold Karabell,” she said. “If we can learn what he's trying to cover up, maybe he'll confess to destroying Sally's pictures. He usually runs when he sees me coming, but it's worth a try.”

“Did you talk to Ms. Peabody about getting Paul his job back?” George asked.

“No,” Nancy said. “I'm sorry, George, but Ms. Peabody wasn't in yesterday when I went to her office, and then it slipped my mind. I promise I'll do it today.”

But after George left, Nancy drifted back to sleep. She was awakened by the ringing of the phone. She answered it sleepily.

“Sally wants you to meet her in the workshop darkroom right away,” Ned's voice said excitedly. “She's just found something that she thinks might give us the break we need.”

Nancy was already out of bed. “Give me five minutes,” she said eagerly. “Thanks, Ned. 'Bye!” She bounded over to the closet and pulled a navy-and-white-checked T-shirt dress off a hanger. Dressing in record time, she was out the door in minutes.

Nancy made her way to the Muskoka Lobby. Grabbing a muffin from the snack table, she ran into the meeting room where the photography classes were being held. The door of the darkroom was ajar. “Sally?” she called, peeking in.

“Nancy?” Sally's voice rose. “Come on in.”

Inside the darkroom, Sally triumphantly held up a sheet of photographic paper. Nancy saw what looked like dozens of miniature photographs.

“My contact sheet!” Sally announced. “This morning I remembered I'd left it here. It's a quick one-sheet print of all the pictures on one roll of film. A photographer looks at a contact sheet to decide which individual shots to print. That way, you print only the pictures you really want.”

“Does it have the pictures of Karabell on it?” Nancy asked breathlessly.

“Every last one of them!” Sally declared.