Lights! Camera! Explosion! 1 страница
“Bess?” Nancy said, reaching across the table in the darkness for her frightened friend. But her hand grabbed air. Bess was gone!
Nancy stood up quickly. “Bess,” she said louder.
“Nancy?” It was George’s voice but it sounded distant and behind her.
Nancy took a step and bumped hard into something. “Sorry,” she apologized but it turned out to be a chair. “Bess! George!”
Other voices were calling in the blacked-out restaurant. Chairs were falling, plates crashed onto the floor. Everyone seemed to be trying to find a way to the door.
It was too dark to see clearly, so Nancy inched toward where she thought the exit was.
But the confusion led everyone in circles. People were shouting, “Ouch—get off my foot!” or “Ooof—get out of my way.”
Bodies bounced on all sides of her like bumper cars at an amusement park. Suddenly Nancy sensed someone was standing very close to her.
“Bess? George?”
Suddenly, two rough, callused hands wrapped themselves around her throat. Immediately, Nancy grabbed at the hands and pried them away from her neck. Then someone next to her screamed.
“Hahahahaha,” laughed a deep voice.
“Mark Donaldson, get your hands off my throat! That’s not funny!” a young woman yelled. Nancy recognized the voice as Sherrie Crocker, an acquaintance from high school. Mark, well-known at school as the class clown, kept laughing and, from the screams that followed, Nancy could tell that he was continuing to “strangle” people in the dark.
“Ouch!” cried a familiar voice behind her.
Nancy whirled around in the other direction. “Bess?”
“Nancy,” Bess said, holding on to her friend. “I can’t find George.”
“We’ll find her outside,” Nancy said. “Let’s get out of here.”
George was waiting outside in the warm, moonlit evening. She had already gotten the story from a police officer on his beat. Most of River Heights had been blacked out.
“Hank Steinberg strikes again,” George said. “All their movie lights overloaded the power lines. But the police think the electricity will be back on in about an hour.”
All the street lights were out too, but the police had turned on the headlights of their cars to help the crowds in the street see.
So for the next hour, diners ate by candlelight in The Schoolyard.
“The food tastes better when you don’t have to look at it,” George said.
Bess didn’t laugh.
“After dinner I’m going back to the McCauley house,” George said.
Bess choked on her dessert when she heard that.
“Hey, unlike some people around here, I work all day over hot steam trays,” George said. “I’ve got to do my movie-star gazing at night.”
“Count me out,” Bess said. “I’m never going near Highland Avenue again.”
“Are you really going to pass up fame and fortune, Bess?” asked George.
“You spend an hour standing in the deathly shadows of Fenley Place”—Bess wasn’t faking her theatrical voice now—“and then tell me there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of Fenley Place.” George shrugged. “And, anyway, I’ll be across the street watching Hank Steinberg film an incredible special effects scene tonight. He’s going to blow out all the windows of the McCauley house. Anyone coming with me?”
“I am,” Nancy said. “I want to see that. And maybe the Teppingtons will be home. I want to ask them about the red smoke coming out of their chimney.”
“I’ll be somewhere else,” Bess answered once and for all.
Nancy and George hung around until Bess spotted a group of friends who were walking home together in the pitch dark. Bess joined them, and then Nancy and George drove to the McCauley House. By the time they reached Highland Avenue, the electricity had come back on. Nancy and George could see lights shining inside houses on the avenue.
Fenley Place was still dark and unoccupied, so Nancy and George crept up as close as they could to the McCauley house to see what was going on.
But they couldn’t get too close because more barricades had been added, to keep the spectators farther away. In fact, there were two lines of barricades stretching all the way across Highland Avenue, from the McCauley property to the beginning of Fenley Place, sealing off access to both houses. And tonight, the security people were really enforcing the rules.
Why the area was suddenly so off limits wasn’t clear until Nancy overheard some guys talking about the exploding windows scene they were shooting. Even though the special effects crew had installed fake glass, Hank Steinberg wanted to make triply sure no one got hurt in the explosion.
Crewmen were in and out of the house like a parade of ants, setting small explosive charges to the insides of every window frame in the McCauley House. Then they attached miniature radio receivers to each charge. Now, with just one push of a button on a radio transmitter, all of the windows in the house could be blown out at the same time by remote control.
