Ann and Bess finished their pizza and began digging for their money.
“We’ve got to get back to the Record,” Ann explained. “The computer guys are waiting for us. Where are you going now, Nancy?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe back to my dad’s office.”
“Don’t give up,” Bess said, slipping into her jacket. “We’re close to an answer. I’m sure of it.”
“I wish I could be as sure,” Nancy said, after Ann and Bess had left. “Something’s bugging me, something I’ve overlooked, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Finish your pizza,” Ned suggested. “And stop thinking about it. It’ll come. In the meantime, I’ll order another slice. I’m still hungry.”
“Take mine.” Nancy slid hers over to him. Her appetite had vanished.
They sat and talked for quite a while after Ned had finished. Having lunch together was an occasion that happened so rarely that they wanted to draw it out.
Finally Ned collected the money from the table and went to pay the cashier. While he was gone, Nancy took one last look at the notes she had made, trying to pinpoint the reason for her uneasiness. At last she saw it!
She left the booth and met Ned just as he was pocketing his receipt. “What do you think of this? Ann said that someone had left a tip for her to see a woman out at Crimson Oaks. Then she got the court order and never followed up on it.”
“So?”
“One of the public service awards Gold Star received was from the Crimson Oaks Village Association. I know it isn’t much, but shouldn’t I check it out?”
“Let’s make that ‘we.’ You call Ann and get the woman’s name while I go get George’s car. I’ll meet you out front.”
The name was Vera Harvey, and she lived in building four of Crimson Oaks’ five highrises. And as Ned and Nancy approached the building, they saw a Gold Star cab pulling away with a passenger in the back. Nancy wasn’t, sure whether it was an omen or not.
The building’s doorman looked them over with friendly curiosity. “Mrs. Harvey? I don’t think she’s in.”
The lobby was very comfortable, filled with easy chairs and palms. Several elderly residents sat there, chatting and reading. The doorman called to one of them. “Have you seen Mrs. Harvey come back yet?”
One woman shook her head. “It’s too early. Her physical therapy lasts until four.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot.” The doorman thanked her and turned back to them. “It might be better if you came back tomorrow. She usually doesn’t feel too good until the day after her therapy.”
“Has she been sick?” Nancy asked.
“She’s had a time of it. Got hurt in an accident last year. Her own fault—too proud to ask someone for a ride. Insisted on taking a cab instead. She knew it wasn’t safe.”
“Taking a cab?” Ned asked.
“Taking a Gold Star cab sure isn’t. That phone on my desk is a direct line to the place, but nobody uses it unless they’re desperate.”
“Just a minute,” Nancy spoke calmly, hiding her excitement. “Mrs. Harvey was hurt in a Gold Star cab last year?”
“Hurt isn’t the word. We almost lost her. Only good thing about that cab company is that they took good care of her.”
“You mean their insurance company?” Nancy asked, wanting to be certain she understood clearly.
“Not the way we hear it. You should talk to Tom Tyler, but I saw him drive past awhile ago. Gold Star’s owners hired a fancy ambulance to move her from County General up to Pinebrook.”
Ned’s brows shot up. “The private hospital an hour away from here?”
“That’s the one. The place where rich folks go when they’re sick. Gold Star paid all the bills—and, mind you, she was there two months. They’re even footing the bill for the physical therapy.”
“That was very generous of them,” Nancy said.
“Smart is what it was. It was their fault. The cab’s brakes failed. If she’d made a stink, somebody would have gone to jail over the condition of that cab.”
“Poor?” Ned asked.
“Rattletraps, pure and simple. Falling apart. Three other people in this building have been in one when it’s had an accident. They weren’t hurt, just shaken up. But, as I said, we don’t ride with Gold Star unless we’re desperate.”