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Advances and Retreats

 

Sure enough, the girlbehind the desk was Deirdre Shannon, the richest, snobbiest girl in town. Just our luck.

"What are you doing here?" she and I said to each other at the same time.

She scowled at me. Then she noticed Ned, and her expression played through an interesting range of emotions—from surprise to delight to embarrassment.

I hid a smile. Deirdre had always taken great pride in her family's wealth, never hesitating to show off her expensive car or the latest fashions. It had to be mortifying for her to be caught working like a regular person—especially by someone she couldn't stand, which would be me. Deirdre and I had known each other for years and years, but even back in kindergarten we'd mixed about as well as oil and water.

As usual Deirdre hid whatever vulnerability she might be feeling by going on the offensive. "What are you snooping around here for?" she demanded, glaring at me.

"Deirdre!" The secretary sounded shocked. "Miss Drew and Mr. Nickerson had an appointment with Mr. Halloran. There's no need to be rude to them."

Deirdre tossed her dark hair behind her shoulder. "You don't know nosy Nancy. She's always up to something—like spying on me, for instance." She turned and smiled coquettishly at my boyfriend. "Of course, it's always cool to see you, Ned, no matter what the reason."

Ned shot me an amused glance. He knows that Deirdre’s huge, ongoing crush on him is a constant source of entertainment for me and my friends.

"Thanks, Deirdre," he said pleasantly. "So what are you doing here, anyway?"

Deirdre shrugged, and annoyance—or maybe embarrassment—creased her brow once again. "Oh, my parents are friends with Halloran from the country club," she said. "For some reason, they thought it would be a good idea for me to try an internship here this summer. It's a totally lame idea, you know? I tried to talk them out of it, but..."

She looked so uncomfortable and humiliated that I almost felt sorry for her. For Deirdre, being caught working is probably like anybody else being caught stealing candy from babies. She'd probably never live this down.

"So, Deirdre," I blurted out, my sympathy overcoming my usual distaste for her. "As long as you're here, maybe you can help me out with something. My dad's birthday is this week, and I'm having trouble finding a gift for him. Your father must be almost as hard to shop for as mine—do you have any ideas?"

Deirdre looked startled. "I don't know," she said. "What about a new pair of skis? That's what I got my dad last year."

"Hmm! Good idea," I said, even though I knew my father wasn't particularly interested in skiing. "I'll think about that. Thanks. Come on, Ned—we'd better get going."

A moment later, as the elevator doors slid shut in front of us, Ned glanced at me. "Okay, what was all that about?"



"What?" I asked innocently.

He crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows. "That," he said succinctly. "Asking Deirdre for advice back there."

"Oh." I grinned and shrugged. "Well, you have to admit, she does know a lot about shopping."

 

***

 

As Ned drove me to my volunteer project, we talked over what we knew about the case so far. It still wasn't much.

"I'm not sure what to do next," I admitted as Ned stopped at a red light. "No matter what I try, I'm not finding anything I can use. I'm still sure my theory is right, but how am I supposed to prove it?"

Ned shrugged. "Good question. Too bad Halloran was a dead end. If you'd come up with any evidence that Granger was angling to take over Rackham Industries and using the mayor's office to do it, even Chief McGinnis would have to listen to you."

"I know." I frowned, thinking hard. "But how else can I get that kind of evidence? Maybe I should try to talk to Granger himself."

Ned shot me a quick glance before returning his attention to the road. "That doesn't seem like such a great idea," he said. "If Granger really is the kidnapper, you don't want to let him know you're on to him—or you might disappear too."

I chewed on my lower lip. "But he wouldn't have to know," I said. "I would just need to be subtle..." Suddenly I sat up straight. "I know. Deirdre!"

"Huh?"

"Deirdre's family belongs to the country club," I reminded Ned. "So does Granger. And I'm pretty sure the Simmonses do too. If I could finagle an invitation out of Deirdre..."

Ned snorted. "Yeah, like that's going to happen," he said. "Seriously, Nancy, you're really not even sure yet that your kidnapping theory is right. Do you really want to put yourself through the Deirdre Experience only to have it turn out that Leslie's just visiting relatives or something?"

I was about to argue, but I sighed instead. I had to admit that he had a point. Hunch or no hunch, I didn't have any solid evidence that there was actually a mystery to be solved.

"I guess you're right," I said heavily. "I just wish I knew for sure where Leslie Simmons is right now."

"I know." Ned sounded sympathetic. "Well, maybe she'll turn up soon and you'll have your answers."

