A Surprising Reaction

"How about a bathrobe?"

"What?" I blinked at Lucia, momentarily confused. Then I realized she had returned to our previous topic of conversation. "Oh," I said, glancing out the window again. "Um, I think he already has one that he likes."

I stared out at the empty street. I don't really believe in psychics and that sort of thing, but I do believe that I have sort of a sixth sense about when people are in trouble. Dad says it's really just keen attention to detail combined with a quick mind. My best friends, Bess and George, usually just call it a crazy hunch. I don't know how to explain it myself, but when I feel it, I'm hardly ever wrong. And I was feeling it now—it had hit me as soon as I'd seen that man staring toward the police station with that sad, worried expression on his face.

Just then the chimes above the door tinkled. A short, rather plump man with neat but sparse brown hair had entered the shop. I immediately recognized Harold Safer, the owner of the local cheese shop who lives a few blocks from me.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Safer" Lucia greeted him warmly. "Have you come for a reading?"

Mr. Safer smiled. "I have indeed," he said. "I have an important question about my shop, and it's worth stepping out for a moment for some otherworldly advice. I'm trying to decide whether to branch out into buffalo-milk cheese. The last time I was in New York, I noticed it was all the rage in the more exclusive cheese shops there. Oh, hello, Nancy."

"Hi, Mr. Safer." I smiled at him. He's always been one of my favorite neighbors. Aside from cheese, his life revolves around his two great passions: sunsets and Broadway musicals.

"Nancy, you'd like to try buffalo-milk cheese, wouldn't you?" Mr. Safer asked me. "It wouldn't be too weird for you, would it?"

Lucia winked at me. "That could be the answer to your problem, Nancy," she said. "You could get your father some nice, exotic buffalo-milk cheese for his birthday. That's something he doesn't have already, right?"

I laughed and stood up, carrying my teacup over to the side table. "Excuse me" I said. "I'd better get going and leave you two to your reading. Lucia, you just reminded me that I still have some important shopping to do."

"All right," Lucia said. "Thanks for stopping in and keeping me company, Nancy." She sounded cheerful and seemed to have forgotten all about the incident we'd witnessed out in the street. But I hadn't forgotten.

After quickly inviting both of them to my father's birthday party, I headed for the door. "Thanks for the tea, Lucia," I added. "I hope I'll see you on Thursday night. You too, Mr. Safer. And good luck with the buffalo cheese thing."

After leaving Lucia's shop, I wandered down the block, glancing into store windows as I passed. But my mind wasn't really on shopping anymore. I was distracted by what I had seen before, though I wasn't quite sure why. It was like the little scene kept nagging at my mind, almost calling out to me…

I blinked, suddenly realizing that someone really was calling out my name. Turning around, I saw Bess and George jogging toward me.

"It's about time you heard us," George panted as she skidded to a stop in front of me. As usual, she was dressed in casual, sporty clothes that matched her boyish nickname. She ran a hand over her close-cropped dark hair and scowled at me. "We've been shouting at you for the past three blocks."

Her cousin Bess, a pretty blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a peaches-and-cream complexion, rolled her eyes. "Don't exaggerate, George," she chided. She glanced at me. "Seriously though, Nancy, what's with you? We thought you'd gone deaf or something. Didn't you hear us?"

"No," I admitted sheepishly. "Guess I was thinking about something."

The cousins exchanged a glance.

"Uh-oh," Bess said playfully. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

"Okay, spill it." George folded her arms over her chest. "Did you find yourself another mystery, Nancy?"

I giggled. My friends knew me way too well.

"I'm not sure it's really a mystery," I told them. "Not at the moment anyway. Right now it's just something weird I saw a few minutes ago..."

I started to fill them in on what had happened outside Lucia's shop. As I was describing the woman, I suddenly gasped and interrupted myself.

"I've got it!" I cried. "I just remembered who she is—Heather Simmons!"

Bess blinked. "You mean the woman who's been talking about running for mayor?"

I nodded, pleased that I'd finally identified the woman. I didn't know her personally, but I'd seen her picture in the River Heights Bugle—the local newspaper that happened to be published by my boyfriend's father. Ned often worked for his dad at the Bugle during summer vacations, and that year he'd written several stories about the upcoming mayors race. Although actually, as he liked to put it, it hadn't looked like much of a race until recently. He'd also mentioned to me that Heather Simmons's husband, Clay, had taught a class he'd taken at the local university the semester before.

"I still can't believe Mayor Strong is really retiring," George mused as the three of us continued strolling down the block. "He's been around practically since we were all in diapers."

"I know," I said. "And I think a lot of people will be voting for Heather Simmons to replace him if she really does enter the race. She's very qualified for the job."

"Besides, a lot of people aren't too thrilled with the only other choice so far," George added. "I mean, for one thing, Morris Granger has only lived here for about five minutes. I heard he still has homes in about five other cities! When did he buy that town house of his anyway?"

Bess wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. But count me in as one of the less-than thrilled," she said. "The last thing this city needs is some superrich corporate type like him swooping in and taking over."

"He probably only wants the job to make it easier to take over Rackham Industries" George agreed, referring to the local computer company and the biggest employer in River Heights. "Then he'll move the whole company to some kind of offshore tax haven and leave this place destitute."

I laughed. "Hold on," I said. "You're making him sound like some kind of dastardly deviant. Don't forget, he's already done some good things for the town."

George shrugged. "Yeah, yeah," she said, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. "So he built a new public skating rink and a couple of playgrounds. Big deal. That's chump change for a guy like him."

But Bess looked conflicted. "He's starting work on the new Granger Children's Hospital, too," she reminded George. "Remember? It's that new construction site over on Union Street."

Suddenly I stopped short, noticing a display in the art-store window we were passing. "Hey," I said, pointing. "Do you think Dad might like something like that? He likes modern art, right?"

"You mean that painting of a big gray blob with purple polka dots?" George looked skeptical. "Let me guess, Nancy. This means you still don't have any good ideas for a birthday present."

I grinned. "You got that right," I admitted. "I've been walking all over town today in search of the perfect gift, but nothing seems quite right. He's always hard to shop for, but for some reason this year it's harder than ever."

