Hidden Meanings by Carolyn Keene

against the wall outside the banquet room door, looked up as Mr. Sharpless helped the sick boy to a sofa in a nearby lounge area.
    Soon the doctor arrived, out of breath from having hurried to the scene. He frowned as he felt the boy’s pulse.
    â€œMost likely a case of oleander poisoning,” Mr. Sharpless told him. “Apparently, it’s like digitalis poisoning.”
    The doctor nodded. Reaching into his medical case, he pulled out a vial of medicine and started to fill a hypodermic needle. “His heart’s beating a mile a minute,” he said. “Quinidine should help.”
    A few moments later, a crew of paramedics arrived, in response to Bess’s call. Nancy stepped away to let them through.
    Nancy decided the situation was under control and made her way back to the banquet room. Passing Ned again, Nancy paused and filled him in on what had happened to the boy. Ned asked when Nancy had finished, “Gina’s okay?”
    Nancy fought down a jealous reflex. “Of course—why wouldn’t she be?” she snapped.
    Ned looked surprised. “Well, I just assumed that whoever did this was trying to get at her. After all the other stuff—”
    â€œThat is possible,” Nancy admitted. “But I don’t want to leap to conclusions. I’ll let you know what I find out.” And she hurried back into the banquet room.
    The room was still buzzing with excited conversation. Gary Ruxton, hovering anxiously near the door, stopped her. “How is he?” he asked.
    â€œHe looks better,” Nancy said guardedly.
    â€œWhat an awful accident,” Mr. Ruxton moaned.
    â€œOr—maybe it wasn’t an accident,” Nancy said. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening, she leaned toward Mr. Ruxton. “The chef told me you ordered those shish kebabs.”
    Ruxton looked disturbed. “I did call the banquet director, and I asked to add some Middle Eastern food for tonight,” he admitted. “At lunch Evan Sharpless was telling some students about covering the Middle East. On the spur of the moment, he offered to speak about the Middle East to the whole workshop tonight—at no charge. His speaking fees are enormous, so it seemed like a real treat.”
    â€œHe seems very involved with the students,” Nancy noted. “I’m impressed that he’s so interested.”
    â€œHe’s a great guy,” the teacher agreed. “Anyway, he suggested that the dinner food could tie in to the speech. I don’t recall anyone mentioning shish kebabs. There were lots of people around, though.”
    â€œIncluding Jane Sellery?” Nancy asked.
    Mr. Ruxton, looking surprised, nodded. “How do you know Jane Sellery?” he asked.
    â€œI talked to her last night. She and Gina Fiorella know each other,” Nancy said, trying to sound concommittal. “But if no one mentioned shish kebabs, why did you send the oleander skewers to the chef?”
    Mr. Ruxton’s face was blank. “I didn’t,” he said.
    Nancy straightened up. “The chef said she got a note from you, with the skewers,” she said.
    â€œWhy would I do that?” he asked, puzzled.
    Nancy’s mind raced. “I’d better go check out a few details,” she said. “I’ll report back later.” She turned and walked swiftly back to the service elevator, which took her down to the kitchen again.
    Questioning the chef, Nancy got the whole story. The bundle of skewers had simply appeared on the counter, the woman said, with a note attached. The chef showed it to Nancy. Typed on hotel stationery, it had Gary Ruxton’s name typed at the bottom, but no handwritten signature.
    Keeping the note for evidence, Nancy went next to the swimming pool level. Whoever put those skewers in the kitchen didn’t have to go far for them, she reasoned. Any hotel guest could have found them—right by the pool. She