“The crew was grumbling at dinner,” George told Nancy. “They usually shoot a scene like this near the end of the filming because it makes such a mess. But they have to shoot it tonight because it’s supposed to rain next week.”
“How long are they going to be in River Heights?” Nancy asked.
“Fifteen shooting days, I think,” George said. “They’ll do most of the interior stuff back in a Hollywood studio.”
Nancy’s eyes scanned the area. Maybe she’d see Jenny Logan, the star who was going to be in the scene. Or maybe she’d see a familiar face, like Chris Hitchcock or Brandon.
What caught her eye instead was an unexpected, shimmering, jumpy light. It was coming from inside Fenley Place!
At first Nancy thought it was another reflection from the movie lights bouncing off the McCauley house windows. But the way the light bobbed and darted convinced her that it was coming from inside. Maybe it was a flashlight. If it was, that meant that someone was inside the house!
She tapped George on the arm and pointed across to Fenley Place. George saw the light, too.
“I’m going over there,” Nancy said.
“I’ll come with you,” her friend volunteered.
But when they reached the end of the barricade, they ran into a security guard who didn’t agree.
“Sorry, girls, you can’t go through,” said one of the guards.
“Why not?” asked George.
“Mr. Steinberg’s orders,” he said. “He doesn’t want to take chances someone might get hurt. So this whole part of the street is off limits tonight.”
“But we’re just going into this house—Fenley Place,” Nancy said. As she talked to the guard, she kept her eyes on the window where she’d seen the light. Right now it was dark.
“Do you live there?” asked the guard.
“No, but someone—”
He didn’t give Nancy a chance to finish.
“If you don’t live there, then you can’t go through. Those are my orders.”
“I get the feeling he’s trying to tell us we can’t go through,” George said.
There was no other way to get to the house, because the barricades came right up to the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property.
“What about climbing the fence?” George asked Nancy.
“I thought about that,” replied Nancy. “But, with those sharp spikes at the top, it would be impossible. Besides, I don’t want to trespass on the neighbors’ property.”
So Nancy and George retreated. It seemed as if there was nothing they could do until after the scene was shot.
“This will just take a minute or two,” George said. She sounded pleased with herself for having all the inside facts. “I heard that it isn’t a very complicated scene. Jenny Logan runs out of the house and down the front lawn. While she’s running, the windows explode behind her. That’s all”.
Relax, Nancy told herself. How long could it take to film that?
Jenny Logan sat on a tall director’s chair, stretching her legs and relaxing her neck muscles. She was off to the side, by herself, but not entirely alone. A plump, ragged brown teddy bear was squeezed in the chair beside her. Even in just a plain white blouse and a short denim skirt, Jenny Logan looked beautiful. Her long straight blond hair seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Hank Steinberg came out of the McCauley house to direct the scene. He talked to Jenny for what seemed like a long time, showing her how he wanted her to run and how he wanted her to look.
The crowd of onlookers was packed so tightly around Nancy and George that they couldn’t see Fenley Place clearly. But Nancy kept watching for the light again. At one point, she thought there was an eerie glow in the window to the left of the front door.
“If they would just shoot this thing and get it over with!” Nancy said impatiently. She knew that if there was someone in Fenley Place—a prowler—he wouldn’t stick around all night.
“All right, let’s do it!” Hank called from behind camera number one. It was positioned about thirty feet from the front door of the McCauley house.
He checked the five other cameras set up to catch the action at different angles. Three of them were aimed at the exploding windows, and two were set to follow Jenny.
Finally, Hank yelled “Action,” and Jenny ran out of the house as if something terrible were chasing her. It looked perfect, but the windows didn’t explode. “Cut!” Hank called.
Time after time after time Jenny ran out of the house. But no matter how well she did it or how tired she seemed, Hank asked her to do it again.
“Hank,” Jenny called out. Her soft voice with a trace of a southern accent was laced with tension. “When are you going to blow the windows?”
“When I’m ready, Jenny,” Hank said sternly.
George groaned and Nancy glanced at Fenley Place. The light she had seen was out.
Again Jenny Logan came running out the front door. She looked a little more frantic, a little more frightened. Suddenly the windows exploded behind her with a tremendous noise that shook the ground.
Jenny’s eyes went wild, and she screamed a horrible scream of genuine and utter surprise.