Bess looked sympathetic. "Did you ask Hannah for help?"

"Yep. No dice." Hannah Gruen, our longtime housekeeper, knows Dad about as well as anyone. But she hadn't had any brilliant ideas either. She was taking the easy way out herself—her gift to Dad was going to be fixing all his favorite foods for his party on Thursday night.

"All right, what about asking Ned?" Bess suggested. "He's a guy—he should be able to help you figure something out."

"I asked him" I said. "The only thing he could come up with were golf clubs or CDs. But Dad just bought himself a new set of clubs a couple of months ago. And he has so many CDs, I wouldn't even know where to start."

George's eyes lit up. "I know!" she said. "Why not get him a gift certificate to the music store? Then he can pick out his own CDs."

"I guess," I said without much enthusiasm. "If I can't come up with anything else, I'll probably do that. It just seems kind of impersonal, you know?"

Bess looked over at me as we walked on. "Sounds like you're getting pretty discouraged."

"Nancy Drew 'discouraged'?" George exclaimed. "Never! I won't believe it. Not the famous amateur sleuth who's tracked down more criminals than the entire River Heights Police Department. Not the determined investigator who won't rest until every single clue is uncovered. Not the girl who wouldn't give up until she cracked the code of Bess's diary."

I couldn't help laughing. "Very funny," I said, giving George a shove. "But you're right. I'm not giving up. I'm going to find the perfect birthday gift for Dad if it kills me!"

Unfortunately I still hadn't solved the mystery of Dad's birthday gift by the time I headed home for dinner. My head was spinning with all the possibilities I'd considered and rejected: designer clothing, tropical fish, sports memorabilia, electronic equipment... While Dad's many interests and hobbies provided numerous possibilities, nothing seemed original or special enough to make the perfect birthday gift from his only daughter.

I let myself into my house. The dim coolness of the front hall was a welcome relief after being in the heat. "Hello, I'm home!" I called.

"Hi, Nancy," Hannah's familiar voice returned from the direction of the dining room. "Hurry up. Dinner's just about on the table."

As I went into the powder room off the front hall to wash my hands, I caught a whiff of the tantalizing odor of Hannah's famous squash and mushroom soup. That made me feel a little better. But I couldn't help but continue to think about my fruitless shopping expedition as I hurried into the dining room a few minutes later and took my usual seat at the polished mahogany table.

Dad and Hannah were already seated. "Hi, Nancy," Dad greeted me, glancing up from his soup. "How was your day?"

"Okay, I guess." The words came out sounding a little gloomy, even to myself. I forced a smile, not wanting Dad to guess why I was feeling so down in the dumps. "Oh, actually something sort of interesting—and a little weird—happened this afternoon."

"What's that, dear?" Hannah asked, passing me the soup tureen.

I helped myself to a bowl of the thick, ginger-scented soup. "I was downtown—er, just doing a little window shopping," I said. "I stopped in to visit with Lucia Gonsalvo in her shop. While we were having tea, we spotted a couple on the street outside. I thought they looked familiar, but at first I couldn't remember who they were."

"Oh, really?" Dad turned and winked playfully at Hannah. "Uh-oh. Sounds very mysterious so far. The summer heat must be affecting Nancy's brain."

I grinned. "Maybe a little," I joked. I paused for a moment to blow on my soup, because it was still too hot to eat. "Since it took me about ten minutes to realize that it was Heather and Clay Simmons. You know, the woman who's been talking about running for mayor of River Heights, and her husband, who teaches over at the university? But the weird part was, Lucia was sure there was something terribly wrong by the way they were acting—and I'm not sure she wasn't..."

My words trailed off as Dad's soup spoon clattered loudly against the edge of his bowl, bounced off the table, and fell to the floor. "Excuse me," he muttered, diving down to retrieve it.

I stared at him in surprise when he sat up again. His face—which a moment ago had looked relaxed and jovial—was suddenly hardened into an expression of shock.

Mystery or Not?

I was startled at the sudden change in Dad's demeanor. But I quickly realized that there was only one likely explanation: The Simmonses must be clients. Dad was always careful to respect the attorney/client relationship, and I knew better than to press him when he got like that.

Anyway, maybe that explained away the whole "mystery" I thought as Hannah bustled off to the kitchen to fetch Dad a clean spoon. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Simmons were having some sort of legal trouble, and that's why they had been arguing on the street. If so, this was starting to look like a serious case of None of My Business.

Clearing my throat, I decided it was time to change the subject. Since the Simmonses were still in my mind, I started to think about their daughter. Leslie Simmons was just a couple of years younger than I was. I didn't know her that well, but everyone in town knew that she was a talented pianist and one of the most promising musicians River Heights had seen in a long time.

"Hey, speaking of the Simmons family," I said as Hannah returned and placed a spoon on the table next to Dad. "I heard the other day that Leslie is trying out for that scholarship the conservatory is awarding to the most promising high school musician."

Dad had just raised a spoonful of soup to his mouth. At my comment, he almost choked on it. The spoon clattered into his bowl again as he pounded on his own chest, coughing and sputtering.

I stared at him. What was going on? Obviously the entire Simmons family was a sensitive subject for him at the moment. But why? He regularly represented a lot of people in town, from Lucia Gonsalvo to Harold Safer to the outgoing mayor, and he didn't start choking every time one of their names came up. Whatever was going on with the Simmons family, it had to be big.

When Dad got his breath back, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. Then he met my gaze briefly before looking away.

"Sorry, Hannah " he said in a slightly raspy voice. "I just got distracted there for a moment. Nothing to do with your soup—it's delicious, as always."

I could take a hint. It was clearly time to drop the whole topic of the Simmons family.

"Yes, it's great," I added, smiling at Hannah and taking a quick sip of my own soup. "What kind of mushrooms do you put in it again?"

After that the conversation at the dinner table proceeded more normally. But I was still thinking about the earlier incident as I helped Hannah clear the table. That littlesixth sense of mine was tingling— not to mention my curiosity. Maybe it was none of my business, but I couldn't help wondering if the Simmonses were in trouble, and if what I'd witnessed that afternoon had something to do with it.

