“We’ve got to get Oliver cleaned up quickly,” Bess said as they dragged the sheepdog over to the duck pond. “The most important part of the show will be starting soon.”
Nancy shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t know, Bess,” she said, watching George douse the dog with handfuls of water. “Oliver may have to bow out gracefully.” The once-fluffy sheepdog was now a scrawny mess.
“Wow,” Bess said. “I had no idea sheepdogs were so skinny underneath all that fur.”
Suddenly the dog started to shake, spraying water everywhere. “Hey, watch out!” George warned, darting out of the way.
Bess jumped back and let go of the lead. “Oliver,” she cried, “you’re ruining my dress!”
As soon as the dog was free, he started running across the lawn. The three girls chased after him, but there was no hope of catching the dog before he dashed into the arena. There, in the middle of all the other dogs, he shook himself vigorously, spraying water in every direction.
People sitting in the first few rows scrambled out of Oliver’s path. Dogs barked, and the judge called for everyone to calm down. Then Brutus, one of Professor Herbert’s fierce German shepherds, nipped a French poodle in the back leg, and all havoc broke out.
Half an hour later the girls headed back to Nancy’s car. “What a way to end a dog show,” George said with a groan.
“Mrs. Grimes was really upset,” Bess said somberly.
“Not as upset as Hillary Lane,” George added.
“I’ll say,” Nancy remarked, but her mind was still on Nelson Stone. She was disappointed that she hadn’t had a chance to talk to the curator alone.
“Well,” George said, “Hillary did say she wanted the show to be memorable.”
“It sure was,” Nancy said, and they all laughed.
Just then the girls saw Hillary walking toward them from the parking area. Even from a few yards away, they could tell she was in a huff.
“I really should apologize again,” Bess whispered to Nancy. But when the heiress spotted them, she turned off in another direction.
“She sure looks angry. Maybe I’ll just write her a note,” Bess said as they neared the blue Mustang.
Nancy frowned. Something about her car looked odd. “Oh, no!” she cried. “Someone’s smashed the window!”
Pulling the front door open, Nancy couldn’t believe her eyes. On the driver’s seat a note was pinned down with a long, sharp filleting knife. In bold letters, handprinted in red felt pen, the note read: Mind your own business, Nancy Drew!
10
Useful Evidence
“Who could have done such an awful thing?” Bess cried, looking over Nancy’s shoulder.
Nancy took a piece of cardboard from the glove compartment and swept the glass off the front seat. Then she lifted the knife with a tissue and studied the sharp gash in the seat. “I don’t know,” she said, frowning.
“I’ll bet it was Hillary Lane,” George said. “We just saw her coming from the parking area, right?”
Nancy wrapped the knife in a scarf that had been lying on the back seat of the car. “Maybe the fingerprints on this knife will tell us something. I’ll ask the police lab in River Heights to dust it.”
“This whole business gives me the creeps,” Bess said, shuddering. She climbed into the backseat, watching for bits of glass.
Nancy stood for a moment, looking at the sun set behind the trees. Obviously, she had made someone nervous enough to try and scare her off the case. But the question was, who?
After driving her friends home, Nancy dropped the knife off at the River Heights police station lab. The officer at the desk told her that they were extremely busy, but that someone would contact Nancy soon with the results. There was nothing to do but wait.
That night Nancy couldn’t sleep. Gazing out her bedroom window, she watched the moon rise in a starlit sky. An eerie feeling came over her as she considered who might have had an opportunity to leave the threatening note. She recalled Hillary Lane scowling as she left the parking area. Would the heiress have done such a nasty thing? Or maybe Margaret Parker had done it on her way out of the parking lot.
• • •
The next morning Nancy woke up determined to talk with Nelson Stone. It was time to get some straight answers.
The curator was in his office, talking on the phone, when Nancy arrived. He motioned her to come in. Covering the mouthpiece, he said, “Please have a seat. I’ll be right off.”
Nancy sat down in a leather chair. A few minutes later Stone put down the phone and turned to her. “Any breakthroughs yet?” he asked from behind his large mahogany desk. He picked up a letter opener and ran his index finger along the edge.
“Mr. Stone,” Nancy began, her hands clasped calmly in her lap, “there are a few issues I need to clear up before I can continue with the case.”
Stone arched a thick, dark eyebrow and touched his hawkish nose. “Oh, really?”
“Something has been troubling me,” Nancy went on evenly. “Where were you last Thursday evening?”
Nelson Stone frowned. “I told you,” he said. “I was watching ‘Wheel of Chance’ on TV.”
“I don’t think so,” Nancy said, shaking her head. “Last Thursday ‘Wheel of Chance’ was canceled for the tennis tournament.”
“Look, young lady,” the curator said, rising angrily from his chair. “I don’t need you to give me the TV listings.” His dark, beady eyes took on a new boldness. “In fact, I don’t need your detective services at all anymore.”
“Oh?” Nancy said. “So you know now who sent you the threatening letter?”
Stone leaned forward, placing his palms squarely on the desk. “Everything’s under control, thank you very much,” he said.