“Cut!” Hank shouted. “We got it, babe,” he said as he went up to put his arm around Jenny.
“One of these days you’re going to push me too far,” Jenny said angrily.
Finally, the barricades opened, and Nancy and George made a dash for Fenley Place. But the house was dark. They rang the bell, they looked in the windows. The old house was cold, silent, and completely empty.
Early the next morning—too early for an ordinary call—the phone beside Nancy’s bed jangled in her ear. She woke up and grabbed it quickly, so that it wouldn’t waken Hannah Gruen or her father.
“Hello?” The clock-radio on the nightstand said 5:00 A.M.
“Hello, Nancy? This is Sara Teppington.” It was the familiar voice of Nancy’s old high school English teacher. The same Sara Teppington who lived in Fenley Place.
“I’m sorry to call you so early,” Mrs. Teppington said. “But I couldn’t wait any longer. Please come to our house right now. Something terrible has happened.”
Inside Fenley Place
Nancy was up, dressed, and out of the house before five-thirty. In her neighborhood, it was quiet because everyone was still sleeping. But when she got to Highland Avenue, there were at least five crew members already beginning to set up cables and rearrange lights. Still, the atmosphere was peaceful. And in the light of early dawn, Fenley Place didn’t look so forbidding. At least from the outside, Sara Teppington, wearing a light blue running suit, greeted Nancy at the front door. Her long chestnut hair, which she always pinned up during school, was tied back, out of her face, in a ponytail.
“Thanks for coming, Nancy,” she said, holding the door open so Nancy could step inside the house. The door creaked a little as it was closed.
Mrs. Teppington and Nancy stood for a moment in the small, dark entryway. Because of the low ceiling, being in the vestibule was like being in a box—or rather a coffin. The air felt close and tingly.
“How do you manage to look so good at this hour of the morning?” said Mrs. Teppington with a smile. And without stopping for Nancy’s answer she said, “If I look like I haven’t gotten any sleep, it’s because I haven’t. We just got home about half an hour ago.”
She walked Nancy into a den, yellow with early morning sun. Sara Teppington sat in a straight-backed antique rocker. Nancy sat on a soft old sofa.
“Is it too early for breakfast?” Mrs. Teppington said, pointing to a tray of croissants, butter and jam, and a pitcher of orange juice. “It looks great,” Nancy said, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. “I ran out of the house pretty fast.”
“I called you too early, didn’t I?” In class Sara Teppington was the most patient listener of all the teachers in the school. But in her own home, she talked and moved in a faster rhythm. She didn’t wait for Nancy to say anything before she spoke again. “Last night, at about three A.M., four of the windows in this house exploded.”
Nancy sat straight up on the sofa.
“We got a call from a neighbor who said that an explosion woke him up. He came outside and found broken glass all over the driveway. It’s still there if you want to take a look.”
“I will,” Nancy said. “Do you have any idea what caused it?”
“No,” Mrs. Teppington answered. “I want to find out what really happened, before I have to read a lot of ridiculous headlines about ghosts in Fenley Place. I thought maybe you could help. You did such a good job when my computer was stolen at school.”
Nancy looked around the room. It was cheerfully decorated, and yet there was still something unwelcoming about Fenley Place.
“I’d be glad to investigate for you,” Nancy said. “But may I ask you a questions first? I always wondered how anyone could live in this house. Do you really like it?”
“It’s a crazy old house. My husband hates it. My daughters hate it. And if our dog could speak, I’m sure he’d side with them. But Fenley Place and I understand each other.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she added, “We talk to each other.”
Nancy smiled and whispered back, “Did it tell you why its windows exploded?”
“Maybe it would have if I’d been home,” Sara Teppington said in a serious voice. “But we’ve been gone for a week.”
“I know you weren’t home yesterday afternoon,” Nancy said.
“Yes, Mr. Titus told me you were here,” said the teacher. “He’s the one who called us last night. He’s been keeping an eye on the house for us.”
Slam!
The door to the den closed with a loud bang, and Nancy’s legs twitched involuntarily.
“The breeze?” Nancy asked hopefully.
“The house knows we’re talking about it,” Sara Teppington said. Then she asked, “What were you doing here yesterday? Were you looking for me?”