As soon as I could, I excused myself and hurried upstairs. I closed my bedroom door, picked up the phone on my bedside table, and dialed George's number.

"Okay, so what's the big emergency?" George teased as she swung open her front door a few minutes later.

Bess appeared in the doorway behind her. She looked curious. "Yeah, Nancy," she added. "I was planning to give myself a pedicure tonight."

"Sorry to tear you away from such exciting plans," I said, only half kidding. Bess takes grooming and beauty treatments very seriously. Let’s go upstairs, and I'll tell you everything."

George led the way down the hall to the stairs. The Faynes' house is a comfortable, rambling colonial where George lives with her parents, her older brother, Sebastian, when he's home from college, and her younger brother, Scott. Soon the three of us were entering her messy, chaotic bedroom. It was a large room, but it seemed much smaller because of the masses of power cords crisscrossing the floor, and the computer equipment and other electrical gadgets stacked on every possible surface.

Bess blinked and looked around at the mess. "Hey," she said in surprise. "You cleaned up in here!"

"Yeah, a little." George flopped onto her unmade bed. "Okay, enough chitchat. What's going on, Nancy?"

I perched on the edge of George's desk chair, which I had to share with a set of stereo speakers and a spare modem. "It’s about Heather Simmons," I began.

"That again?" George interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Nancy. A woman arguing with her husband does not a mystery make—not even when that woman happens to be running for mayor."

"I know, I know." I held up my hand to stop her. "But listen to this..."

I quickly described my innocent comments at dinner, and Dad's extreme reactions. As I did, my mind kept turning over what I was saying, poking and prodding at it to try to make sense of it. That's one of the reasons I like it when my friends help me with cases. Talking to them about weird things and puzzling clues often helps me figure things out faster.

Bess looked uncertain. "Okay" she said when I was finished. "So that tells us... what? That they're probably his clients. So? That doesn't necessarily mean there's a mystery brewing."

Meanwhile George was licking her lips. "Do you think Hannah has any of that soup left over?" she asked. "I remember it well—she brought it to that potluck thing at the fire station. It was delicious!"

I sighed. For such a thin girl, George had a practically bottomless stomach. It killed Bess to watch her cousin eat like a pig and never gain an ounce, while Bess herself remained pleasantly plump.

"It may be nothing," I told Bess. "But why would Dad freak out so much over an ordinary client? Why did he look more upset than ever when I mentioned Leslie?"

"I can answer that one," George said, apparently forgetting about her stomach for a moment. "Maybe whatever legal thing they're dealing with has to do with her."

"Like what?" Bess asked.

George shrugged. "Well, everyone says she's a shoo-in for that music prize thing, right?"

"You mean the scholarship to the conservatory?" I said. "I suppose that's true. She's a great pianist. I can't imagine anyone else in town who could beat her out for the scholarship."

"So maybe that's it," George said. "Maybe her folks want to make sure they're not going to be signing anything they don't want to sign—you know, if she wins."

I thought about that for a second. "Maybe," I said. "But why would Dad seem upset about that? Besides, I have a hunch there may be something much stranger going on here."

Bess giggled. "Aha, I see what's going on here. We're dealing with a patented Nancy Drew hunch. We might as well just give up right now."

I smiled patiently as George burst out laughing. My friends love to tease me about my hunches.

"Very funny," I said. "Anyway, I really do have a hunch about this, and I was hoping you guys could help." I smiled pleadingly at George. "Feel like doing a little snooping on the computer?"

I knew I wouldn't have to ask twice, no matter how skeptical George might be. She loves anything having to do with the computer. She's practically a computer genius—she can find anything on the Internet, and has been the information systems manager for her mother's catering business since we were all in junior high.

Soon she was online, scrolling through her search results for any information on Heather and Clay Simmons. I stood up and peeked over her shoulder at the screen.

"Sorry the monitor's so small," George said, glancing up at me. "If I had the money, I'd definitely get a nice, big flat-screen..."

Bess and I exchanged an amused look. George is almost always short of money. As soon as she gets a few dollars together, she can't resist spending it on a new video game or DVD, or the latest gadget she sees down at Riverside Electronics.

Even on the small screen, it soon became obvious that the search wasn't going to turn up anything juicy. Most of the entries led to newspaper articles from the Bugle about Heather's comments to the school board or Clay's speeches in front of local groups.

I pointed to a link on the Bugle's homepage for the River Heights official town Web site. "Let's check that out," I suggested. "Maybe it will tell us something interesting."

George clicked on the link. Soon the screen was flashing a photo of the town hall, along with a list of topics, from local school information to sources for town maps. "Anything strike your fancy?" George asked, the cursor hovering next to the list.

"Let’s check out 'Latest News'," I suggested.

The page that came up featured recent press releases and other articles, as well as an archive of past stories. I leaned closer as George scrolled slowly down the list, squinting to read the tiny print.

"Look," I said, pointing to an item near the top of the page. "This mentions the mayor's retirement, and the election for his successor."

Bess was reading too. "Looks like Morris Granger has already filed the paperwork to run for mayor," she said, pointing to a section of text about halfway down the screen. "It says he's the only one so far. Oh! But look—here it says that 'another citizen' has declared an intent to run but hasn't turned in the rest of the necessary paperwork yet."

"That must be Heather Simmons," I mused. "And look—it says the deadline for the paperwork is this coming Friday. That's interesting."

"Interesting? Maybe," George agreed. "But a mystery? Not really."

I shrugged. "You may be right. She's probably still working on it," I said. "It's only Monday. She has all week to get it in." But my mind was buzzing along, trying to fit that bit of information in with what I already knew.

George was clicking on another link. A second later a colorful site loaded on the screen. The headline read, "River Heights Music Conservatory." Just under that, it said, "Coming Soon: Check this page for results of the High School Talent Search scholarship competition."

The name of the competition was in a different color from the other words. "Is that a link?" I asked George, pointing to it.

She clicked on it. Another page came up. This one included a list of alphabetized names and audition times.

"Scroll down and see if Leslie Simmons is on the list," I told George.

Bess gave me a perplexed look. "Of course she is," she said. "Everyone knows she's trying out for the scholarship."