"Her music camp recital is tonight," I said. "If she shows up for that, I guess this will all be a big false alarm. If she doesn't..." I glanced at Ned. "Hey, want to go to the recital with me? It's open to the public—George's parents are going."

Ned shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

"From what I know about Leslie, she wouldn't miss that for anything," I mused, talking more to myself than to Ned. "If she turns up, it means there's no mystery, and we'll just have an evening of nice music. If she doesn't, it will prove that something fishy really is going on." Seeing Ned shoot me a slightly doubtful look, I added, "For me, at least."

I realized it might also give me an opportunity to talk to some of Leslie's friends and teachers. One of them might know something useful.

There was no more time to think about it just then. Ned pulled his car up to the university's football stadium, where my charity group was setting up for a giant fund-raising tag sale. The sale was scheduled to begin the next day and run through the weekend, and was expected to attract thousands of visitors. All sorts of local businesses had donated items or services to be sold or raffled off, and many individuals had contributed as well. I had volunteered to work at the setup and also help run one of the booths the next day.

After asking Ned to call Bess and George to see if they would come to the recital too, I hopped out of the car, and Ned drove away. Then I sighed and walked into the stadium, feeling a little impatient at the thought of missing out on a whole afternoon of investigating.

I tried to look on the bright side as I glanced around at the tables piled full of countless donated items, from outgrown tricycles to valuable antique vases and everything in between. I probably wouldn't be able to do much sleuthing while I was here—but maybe I'd at least be able to find something for Dad's birthday.

 

"So did you find anything for your father?" Bess asked as Ned pulled into a parking space in one of the university lots that evening. She and George were sitting in the backseat, and I was in the passenger seat up front.

"No," I said. "I must've checked out every table in the place. I had the perfect excuse for browsing: I was in charge of one of the pricing guns. But I didn't find anything good."

I sighed, feeling another pang of guilt about not spending more time shopping. Still, I knew that Dad would understand if he knew what was going on. He knows that I can't resist a mystery, especially one where someone might be in real trouble. And he knows that I can't think about much else until it's solved.

My friends and I found the hall where the recital was being held. I checked my watch as Ned bought tickets in the high-ceilinged, carpeted lobby.

"We have about half an hour until it's supposed to start," I told Bess and George. "That should give us time to find out whether Leslie is here—and start asking questions if she isn't."

"Yoo-hoo! Girls!"

I looked up to see George's parents hurrying toward us through the crowd that was beginning to trickle into the auditorium. Mrs. Fayne was waving and smiling. Mr. Fayne looked slightly disgruntled.

"You didn't mention that you and your friends would be here tonight, Georgia," Mr. Fayne said. "If I'd known, I would've made you bring your mother so I could stay home and watch the game on TV"

"Oh, stop it." Mrs. Fayne gave her husband a playful shove.

George wrinkled her nose at her hated full name. Her parents were just about the only people who could call her Georgia and get away with it.

"It was kind of a last-minute plan," she said.

"Well, I hope you're not too disappointed," Mrs. Fayne said, shaking her head. "I just heard that Leslie Simmons won't be playing tonight after all. The whole place is buzzing about it."

"Really?" I perked up. "Are you sure?"

Mrs. Fayne nodded. "I ran into some women I know from my bridge club. They told me they heard it straight from Leslie's music teacher, Mrs. Diver. Such a disappointment."

Ned returned at that moment from the ticket window. He exchanged greetings and pleasantries with George's parents. A moment later, the Faynes spotted some other friends and excused themselves.

"Okay, now what?" George said as soon as they were gone. "We know Leslie's not here. So what are we supposed to do now?"

"Let's split up," I suggested. "We can all talk to people, try to find out if anyone knows anything. Oh, and let me know if you find that music teacher, Mrs. Diver. I'd like to talk to her."

My friends nodded, and we went our separate ways. I headed into the large, airy auditorium. A few dozen people were already inside. Some were in their seats reading their programs, while others stood chatting near the doors, or in clusters near the stage, watching the students set up their music stands and instruments on stage.

I wandered down the aisle, pretending to watch the students, but I was actually paying more attention to the conversations going on nearby. I heard several older women chatting about Leslie's absence and expressing kind concern as they discussed the possible reasons. A little farther down the aisle, a pair of women in their late twenties were debating about whether to stay or go, since they'd come primarily to hear Leslie. Mrs. Fayne was right. Everyone here was talking about Leslie.