“My friend and I saw red smoke coming out of your chimney yesterday.” Sara Teppington’s face flinched the same way Nancy’s face did when the door slammed. “Our chimney? How? No one was home.”
She got up immediately and hurried to the living room. Nancy followed.
As Nancy and Mrs. Teppington approached the fireplace, two faces stared at them with hollow eyes. The faces were carved into either end of a smooth wooden mantel, and they both had expressions that were contorted, as if they were in pain. Nancy thought that Garver Fenley, the man who had built Fenley Place, must have been very strange.
A quick look confirmed that the fireplace hadn’t been used at all recently. It had been swept clean. There were no ashes.
“See? Nothing’s been burned here,” Sara Teppington said.
Using a small flashlight from her purse, Nancy looked as far up the chimney as she could. “There’s something kind of lumpy up near the top, but I can’t tell what it is.” Sara Teppington got down on her hands and knees and looked up the chimney.
“It could be a bird’s nest,” she speculated. “I’ll have my husband, Alan, check it out.”
A cold breeze suddenly blew into the living room. “Let’s go back to the den,” Sara said, leading the way.
“Mrs. Teppington—“
“Call me Sara,” the woman interrupted Nancy. “You’re not my student anymore, Nancy, I’m sorry to say.”
Nancy plopped back down on the sofa in the den and went on to tell Sara what else she had seen at Fenley Place.
“While I was investigating the smoke yesterday, I thought I saw a woman in a white nightgown, standing in a third-floor window. And last night, I came back to watch a scene of the movie being filmed.”
Nancy paused for a minute. An idea suddenly flew into her head, but she couldn’t get hold of it. She shrugged and continued her story. “And then I saw a light—it could have been a flashlight—flickering in your house.”
Sara’s brow furrowed, and for a moment she looked frightened. Then she just shook her head quickly.
“As far as we can tell nothing was stolen. Nothing was even moved around,” Sara said. “Maybe there really are ghosts and they don’t like my taste in interior decorating.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a man’s voice. “It’s not a joke, Sara,” he said. The two women turned to the door.
A tall man in a bulky, striped bathrobe was taking up most of the doorway. He had a bushy black beard, and his thick hair was equal parts of gray and black. He looked sleepy.
“A little early for a student conference, isn’t it?” he asked.
“This is my husband, Alan,” Mrs. Teppington said. “Alan, this is Nancy Drew. She’s not my student. She’s River Heights’ best young detective.”
“Of course,” Alan Teppington said.
He didn’t sound as though he believed it, or disbelieved it, either. He sounded as though he didn’t care. He helped himself to some orange juice and then acted as if he were alone in the room.
“I shouldn’t stay very long,” Nancy said. “But I’d like to see where the windows exploded if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly. Come with me.” Sara glared at her husband as she led Nancy out of the room. Alan followed.
The Teppingtons’ bedroom was on the first floor near the back of the house. In it was one of the four windows that had exploded. Nancy could see that only the window pane had been destroyed, although there were small nicks and burn marks around the inside of the window frame. Sara explained that a few jagged pieces of glass had remained, but she had removed them. Now the hole was covered with heavy plastic, taped on all sides.
The other three windows, Sara said, were on the other side of the house, and they all looked the same.
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to do this to you?” Nancy asked.
“I own a book store,” Alan Teppington said. “The only enemies I have are customers who browse but don’t buy.”
Nancy turned to Sara. “No,” Sara said uncertainly. “Most of my students don’t hold a grudge for very long.”
“Are you saying that little jerk last year doesn’t count, Sara?” Alan Teppington said, balling his hands into fists. “I wanted to push his face through a juicer after what he did.”
“Alan, please,” Sara said. She used her classroom tone and authority. But there was an additional plea in her voice for moderation. Apparently, moderation was a virtue Alan Teppington had never learned.
Nancy knew the “little jerk” Alan was talking about. It was Josh Petrie, a real hard case.
“Sara failed him last year,” Alan Teppington said, glaring into Nancy’s eyes. “And believe me, he got the grade he earned. But he wanted revenge. So one night he broke into our house and gave it a good going over with spray paint and glue. I don’t know what it is with you kids.”
“Josh Petrie is gone,” Sara Teppington said firmly. “He joined the army a few months ago. He’s not doing this.”