"Here it is," George said, peering at the screen. "'Simmons, L.: eight fifteen a.m.' It's right here below—oops!" She giggled.

"What's so funny?" I asked, leaning over her shoulder for a better look.

George pointed to a name on the list. "Check it out. The name above Leslie Simmons is 'Sharon, D.' But when I first looked at it, I thought it said, 'Shannon, D.'"

Bess and I both laughed, realizing immediately why George had found that funny. The three of us had gone through school with a girl named Deirdre Shannon, and she was just about the last person we would expect to see trying out for a music scholarship. Deirdre was pretty and rich, and she figured that was enough. She rarely put much effort into anything other than her hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Oh, and guys, of course—she was always turning up with a new date on her arm, not to mention flirting her head off with Ned every chance she got.

"Didn't Deirdre play the flute in elementary school?" Bess said.

"Yes," I recalled. "For about ten seconds!"

As my friends continued to joke around at Deirdre's expense, I returned my attention to the computer screen. Simmons, L. I stared at the name thoughtfully, remembering how strongly Dad had reacted to my mention of Leslie's name.

"Hey, George," I said, interrupting whatever she was saying to Bess. "Can you check out one more site?"

"Sure. What?"

"River Heights High School," I said. "I want to see if we can find out anything more about Leslie Simmons."

Bess cocked her head at me as George went to work. "Why?" she asked. "Even if she has something to do with this so-called mystery, what's the high school home page going to tell you? It's summer, remember? School's out."

George glanced up at her as the home page loaded. "Yeah, but the school bulletin board is still active all summer," she reminded Bess. "A lot of kids keep in touch that way, remember?"

Bess wrinkled her nose. She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Yeah, the geeks, maybe."

I swallowed a laugh as George shot her cousin a dirty look. Then I leaned over and pointed to a link. "Look, there's the bulletin board," I said. "Let's see if Leslie has checked in lately."

It turned out that she had—quite a lot, actually. There were all kinds of entries from her. Some were just chitchat, while others had to do with her music studies.

"Look, she's been going to music camp over at the university's performing arts building," Bess said, pointing to one entry.

George nodded. "I knew that already," she said. "My mom wants to go to their recital—I think it's this week. She loves to hear Leslie Simmons play."

"Interesting," I said. "And look, here's something even more interesting. Leslie's most recent bulletin board entry was at two thirty-eight p.m. on Saturday— two days ago. There's nothing since then, even though she was posting several times per day up until then."

George shrugged. "So?" she said. "She's got a big week coming up—first the recital, then the audition on Thursday. She's probably practicing twenty-four seven."

"Maybe." I stared at the screen. "It's just a little weird, that's all."

Bess narrowed her blue eyes at me. "Nancy, I know that look," she said. "You're coming up with a theory, aren't you? Come on, spill it."

I smiled. Bess was right—I was starting to think I might know why the Simmonses had looked so upset earlier. But I wasn't quite ready to share yet.

"In a minute," I told my friends. "First, let's take a little ride over to the Simmons house, okay?"

Bess and George exchanged a perplexed glance. Then they both sighed.

"All right, come on," Bess said. "I'll drive."

Soon we were cruising down a pleasant, tree-lined residential block in the eastern section of River Heights. The streetlights had just come on, even though dusk had barely thickened the shadows beneath the shrubs and playsets in the neatly tended yards. I pointed to a green-shuttered white clapboard house about halfway down the block.

"That's their house," I said. "I sold raffle tickets door-to-door a couple of years ago for the hospital fundraiser, and I remember talking to Mr. Simmons in front of his house. He bought five tickets."

George leaned forward from the backseat of the car to give me a funny look. "You know, sometimes it’s downright scary the way your mind files things away, Nancy."

Bess idled at the curb in front of the house. "Well?" she said. "What do you want to do now? Should I park?"

I bit my lip, not quite sure how to proceed now that we were there. I stared at the house. There were two cars in the driveway, and several lights were on inside. Through the large picture window to the left of the front door, I could see a grand piano.

"No, just wait here a sec," I said, reaching for the door handle. "I want to check on something."

I hopped out of the car before my friends could ask any more questions. The theory that had been forming in my mind still hadn't totally jelled yet, but my sixth sense was tingling like crazy.

Not knowing exactly what I was going to say, I moved up the front walk and rapped on the door. A moment later I heard footsteps inside, and Heather Simmons answered.

She gasped at me and looked very startled. Even though we'd never actually met, she obviously recognized me. "Nancy Drew!" she blurted out. "Did your father—" She gulped, clearly struggling to regain her composure. "I mean, hello. Please come in. What can I do for you this evening?"

I pasted a friendly smile on my face as I stepped into the foyer. "Sorry to bother you this late, Mrs. Simmons," I said. "I'm just out reminding people that the River Heights Animal Shelter will be doing a pet adopt-a-thon next weekend at BluffView Park. There will be games and door prizes and all sorts of fun stuff. I hope you and your family will come out and support us."

That was all true enough. I volunteered once a month at the shelter, and we were all excited about the event. But even while I was talking, I was shooting curious glances around at the inside of the house. I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for—any clue, any small hint that might confirm my growing suspicions. My gaze darted over the half-open coat closet in the foyer, the large arched entryway into the living room, the dark-colored grand piano in front of the window, the last rays of sunlight gleaming on the slightly grayish keyboard...

"Oh!" Heather Simmons blinked, seeming distracted. "Well, thank you, Nancy. I'm sure we'll try to make it if we can."

"That's... great." I was suddenly distracted myself. I had just spotted it—the clue I needed. "Um, okay, then. I'd better be going," I added. "Thanks for your support."

Mrs. Simmons looked a little confused at my abrupt farewell, but she didn't seem eager to change my mind about leaving. As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I sprinted for Bess's car. I flung the door open and jumped inside.

"I was right," I said breathlessly. "I just saw something in there that confirms what I was thinking: Leslie Simmons has been kidnapped!"

Kidnapped!

"Huh?" Bess and Georgesaid at the same time, then-faces registering identical expressions of surprise.

"It all makes perfect sense," I said, my words practically tumbling over each other in my eagerness to explain my theory. "The deadline for riling those papers to run for mayor is this Friday, right?"