I glanced toward the stage. A short, plump woman had just scurried out onto the stage with a skinny teenage boy in tow. The woman had curly bright-red hair, and was wearing a flowered dress and cat's-eye glasses on a chain around her neck. The boy had pimples on his nose and a miserable expression on his face. As I watched, the woman led the way to the grand piano at one side of the stage and lifted the cover off the keys. She gestured at the keyboard and I could see her chattering rapidly at the boy, though I couldn't quite hear her words from where I was standing. I took a few steps forward, straining to hear.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" a woman's voice said from very nearby.

I jumped, realizing that I'd just stepped in front of a preppy-looking woman in her early forties. She was perched on the arm of one of the aisle seats, watching the stage. She nodded toward the woman and teenager.

"Poor Matthew has to step in and play Leslie's part," the woman said. "He must be terribly nervous."

I smiled politely. "Yes, I just heard that Leslie won't be here tonight," I said. "I was really looking forward to hearing her play. Do you know why she can't make it? Is she sick or something?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," the woman replied. "She has an audition on Thursday morning for the conservatory scholarship and she's on retreat for a few days, getting in some extra practice."

"It sounds like you know Leslie well," I commented, carefully keeping my voice casual. Had I just found the answer to the mystery? "My name's Nancy, by the way. Nancy Drew."

"I'm Marcia Sharon," the woman said, not seeming to recognize my name as she shook my hand. "And yes, I know Leslie. My eldest daughter, Diane, is a classmate of hers at school, and the two of them are in music camp together this summer. My Diane plays the cello. Mrs. Diver says she's the most talented cellist she's seen in years." The woman's eyes reflected her pride in her daughter.

"How nice," I said politely.

I was about to question her further when George suddenly appeared at my side. "Excuse me," George said breathlessly, grabbing my arm. "I'm afraid Nancy is needed elsewhere."

Before I could protest, she dragged me halfway down the aisle. "What was that about?" I asked, yanking my arm back and glancing at Mrs. Sharon, who was already talking to someone else. "I was just finding out some useful information."

"I thought you wanted us to let you know if we found Leslie's music teacher," George said. She pointed to the stage. "Well, that's her up there by the piano, talking to that skinny kid."

"Oh." I rubbed my arm absently as I glanced at the woman in the flowered dress. I sighed. "Well, it might not matter after all. That woman I was talking to back there—Mrs. Sharon—says Leslie's on a retreat to practice for her audition."

"Sharon?" George said. "Did you say Mrs. Sharon?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Wasn't that the name we saw on the list of audition times for the scholarship contest?" George prompted. "We thought it was funny because 'D. Sharon' was so close to 'D. Shannon,' remember?"

"Oh, yeah." I nodded. "She just said her daughter's name is Diane. I guess that means she's trying out for the scholarship too. Mrs. Sharon said she's a cellist."

I glanced at the stage, wondering which of the teens milling around up there was Mrs. Sharon's daughter. I didn't see any cellos up there. Maybe she wasn't set up yet. Or maybe she was skipping the recital to practice for the audition too…

But I wasn't really thinking too hard about Diane Sharon. I was much more interested in what I'd just learned about Leslie Simmons. Could it be true? All this time, was Leslie merely offpracticing somewhere, preparing her piece for the scholarship tryouts? Was the mystery only in my head after all?

There could have been other explanations for that scene I saw on the street the day before. Mr. and Mrs. Simmons could have been arguing about almost anything. Just because they looked in the general direction of the police station once or twice didn't necessarily mean anything. Maybe they were fighting about her running for mayor. Or about how to pay for Leslies tuition at the conservatory if she didn't win the scholarship. Or what to have for dinner even.

I suddenly noticed that George was no longer at my side. Glancing around, I saw that she had hopped up onstage and was talking to Mrs. Diver, pointing to me at the same time. A moment later the two of them hurried in my direction.

Putting a polite smile on my face, I waited for them to climb down off the stage and reach me. I wasn't anywhere near as interested in talking to the music teacher as I had been a few minutes earlier. I figured, however, that it wouldn't hurt to confirm what Mrs. Sharon had told me.

"Hello, Mrs. Diver," I said when George introduced us, shaking the woman's hand. "It's so nice to meet you. My friends and I are really looking forward to hearing your students play tonight. But we were a little disappointed to learn that Leslie Simmons won't be among them!"

The woman's pleasant expression turned into a frown. "Ah, yes," she said in a light, fluttery voice. "I was disappointed by that myself. It hasn't been easy to find someone to take over her part at the last minute."