“That’s just what we need,” Alan Teppington laughed sarcastically. “Josh Petrie defending this nation. I feel safer. How about you?”
Once again his eyes tried to drill through Nancy.
“Shh!” Nancy said.
It wasn’t a scold. There were noises on the ceiling above them. Were they footsteps in the room above them?
“Is anyone else home?” Nancy asked.
“Yes, my daughters. But they’re still asleep.”
“Do you suppose I could see the room upstairs, since that’s where I saw the woman standing yesterday?”
“There’s a staircase at the back of the house,” Sara Teppington said. “The room you’re talking about is our attic.”
The Teppingtons followed Nancy up a dark, narrow staircase to the third floor. They listened motionless, breathing the stale air as quietly as they could.
There was no one there. The sounds they had heard from downstairs were the uncomfortable creaking of the walls and floors of Fenley Place.
With her flashlight, Nancy made a sweep of the cobwebbed beams of the attic. Then she aimed it at the wide-planked dusty floor. Most of it was piled with boxes, crates, suitcases, stacks of old magazines, and old furniture. Everything had gathered dust by the inch, waiting to be of use or to be thrown out.
“Someone has been up here recently,” Nancy said suddenly.
Alan Teppington sneezed loudly. “How do you know?” he asked impatiently.
Nancy knelt by a fresh footprint in the dusty floor. For a moment she studied the pattern of lines and circles the shoe’s tread had made in the dust. “A running shoe, probably,” she said.
She took a notebook from her purse and made a quick sketch of the shoe print.
“Alan, look at your trunk,” Sara Teppington called out in surprise.
Nancy’s flashlight quickly found what Sara Tepington was pointing at. It was a large black leather steamer trunk.
“What’s wrong with it?” Nancy asked.
“I always keep it covered with one of my grandmother’s old nightgowns,” Sara Teppington said.
“A white nightgown?” Nancy asked.
Sara nodded.
A quick search through the attic revealed the white lace nightgown hanging on a coat tree.
Sara Teppington didn’t know hove it got there. And Nancy didn’t know if this was the nightgown she had seen the woman wearing the day before.
“The girls were probably playing up here,” Alan Teppington said.
But his wife contradicted him. “Amy and Kate know they aren’t allowed to play in the attic, and I don’t believe they’d break that rule.”
Nancy went farther into the attic for a closer look at the black leather trunk. She rubbed her finger across gold initials in the leather—A.T., Alan Teppington. She knew there was only one reason why the trunk wasn’t dusty.
“Mr. Teppington, someone has probably been rummaging through your trunk,” Nancy said.
Mr. Teppington kicked a stack of cardboard boxes. “Well, then, I’ve got a clue for you,” he said, shaking his head. “Just go out and look for a thief who’s a complete idiot. Because there’s nothing in my trunk except old clothes that don’t fit and memories I don’t think about.”
Alan Teppington must have the world’s shortest temper, Nancy thought. So she asked him as calmly as she could to cheek through his trunk, “just to see if anything is missing.”
Alan Teppington grabbed the flashlight from Nancy’s hand and made a quick search of his trunk.
“They didn’t take anything, okay?”
“Alan, don’t be rude. Nancy is trying to help.”
“We don’t need a detective. We need a real estate agent. We need to get out of this house and go somewhere where your crazy students and wiseguy movie location flunkies and teenage girl detectives don’t bother us!”
He turned to go down the attic stairs but there were little footsteps coming up in a hurry.
The Teppington daughters, Amy, age five, and Kate, age ten, ran up the stairs in their nightgowns. “Mommy!” they screamed. Their faces were red from crying and tears streamed down their cheeks.
Alan stooped down, put his arms around both girls, and tried to hold them tightly. But they began sobbing harder and hitting their father with their fists.
Where Is Boris?
Between sobs, the Teppington girls were saying, “You hate Boris! He’s gone and it’s all your fault!”
“Girls,” Alan Teppington called, trying to get their attention. “I didn’t do anything to that rotten dog.”
“You said last night you were going to get rid of him!” Amy said, whistling slightly through two missing front teeth.
“Calm down, girls,” their mother ordered. “Your father would never hurt Boris.”
“But, Mom, we’ve looked everywhere,” Kate said. “We can’t find him. Boris is gone!”