"Uh-huh," George said. "So?"

"So don't you get it?" I exclaimed. "Someone obviously wants to distract Heather Simmons so she won't be able to file!"

"Obviously," George said, in a tone that indicated that she thought I was off my rocker.

Bess looked troubled. "But who would do something like that?"

"Why, Morris Granger, of course!" I said. "He's the only possible suspect. He's got the money and the power and connections to pull off something like this. And I'm sure he'd love nothing more than to run for mayor unopposed."

"Whoa... hold the phone, here." George held up both hands. "Back up a second, Nancy. What happened in there to lead you to this, er, interesting conclusion?" She gestured toward the Simmons house.

"Oh, right. I forgot to tell you that." I poked Bess in the arm. "Let's get going. We probably look kind of suspicious sitting out here in front of their house."

As Bess drove back toward George's house, I filled my friends in on my brief conversation with Mrs. Simmons. I mentioned how distracted she had seemed while talking with me.

"Don't tell me that's your big clue?" George said skeptically. "There better be more than that—or you might have to give back your World's Greatest Amateur Sleuth title."

I grinned and shook my head. "There's definitely more," I assured her. "I was trying to look around while I chatted with Mrs. Simmons—you know, to see if I could spot anything suspicious or out of place."

"Like a big ransom note cut out of newspaper letters?" Bess giggled. "Let me guess: It was tacked up on the wall and signed in blood."

"Very funny," I said. "No, it was nothing as obvious as that. It was the piano. I was sort of staring at it out of the corner of my eye, thinking that it was weird that Leslie wouldn't be sitting there practicing with the recital and auditions coming up."

Bess shrugged and glanced over at me before returning her gaze to the road. "Even piano prodigies have to take a break sometime," she said. "Maybe she was in the kitchen having dinner. Or taking a shower. Or out with friends."

"Maybe, but that's not the point" I said. "The point is, I noticed that the piano keys looked funny— they're supposed to be ivory, right? But these looked sort of grayish. That's when I realized they were dusty."

"Dusty?" George repeated from the backseat, still sounding perplexed.

I nodded. "Dusty. And that means they haven't been touched in at least a couple of days."

"That is kind of weird." Bess clicked on her turn signal as she reached an intersection. "But wait, I still don't get what all this has to do with Morris Granger and the rest of the stuff you said."

I explained the scenario again patiently. "There's no way Leslie would go without practicing that long with a recital coming up, let alone that important audition. She must not have been home for the past couple of days at least—which matches up with what we saw on the schools Internet bulletin board. She's been missing from there for two days too."

"Right" George said. "But that doesn't mean she's been kidnapped. Maybe she's off visiting her grandparents or something."

"It's possible" I admitted. "But I don't think so. It just ties in too perfectly with my dad's weird reaction to Leslie's name, and also what I saw on the street earlier today. I think Mr. and Mrs. Simmons were arguing about whether or not they should go to the police. Her parents are afraid to report Leslie's disappearance. Maybe they received a ransom note or a phone call warning them not to tell anyone." I shrugged, "They obviously decided not to involve the police. But they must have decided to risk talking to Dad—probably to get his advice about what to do. That would explain his reaction."

"I guess that could make sense," Bess said as she pulled to the curb in front of George's house. "Your dad probably wouldn't freak out like that if they were just regular clients coming to him about some ordinary thing. But I still don't see how Granger fits in."

"I'm getting to that," I said. "See, we know from checking the town Web site that he's the only one who's officially running for mayor as of now. And if local gossip holds true, the only other person thinking of throwing her hat in the ring is Heather Simmons. But she needs to get that paperwork in before Friday's deadline. What better way to distract her from doing that than by kidnapping her daughter?"

"But that seems so crazy," George protested, leaning on the front seat to talk to us. "It's taking a huge risk. If Granger did something like that and got caught, his political career would sink faster than an anvil in the river."

I nodded. That was the only part of my theory that was still bothering me. "I know," I said. "But a guy like Granger is probably used to taking big risks—gambling on big stock purchases and corporate takeovers. Maybe he figures the payoff is worth it. Mayors are powerful. If he gets elected, he'll be in a great position to affect all sorts of stuff at Rackham Industries and arrange a takeover on his terms."

I could tell that Bess and George still weren't totally convinced, but they both agreed to help me investigate. If Leslie really was in trouble, we all wanted to help.

"First things first," George said as we all climbed out of the car. She pulled out her cell phone. "Let's find out for sure if Leslie really has been MIA for the past couple of days."

"Good idea," Bess said. "Who are you going to call though? Her parents aren't going to tell you, even if it's true."

"Duh," George said. "But she's supposed to be going to music camp, remember? We can call them and ask if she showed up today. I'll get the number from Directory Assistance."

By the time we reached George's front steps, we had our answer. Leslie Simmons had been absent from music camp that day—the first rime she'd missed a day since camp started.

Bess paused outside the door, looking somber. "Okay, you guys," she said. "This is starting to get serious. If Nancy’s theory is right, this means big trouble. We should call the police right now and tell them what we know."

"Bess has a point," George agreed. "Kidnapping is serious stuff, Nance. The cops should be the ones to handle it."

I chewed my lower lip. "I'm not so sure" I said slowly. "I see what you guys are saying, and I agree that this is serious. But that's exactly why I think we need to be careful. I mean, think about it—do you really expect Chief McGinnis to believe all this if the Simmonses haven't called him themselves?" I thought back to my encounter with him earlier that day and grimaced, imagining how the conversation my friends were suggesting might go.

What a surprise, Miss Drew, the chief might say dryly. So you've turned up a kidnapping all of a sudden. Must be having a boring summer, eh? Why don't you take up a normal hobby. Imaginary crimes aren't a worthy pastime for Carson Drew's only daughter...

"Okay, maybe not," Bess said. From the expression on her face, I guessed she was probably imagining a similar conversation. "But we should at least try to do the right thing."

"But is it the right thing?" I said. "If Leslie's parents haven't reported her missing, there must be a reason— some kind of ransom note, or instructions to keep quiet, backed up with threats of some kind. We don't want to put Leslie in more danger."