"You mean you didn't know she was going to be away?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not," Mrs. Diver said. "Her father called me at home over the weekend to let me know she would be going on retreat this week to rehearse." She shook her head, her frown deepening. "I tried to change his mind, of course—even started to offer to help her rehearse myself, stay late after camp or whatnot. But he cut me off before I could finish my sentence." She sounded a bit wounded. "You know, until then I'd always found Clay Simmons a delightful man—polite and witty. But he was a whole different person on the phone that night. Very brusque." She drew herself up to her full height of about five foot even, glowering at the memory. "He all but came out and told me to mind my own business!"

 

Stakeout

 

George and I madesympathetic noises as Mrs. Diver muttered a bit more about Clay Simmons. All the while my mind was racing. This changed everything. It now looked like there was a mystery to solve here after all!

I was sure this was an important clue. Clay Simmons wasn't the type of person to be rude for no reason—I was certain of that.

He and Heather might have been using this rehearsal-retreat story as a cover, so people wouldn't start asking too many questions about where Leslie was. That way they could keep the kidnapper happy in the hope that he'd return their daughter unharmed.

It occurred to me that I might be exaggerating the meager evidence I had and convincing myself that there was a mystery when there really wasn't one. But I quickly shrugged off the thought. What was the worst that could come of continuing to investigate? If Leslie turned up at that audition on Thursday morning, safe and sound, I would be more than happy to admit that I was wrong and take all the teasing my friends could dish out. But if she didn't...

I shook my head. I had to keep digging... .just in case. Leslie's safety might depend on it.

 

Unfortunately I wasn't able to continue my investigation until late the following afternoon. By the time the recital let out, it was time to head home to bed. Wednesday morning and early afternoon were filled with the charity tag sale, where I was kept busy marking prices, ringing up sales, and assisting customers.

I finally managed to escape from the sale at around four thirty. Earlier I had called Bess and George and asked them to meet me at Food for Thought, a sandwich shop near the university. I'd called Ned too, but he wasn't home.

After a quick walk across campus, I hurried into the cramped but cheerful shop, which always smelled of sour pickles and frying bacon. My mind was racing as I tried to figure out what to do next. There wasn't much time left; the filing deadline was just a little over forty-eight hours away. If I didn't find Leslie soon, Granger was going to get away with his plan. And I definitely didn't want that to happen.

Bess and George were sitting at one of the round, marble-topped tables near the counter. They looked up and waved when they saw me come in.

"Hi," I greeted them. "Glad you're here."

George checked her watch. "We've been here for ten minutes," she said grumpily, "and we're starving. If you hadn't shown up soon, I was going to order without you."

I smiled. "Okay, let's eat," I said. "But get your sandwiches to go, okay? We're short on time, and I want to get going on this investigation."

"Get going?" Bess said. "Get going where? What do you have in mind, Nancy?"

I shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. I have a couple of ideas, but I've hardly had a second all day to think about them."

"Go ahead and think," George said, her gaze wandering to the large menu board above the counter. "Meanwhile, I'll think about ordering a liverwurst and salami with extra cheese."

"Liverwurst?" Bess protested. "Ick! Besides, I thought you said you were in the mood for a burger?"

"Oh, yeah!" George's eyes lit up. She glanced from one side of the menu board to the other, looking conflicted. "They both sound great. Then again, so does the double bratwurst special."

Bess licked her lips. "Ooh, that does sound good. But I'm trying to stay away from the heavy stuff." She patted her belly. "I think I'll have the turkey on rye..."

I tapped my foot impatiently as the cousins continued to debate the menu. I could almost hear the seconds ticking away on the big chrome clock over the shop's door. Was Leslie counting the seconds too, wherever she was? Were her parents counting the seconds until their daughter returned?

As I'd told my friends, I'd been too busy at the tag sale to think much about the case. But now that I had a moment, I realized that I really had no idea how to proceed. I was sure I had the answers in this case— but how could I prove them? If I went to Chief McGinnis and told him what I believed, he would think I was crazy.

I'd have to figure out a way to tie Granger to Leslie's disappearance. I considered trying the fake-interview trick again, but quickly shrugged off that idea. Granger was used to tough business negotiations; a few pointed questions weren't likely to force a confession out of a man like him. Besides, setting up such an interview would probably take too long, especially since I couldn't reach Ned. I chewed my lower lip, trying to come up with other options.

Finally Bess and George made up their minds. We placed our sandwich orders with the short, grizzled old man behind the counter.

"All right, girls," he said in a slow, lightly accented voice. "Have a seat over there if you like. I'll give you a holler when they're ready."

I felt like shouting, "Hurry! Hurry!" as the little man shuffled slowly over to the wooden bin full of rolls behind the counter. His unhurried, deliberate movements seemed to taunt me, to remind me that time was passing and I wasn't making any progress on the mystery. Deciding it was probably better not to drive myself crazy by watching him, I turned and followed my friends back to their table.

