Stacy slapped the magazine back and forth between her hands as she walked. "I'm going to find out how People magazine scooped me on a blockbusting story I've been investigating for weeks!"
"What are you going to do?"
Stacy sighed. "I could hang around the Time-Life Building, I suppose, and search their trash for clues. But that might take weeks. Anyway, they probably shred their evidence. I think this particular problem calls for a direct, aggressive approach." She groaned. "I hate the direct, aggressive approach. You don't get to wear a disguise or anything. But at least I can use one of my fake voices."
"How?" They were approaching Stacy's apartment building. "How are you going to use a fake voice?" Caroline asked, hurrying to catch up with Stacy at the front door.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Santos," said Stacy, tossing her hair back and speaking in a cool, poised voice to the doorman. "Isn't this spring weather lovely?"
In the elevator, she turned to Caroline and asked, "What did you think of my voice to Mr. Santos?"
Caroline shrugged. "It was okay, I guess. But you sounded about forty years old."
"Right. Good. That's the effect I want. I'm going to use that voice when I call People magazine and inquire about their investigative methods."
Caroline sprawled on one of the beds in Stacy's room and looked around. Sometimes she really wished her family were rich. Stacy had her own TV. She had her own typewriter, which sat on a polished desk with a matching chair. Everything in the room matched. The wallpaper, pale yellow with pink and green flowers, matched the dust ruffles on the two beds, which matched the draperies and even the lampshades. The only jarring notes were Stacy's backpack, which she had dropped on the floor in the middle of the green carpeting, and her sweater, which she had draped over a lamp.
Even her telephone, on the table between the two beds, was pale yellow. Stacy was sitting cross-legged on her own bed, writing down the number she had found in the telephone directory. Finally she looked up, took a few deep breaths, and dialed.
"Good afternoon," she said in her fake mature voice. "This is Ms. Baurichter. I'm with Bentley, Baurichter, and Bernstein, Attorneys? I would like to inquire as to whom—ah, what I mean is, I want to know who wrote the article about Harrison Ledyard in this week's issue."
She pressed her hand over the receiver and whispered to Caroline, "They're checking."
"Thank you so much," she said, returning to the telephone. "Is he in, by any chance?"
"They're transferring my call," she whispered. "Michael Small. That's his name. What an ordinary name. Boy, when I'm doing investigative reporting for a national magazine, I'm going to change my—Hello? Mr. Small?
"Mr. Small, I'm calling you to inquire about your methods for obtaining the material for an article such as the one on Harrison Ledyard. It's a brilliant piece of reporting, by the way."
She covered the receiver and grinned at Caroline. "Flattery is a very effective way of getting information," she whispered.
Caroline could hear a man's voice on the telephone. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but Stacy was listening intently.
"Yes," said Stacy. "Oh, I see. Yes. Of course. Mr. Small, didn't you have to do any undercover-type work? I mean, you didn't consider looking through his trash cans or anything?"
Caroline could hear the man laugh. He went on talking.
"Oh," said Stacy, when he had finished. "I would certainly like to congratulate you on a fine job, Mr. Small."
"What?" Caroline could hear that the man was asking a question. "Mr. Small," said Stacy angrily, in her own voice, forgetting to use the fake one, "I wasn't rude enough to ask you how old you are. It's none of your business how old I am."
She listened as the man said something else. "Well," she said finally, "thank you for your interest. And for the information. Goodbye."
She hung up. She sat there glumly for a minute as Caroline watched; then she threw the telephone book across the room. It landed on the floor next to her backpack.
"Shoot," she said.
"What's the matter?" asked Caroline. "What did he say?"
"He said," said Stacy in an irritated voice, "that I should work on my school newspaper; that it's a good way to start to get experience in journalism. How did he know I was still in school? Didn't I sound mature?"
"I thought you did," acknowledged Caroline. "What else did he say? About Harrison Ledyard?"
Stacy groaned and flopped back on her pillow with her hands behind her head.
"He simply called up Harrison Ledyard and arranged an interview. Of all the dumb ways to go about investigative reporting. He went there for a day. He even took a photographer with him. What if the man had been a crazed murderer?" She sat back up and looked at Caroline. "What was his name—Michael Small? What a dope. He could have found himself, unarmed, right in the apartment of a brutal killer. Now if he had gone about it the way he should have, sifting through trash, doing surveillance work—"
"Stacy," suggested Caroline tentatively, "I think you're mixing up detective work and magazine work. I mean, maybe you are."
"Well," sighed Stacy. "The heck with Harrison Ledyard. Let him stay up there and vacuum with his hometown sweetheart. At least we have another case to work on. At least we know that other guy's a crazed killer. What was his name?"
"Frederick Fiske."
"And now at least we have some new ideas for methods, from Michael Small. We might consider calling for an interview and taking a photographer."
Caroline shuddered. "I don't think so, Stace. This guy isn't just a killer. He's a child killer. And you and me, Stacy, after all, we're—"
"Oh, Caroline," groaned Stacy. "I know. We're children. Don't remind me, please. Michael Small already brought it to my attention in a very tactless way."
There was a knock on the bedroom door. Caroline and Stacy both jumped. "Stand over there, Caroline," hissed Stacy under her breath, "by the closet door. I'll be here behind this chair. If they have weapons—"
The door opened. "Girls," said Mrs. Baurichter, looking in, "dinner's almost ready."
7
Caroline loved having dinner at the Baurichters'. She had eaten there before, and it was always wonderful—not just the food, although the food was always wonderful, but the whole atmosphere. The huge dining room, with deep gray walls and draperies; the crystal chandelier sparkling above the table; the tablecloth—tonight it was pale blue—and the silver candlesticks, with blue candles glowing and dripping wax slowly down their slender sides. At the ends of the table, at Stacy's parents' places, white wine stood in half-filled stemmed glasses. Once Caroline had asked Stacy why the wine glasses were always only half full, and Stacy had explained that that was the correct way to serve wine. Caroline planned to remember that the entire rest of her life so that she would never do it wrong.
At her own place, as well as Stacy's, across the table, there was a tall glass of ice-cold milk.
It was so different, Caroline thought, from her own house, where they ate dinner at the kitchen table because they had no dining room. J.P. always bolted his food with disgusting manners, because he was always in a hurry to get back to some project in his room. And Joanna Tate, Caroline's mother, was always tired and apologetic. Tired from work. Apologetic for the food.
"What's this?" Caroline had asked one night, poking suspiciously at a casserole.