George looked uncertain. "You don't really think Granger would..." Her voice trailed off.

"'We don't know what he might do," I said. "In fact, I think it's time to do a little more snooping into our possible future mayor. Come on, let's hit the computer again."

Soon we were back at George's computer, digging through the many online mentions of Morris Granger. We turned up plenty of information about his companies, his real estate holdings, and much more. George had been right about his homes in other parts of the country; he owned property in several midwestern states, apartments in Chicago and New York City, a beach estate in Florida, and a town house in River Heights.

"Yikes," Bess said. "What if he's shipped Leslie off to one of those places? We'd never be able to find her without help from the police."

"I doubt he'd do that," I said. "I mean, I'm sure he doesn't really want to hurt her, or keep her forever. He's probably planning to release her as soon as the paperwork deadline passes and his unopposed run is a sure thing. So it makes sense that he'd keep her someplace local."

"But if he releases Leslie, won't she be able to turn him in as the kidnapper?" George pointed out.

I shrugged. "Only if she knows he was behind it," I replied. "And I seriously doubt that a rich, powerful man like Morris Granger would get anywhere near the dirty work himself. He probably hired some icky underworld-criminal types to grab her and guard her until he says the word."

We continued the online investigation, scanning through so many articles about corporate buyouts and stock options that my eyes started to cross.

"It's weird that there's no hint of anything shady in Granger's past in anything we've read so far," Bess commented as we read an article from a back issue of a national business journal. "I mean, a lot of those big financial guys get in trouble somewhere along the line, but there's not even a hint of anything suspicious about this guy."

George nodded. "Good point," she said. "Maybe it's time to dig a little deeper..."

I winced. Whenever George gets that particular gleam in her eyes, it means she's about to do something illegal, or at least highly irregular. She can hack through any ordinary firewall like it's nothing, and takes trickier ones as an exciting challenge. Normally I try to discourage that sort of behavior as much as possible; as a lawyer's daughter, lawbreaking of any sort always troubles me. However, I figured that in this case, whatever we might find out would make it worth looking the other way for a while. I didn't say a word as she started typing rapidly

Despite her best efforts, though, George didn't come up with anything dastardly or even slightly despicable in Granger's past. "He's clean," she said, sounding slightly annoyed at the fact. "I'd put money on it."

Coming from George, that was practically an ironclad guarantee. I stood and stretched my shoulders. "Well, I guess that's good news," I said. "If this is Grangers first criminal act, it probably means Leslie's less likely to get hurt."

George glanced at me, looking grim. "Or maybe it means he's so desperate for the mayor's job that he's willing to do anything."

***

"How about a portable CD player?" Mrs. Fayne said. "Or a nice new set of barbecue tools?"

"Neither of those seem quite right," I said. "But keep the good ideas coming! I need all the help I can get, or you re all going to see a very embarrassed and pathetic daughter at that party on Thursday night."

George's mother chuckled sympathetically. "I'm sure you'll come up with something wonderful, Nancy," she assured me, her brown eyes twinkling.

When George, Bess, and I had emerged from George's room, we found George's parents playing a lively game of cards. They had immediately corralled us and insisted we join them for ice cream. All five of us were now sitting around the table in the Faynes' bright, big country kitchen discussing my gift dilemma.

Mr. Fayne licked some chocolate sauce off his spoon. "Well, if you need any help shopping, I could come along and help you out," he said. "Say, tomorrow night, around seven?"

Mrs. Fayne made a face at him. "Very funny, dear," she said. She glanced at the rest of us. "He's taking me to the recital over at the university tomorrow night," she explained. "He's been trying to get out of it all week—says classical music puts him to sleep."

"At least I should get a good nap out of it," Mr. Fayne joked.

I recalled that George had mentioned something about that earlier. "I hear you’re a fan of Leslie Simmons," I remarked, trying to sound casual. "She's supposed to be quite a pianist."

"Oh, she is! She's wonderful," Mrs. Fayne replied enthusiastically. "She just makes the music come alive."

After our dessert break, my friends and I excused ourselves while George's parents returned to their card game. I led the way outside.

"Look," I said. "I just realized—by this time tomorrow night, a whole lot more people are going to know that Leslie isn't around when she doesn't show for that recital."

"If she doesn't show," George corrected.

"Okay—if," I agreed. "In the meantime, I think we should keep investigating. Let's drive over to Morris Granger's place and see if we can turn up anything interesting there. Maybe we'll find some clues—or even Leslie herself!" I was feeling a growing sense of urgency about the case. Not only was Leslie's disappearance going to be harder and harder for her parents to hide, but I had just realized that I had promised to spend the next afternoon and all day Wednesday helping out with a charity tag sale. This could be my last chance to crack the case.

"Are you sure it's such a good idea to go to his house?" Bess said dubiously. "Seems pretty risky to me. What if he catches us snooping around?"

George sighed. "Give it up, Bess," she advised. "You know she's going anyway. We might as well tag along and try to keep her out of trouble."

I grinned. "Come on," I said. "I'll drive."

At that, Bess looked more dubious than ever. "Are you sure?" she said. "I don't mind driving. Really. And my car is much closer than yours."

She pointed to her car, which was parked exactly one space closer on the curb than mine. I rolled my eyes. For some reason Bess doesn't trust me behind the wheel. It's not that I'm an unsafe driver—I always follow the speed limit, and rarely forget to signal before I make a turn. However, I have occasionally been known to get slightly distracted when I'm thinking about a case, and this means I'll forget to check the gas gauge and run out of gas. Or I might leave the door open when I leave the car and thus run down the battery. Or forget to take the key out of the ignition and accidentally lock it inside the car.

Of course, that sort of thing almost never happens. Probably no more than once a month or so. Still, Bess just doesn't trust me.

She made a big show of carefully checking the gas gauge as she climbed into the passenger seat. "We're good," she told George. "There's about half a tank. That should be enough to get us to the other side of town and back, even with Nancy driving."

"Ha-ha," I said with a snort. "Come on, let's get those seat belts on so we can get moving. It's getting late."

It didn't take us long to find Granger's home. It was located in a luxurious new town house community on the outskirts of River Heights. We knew the address from George's snooping earlier. To avoid suspicion, I carefully parked a few doors down.

