Peter had mentioned the charge against the Lawsons. Judy’s mother had gasped, “Kidnaping!” and Clarissa had said quietly, “I wasn’t their daughter, Mrs. Bolton. I don’t know what they would have done to me if I hadn’t pretended. I led them here. I knew Judy would help me. You aren’t supposed to tell people what your husband does for a living, Judy, but I’m so glad—glad that you let it slip out in the restaurant. Did you get my letter?”
“We turned your letter over to the FBI,” Judy told her. “But who planned this welcoming party? I don’t understand—”
“I like parties. I like pretty girls, and I am especially fond of getting exclusive stories—”
“Horace! You did it. You perfect dear!” cried Judy, throwing herself at her brother and giving him a resounding kiss.
“Save the mush, Sis,” he said, embarrassed.
“Well, it was a wonderful idea!” Judy exclaimed. “You’re all real friends!”
Clarissa’s laugh rang out. “Am I real? Am I really me? I’ve been Francine Dow and Clarissa Valentine, but now I think I’d like to be just plain old Clar Boggs and go back to West Virginia to my real folks. Pa’s a preacher just like I said, but we’re real old hillbillies for a fact, and I’m sick to death of pretending.”
“Don’t you want to be an actress any more?” asked Judy.
“Maybe later when things are cleared up and I understand—” Clarissa said.
“We’ll clear them up right now,” Judy interrupted. “Sit down, and we’ll explain everything.”