The girls ran to their mother, sobbing the dog’s name.
Watching Amy and Kate cry in their mother’s comforting arms, Alan Teppington seemed to melt inside his oversized bathrobe.
“Girls,” he said several times in a very quiet voice. When they had cried all they could, they became quiet enough to listen to him. “Amy, Kate,” their father said softly, “I was very angry with Boris yesterday.”
“You’ve been very angry about everything, Daddy,” Kate said with schoolteacher authority.
“Yes,” he said. He ran his hand through his thick, bushy hair and tightened the belt on his robe. “But last night, after you were in bed, Boris and I had a heart-to-heart talk. He agreed not to chew up any more of my paperbacks and I agreed not to eat any of his dog biscuits.”
Kate actually giggled at that point, but her younger sister asked seriously, “But where is he now, Daddy?”
“I don’t know,” Alan Teppington said. Then his eyes fell on Nancy, standing in the attic shadows. Suddenly he seemed very happy that she was there.
“Girls, this is Nancy Drew,” Alan Teppington said, pulling Nancy toward his daughters. “And you know what? Nancy is great at finding things, aren’t you, Nancy?”
Nancy bent down on her knees to be closer to the two sniffling girls. “I’m terrific at it,” she said with a smile. “I bet I can find Boris. But I’ll need some help from you two.”
The two little girls looked at the young detective for a moment, examining her face carefully.
“First of all,” Nancy said. “What does Boris look like?”
“He’s the most beautiful dog in the world,” Amy said seriously.
Nancy looked up at the girls’ mother. Sara grinned and said, “He’s part bassett hound, part beagle, part something else. He’s medium height, has got a heavy build, and short hair.”
“Okay, here’s my plan,” Nancy said. “Kate and Amy, you come with me, and we’ll cover the neighborhood on foot.”
“I want to take my bike,” Amy said.
“Okay. Kate and I will cover the neighborhood on foot and Amy will ride her bike,” Nancy said. “Agreed?” The girls nodded.
“Thank you, Nancy,” Sara said. “That way Alan and I can make a wider circle in the car.”
“Great,” said Nancy.
“Well, let’s get dressed, everybody!” Alan Teppington ordered.
His voice was a starter’s pistol for Amy and Kate. They went running downstairs.
After the children were gone, Alan Teppington said, “Thanks for helping out, Nancy. It’s true that I hate that dog, but my kids mean everything to me.”
Nancy smiled. She didn’t mind helping out, especially if it meant getting out of the clammy atmosphere of Fenley Place and into the fresh air.
For the next hour, Nancy, Kate, and Amy went up and down all the side streets between Highland Avenue and the street behind it. They looked and called for Boris, stopping at every yard.
But none of the neighbors had seen Boris that morning. And many said they had never seen Boris ever—which was true.
Boris didn’t circulate much. Amy explained that even when he was left alone outside, he would never leave the Teppingtons’ property.
“Mom says it’s because he’s always protecting us,” Kate explained.
“Daddy says it’s because Boris never wants to leave his food bowl,” Amy said. “Daddy’s funny when he’s not yelling.”
“I noticed,” Nancy said cautiously.
“I don’t know why, but he’s been really tense lately. Ever since that movie crew took over the McCauley house,” Kate said.
When they took shortcuts through backyards, Amy walked her bike.
“Why doesn’t your dad like movie people?” Nancy asked.
“They’re phony and selfish,” Amy said in exactly her father’s tone of voice. Kate added, “He said we could go across the street and watch them, but a day later he told us to get in the ear and we went to that country inn. I don’t get it, do you?”
“Not yet,” Nancy said.
They looked everywhere for Boris. They even checked at the McCauley house. By now the crew was setting up for another stunt. There was a lot of activity on the roof. But Boris was nowhere in sight.
Before giving up, they tried one more place. Pat Ellis’s Elegant Eats had set up a large catering tent in the tiny park at the end of Highland Avenue. The movie people could sit on the grass or at long tables and enjoy everything from a cup of coffee to a five-course breakfast.
Nancy and the girls wandered into the park and found George stationed at a serving table filled with food.
George waved.
“These are Amy and Kate, Mrs. Teppington’s daughters,” Nancy said. “We’re looking for their dog, Boris.” She described Boris to George.