We climbed out of the car. There were no regular streetlights in the development, but tastefully landscaped lighting fixtures made it easy to get a clear look around. Grangers town house was an end unit. It was two stories high in the front, but from where we were standing we could see that the neatly mowed lawn dropped off sharply in the back. The house most likely featured a walk-out basement with a nice view of the small lake behind. A large white van bearing the words Taylor's Tireless Cleaning Service was parked right in front. As we watched, several apron-clad women hurried up the front steps carrying various cleaning implements. The front door was propped open with a metal dustpan.

"Looks like the cleaning service is here," George said, checking her watch. "Weird time for them to be working."

"I guess they work around Granger's schedule," Bess suggested. "My mom has hired Taylor's Cleaning Service before, and that's sort of their specialty—they have people available twenty-four hours a day. They'll come and vacuum your house at midnight if you want. Granger probably arranged for them to come tonight because he's out of town or at a business dinner or something."

"Makes sense, I guess." George shrugged. "That means this was a wasted trip though. Granger's not here to spy on, and now we won't even be able to get a close look at his house with all these cleaners hanging around."

"Don't be so sure," I said. "Look, the front door is wide open."

Bess looked shocked. "You can't just walk in there, Nancy!"

I grinned at her. "Watch me."

Despite my confident words, my heart was pounding as I took a step toward the front door. I felt George grab my arm.

"Wait" she said. "This is a bad idea. What if you get caught? Or what if Granger comes home while you're in there?"

"Hmm, good point," I said. My friends looked relieved. "Keep a lookout for Granger," I continued. "I’ll come up with something to tell the cleaners if they catch me."

My friends' expressions returned to dismay as I hurried toward Granger's town house. I waited until none of the cleaning people were in sight. Then I dashed up the steps and into the house. My heart was thumping in my chest. I knew my father would disapprove if he was there. But he wasn't there, I told myself, glancing around the art-lined front hall and darting into the nearest room. Besides, I didn't have time to worry about following the rules—not if Leslie was in as much trouble as I thought she was.

The room I'd just entered seemed to be some sort of sitting room. It had a carpeted floor, elegant drapes, and expensive-looking furniture. Stepping toward the front window, I pulled aside the heavy curtain and peeked outside. Bess and George were still standing on the sidewalk where I'd left them—but they were no longer alone. Several young men had joined them, and I could see them jostling each other in their eagerness to talk to Bess.

I rolled my eyes. George and I like to joke that Bess could meet a cute guy in a nunnery, and sometimes I almost think it's true. Guys are drawn to her like paperclips to a magnet. Her all-American good looks and curvy figure have something to do with that, of course. But I think her bubbly personality has even more to do with it. She has a way of smiling and listening that makes whoever she's talking to at the moment feel like the most important person in the world.

Of course, Bess's winning personality wasn't much help to me at the moment. At least George still seemed to be keeping an eye on the incoming road.

That reminded me—I might not have much time. It was getting late. Unless he was out of town, Granger would certainly be home before too much longer. I had to work fast.

I listened at the door until I was pretty sure none of the cleaning people were in the hallway. Fortunately it sounded like most of them were either upstairs or in the kitchen at the back of the house. Taking a deep breath, I dashed across the hall to the next door. I listened briefly, but heard nothing on the other side. When I opened it, I saw steps leading down into darkness.

"Basement," I whispered, moving on to the next door.

This time I struck gold. I could tell right away that the new room was Granger's home office. A large, leather-topped desk dominated the space. Several versions of a Granger for Mayor campaign poster were tacked up on a corkboard with notes scribbled here and there. A large set of metal filing cabinets lined one wall, and bookshelves filled with volumes of boring-looking financial and business texts filled another.

I smiled. If Granger was up to something fishy, surely I would find evidence of it here.

I didn't waste any time getting started on my snooping. Sitting down in the black-leather chair behind the desk, I sifted through the piles of papers, looking for anything suspicious. Everything seemed to be in order there, so I turned to the first filing cabinet. I opened it and glanced at the tightly packed papers inside.

That was all I had time for before I heard a terrible sound: a dog barking. And it sounded like it was coming from inside the house.

"Shoot," I muttered to myself. "Either a neighbor’s dog just wandered in through that open door, or..."

"Hello, Ms. Taylor!" A man's voice rang out from somewhere nearby. It was slightly muffled, as if drifting in from outside. "Sorry to interrupt your work, but my dinner ended earlier than expected."

My heart pounded. Unless I missed my guess, Morris Granger was home—and that meant it was time for me to get out of there!

I cracked open the office door and peered out. There was no one in the hallway. Maybe I still had time to escape. I carefully stepped out. Suddenly, a small white blur flew through the air toward me. The dog. I'd already forgotten about the dog!

Sure enough, the blur slowed and turned into a small white dog that started yapping excitedly, bouncing up and down and scrabbling at my legs. It seemed friendly enough, but it was definitely making a racket. I did my best to dodge around it, still hoping to slip out the door while Granger talked to the cleaning people.

"What is it, Fluffy?" the man's voice boomed, sounding much closer this time. Footsteps sounded on the front stoop just outside.

I froze. Glancing around, I gauged the distance to the kitchen. But some of the cleaning people were probably still in there. If I ran upstairs, I would be trapped. I could try to make it to that front room—it probably wasn't used much, and I might be able to climb out the window. But my split second of hesitation had already cost me too much time. Any moment now Granger would reach the front door, step inside, and see me. I had to get out of sight any way I could.

Gently shoving away the excited little dog with my foot, I leaped across the hall and yanked open the basement door. I slipped through and pulled the door shut behind me just as I heard footsteps clump onto the wooden floorboards in the hallway.

"What's the matter, Fluffy?" Granger's voice came again, only slightly muffled this time by the thin wood of the basement door. "Are you barking at those monsters in the basement again?"

I sidled down the stairs in case he opened the door, feeling my way as best I could in the darkness. To my surprise, the basement was a little lighter at the bottom. I glanced over and saw a large sliding glass door on the back wall.

Of course! I thought with a quick flash of hope. The yard dropped off in the back—a walk-out basement. I could slip out, and nobody would ever know I was in there…

Hurrying over to the door, I pulled at the handle. But even after fiddling with the lock, trying it in every position, the door didn't budge. I yanked at it in frustration, wondering if it was stuck.

Then, as I squinted desperately at the door handle, I saw my answer: A solid metal padlock was hanging from the handle on the other side of the glass, locking the door from the outside. I clenched my fist and pounded the glass in frustration. How was I going to get out now? Even if I hid out in the basement until Granger went to bed, I was sure he had some kind of security system.

I froze, realizing I might not have to worry about that. I'd just heard the basement door swing open. A second later Fluffy was dancing around my feet again.

"You may be right about the monster this time, Fluffy." Granger's jovial voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. "I heard it that time too. Hope those darn squirrels didn't find a way back in."

A second later an overhead light flickered on. I could now see that the basement was nothing more than a moderately sized, nearly empty room holding little more than the furnace and water heater. I heard a footstep on the stairs, and then another. Granger was coming down. There was nowhere to hide, and the door was locked.

I was trapped!

Close Calls

I almost moaned outloud in my panic, wondering if I could possibly squeeze out of sight behind the water heater. Then, suddenly, I noticed movement on the outside of the sliding glass door.

"Bess!" I hissed under my breath, recognizing my friend's bright blond hair.

I glanced toward the stairs. There was paneling covering part of the stairwell, which meant Grangers legs wouldn't be visible until he was about halfway down. It also meant he wouldn't be able to see me until he was almost at the bottom of the stairs.

Fluffy had left my feet and raced back up the stairs and out of my sight, still barking excitedly. "All right, all right." Granger laughed. "Come on, let's see what you're so interested in down here, little guy."

I cast a frantic glance outside. Bess was working away at the lock—she has a knack for anything mechanical, and I knew it was only a matter of time before she cracked the lock and got the door open. Unfortunately time was the one thing we didn't have.

Footsteps. Granger was moving. I watched nervously as an expensive-looking black dress shoe and dark trouser leg stepped into view, soon followed by another. At least he was taking the steps incredibly slowly...

Bess was still working, but time was running out. I took a deep breath, trying to figure out what to say when Granger saw me. Maybe I could still talk my way out of this.

At that moment, over the noise of Fluffy’s barking, I heard a wonderful sound: a ringing phone. Granger muttered something under his breath, sounding annoyed.

"Come on, Fluffy," he called. "Get up here. I'd better see who that is. I'll check out your monster in a minute.'

The footsteps hurried up the stairs and were followed by the dog's clicking toenails. I finally exhaled, almost passing out from relief.

I peered outside again. Bess was still working at the lock, her expression focused and grim. Suddenly a tiny beam of light appeared right behind her. Squinting past it, I saw George's face bending closer, holding the light on the lock so Bess could see better. I recognized the penlight George had bought at Riverside Electronics. She always told us that thing would come in handy someday.

The light seemed to help. Within seconds Bess was yanking the lock off the door handle. A moment later she and George slid open the glass door.

"Thank goodness!" I gasped, rushing out immediately and grabbing them both in a big hug. "I thought I was dead meat when I saw that lock. How did you know where I was?"

George glanced in through the glass door. "We'll tell you in a minute," she said. "Come on. I think he's coming back."

Sure enough, I turned just in time to see Fluffy leaping down the last few steps. The little dog let out a flurry of barks and raced toward the door.

"Yikes!" I exclaimed, jumping forward and sliding the door shut just in time. The dog leaped up and hit it with his front paws, whining with frustration.

We didn't wait around to see if his master was coming down behind him. Bess quickly snapped the padlock back into place. Then, following the thin beam of George's penlight, we raced around the side of the house toward my car.

***

By the time I got home it was very late, and I was feeling frustrated. I still hadn't found out anything useful about Granger, even after taking such a big risk and almost getting busted.

It was a good thing George got sick of watching Bess flirt with those guys and went to look around the yard. If Granger had caught me down there...

I shuddered, not bothering to finish the thought. Obviously luck had been with me that night. I found out later that George had been wandering around in the yard on the side of the house when Granger arrived home. She'd ducked around the back of the house and glanced in the basement door just in time to see me come downstairs and try the door. Realizing my dilemma, she'd raced back out front to grab Bess, who immediately grabbed her deluxe Swiss Army knife from her purse and ran to my aid. It had taken George a few minutes to convince her cousin's suitors to scram, but then she'd hurried back to help Bess.

The light was on in my father's home office when I let myself into the house. I glanced in and saw him at his desk, leaning over some paperwork.

"Hi, Dad," I greeted him.

He jumped, clearly startled by my appearance in the doorway. "Oh! Nancy," he said, looking at his watch. "There you are. Did you have fun with your friends?"

"Sure " I said.

I couldn't help notice that he looked tired and worried. He always worked hard, but that usually just seemed to energize him. I suspected that what Heather and Clay Simmons had told him was weighing heavily on his mind. He was so honest and upstanding by nature, I was sure that keeping something so important from the police was making him feel extremely conflicted.

What a way to spend his birthday week, I thought. That made me feel a flash of guilt. In all the excitement over the Simmons case, I hadn't devoted any time to coming up with a great idea for a gift.

I said good night and headed upstairs, though I wasn't really tired. My mind was still ticking away, trying to come up with a new approach to the case. I briefly considered going to see Mr. and Mrs. Simmons myself and trying to convince them to tell me what they knew. But I was afraid they would suspect that Dad had told me about Leslie's disappearance, and I didn't want to compromise their trust in him. I would have to figure out another way.

If only I could find out more about Granger somehow—find out if he was really making designs on Rackham Industries, and what he'd done about it so far. Maybe that could provide a clue that would help us find Leslie.

Checking my watch, I wondered if it was too late to call Ned. His classes at the university didn't start for a couple of weeks, but he was still working part-time at the Bugle. Deciding to risk waking him, I called his cell phone, so as not to disturb the rest of his family.

He picked up after a couple of rings. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's me," I said.

I could almost hear his smile through the phone. "Hey," he said, sounding very much awake. "How are you doing, me?"

"Fine" I said qu

Date: 2016-03-03; view: 524