"Okay, Nancy," George said as she flopped into a chair. "I can tell you're really distracted—otherwise, why would you order a boring sandwich like plain turkey on white? Come on, girl. Condiments were invented for a reason!"

"Sorry, but I don't have time to figure out exciting sandwich combinations right now," I said, carefully keeping my voice low so that the other customers in the shop wouldn't overhear. "I'm too busy thinking about how to prove that Morris Granger kidnapped Leslie."

'You know, I hate to say it, but the more I think about your theory, the more far-fetched it seems," Bess told me, looking troubled. "I mean, I'm not crazy about some outsider coming in and wanting to be mayor of River Heights. Especially someone who might have his eye on Rackham Industries. But I've seen Mr. Granger on TV and stuff, and he really doesn't seem like the criminal type."

"And we didn't find any dirt on him online, remember?" George added. "Why would a guy like him stoop to kidnapping all of a sudden?"

I frowned. "I don't know," I said. "That's why they call it a mystery." I wasn't thrilled about their attitudes. If we were going to help Leslie, we had to act fast, not waste time arguing.

"Why don't you just wait until tomorrow morning and see if she turns up for that audition?" George suggested. "That way, you'll know if there really is a mystery."

I shook my head. "That just means wasting another half a day, which Mrs. Simmons could use to fill out that paperwork," I said. "Besides, if Leslie misses her audition, people are really going to notice. They were already gossiping about her missing the recital, remember? What if someone gets so worried that they call the police?"

George shrugged. "So what if they do?" she said, playing with a crumpled straw wrapper someone had left on the tabletop. "At the rate the River Heights Police Department moves, they'll get around to investigating sometime next Tuesday."

"Joke about it if you want," I said grimly. "But Leslie could be in deadly danger—and I think we need to do whatever we can to help her."

My friends exchanged a glance. "All right, Nancy," Bess said. "We'll help if we can. But what do you think we should do?"

I took a deep breath. "I think we should tail Granger."

"Oh, yeah," George said sarcastically. "Because that worked so well the last time."

"No, listen," I said. "I'm not talking about going to his house this time. We know where his office is. We can go there right now and wait for him to come out. Then we'll follow him."

"Why?" George asked bluntly.

I shrugged, not wanting to admit that I was feeling a little less than confident about my own plan. "The deadline for the paperwork is getting close," I said. "Granger's probably going to be keeping an eye on Leslie from now on, wherever she is. Maybe he'll lead us there."

Bess's forehead crinkled slightly. "But I thought you said he wouldn't want to have any contact with Leslie—you know, so she couldn't identify him after he lets her go. So what good will it do to follow him?"

"Look," I said, feeling frustrated. Normally I love it when my friends ask intelligent questions about my cases—they help me figure things out. But at the moment, I didn't seem to have any good answers for them. Or for myself. "We need to do something. And since Granger is our only suspect, he's also our only lead. Now, are you with me, or not?"

Bess and George glanced at each other. They both shrugged.

"I guess so," George answered for both of them. "I mean, we're not about to let you run off after a possible kidnapper all by yourself."

It wasn't exactly the rousing vote of support I might have hoped for, but it would have to do. "Good," I said.

At that moment the man behind the counter called out our names. Our sandwiches were finally ready. We each grabbed a beverage from the cooler near the counter. After paying for our food, we headed outside.

"Come on," I said. "We'll take my car. That way you guys can eat while I drive."

Bess looked doubtful, but George was already heading for the passenger-side door. "Sounds good to me," she said, reaching into her bag to pull out her sandwich.

We didn't talk much on the short ride to the building where Granger's office was located. My friends were busy eating, and I was busy thinking.

Were they right? I clutched the wheel tightly as I waited for a red light to change. Was this a waste of time?

"Yo!" George mumbled through a mouthful of food. "Earth to Nancy. It's not going to get any greener."

With a start, I realized that the traffic light had changed. I stepped on the gas quickly, causing my car to lurch forward and almost cut off the engine. Bess winced, but kept quiet. I managed to keep us moving, and a moment later I was pulling to the curb directly across from the exit to a parking garage beneath a tall office building.

"So now what?" Bess asked, taking a sip of her jumbo-size soda.

"Now we wait." I cut the engine and leaned back in my seat. "When Granger comes out, we'll follow him."

George looked skeptical. "What if he already left?" she asked. "It's after five o'clock."

"Granger didn't get as rich and successful as he is by cutting out at five every day," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "Don't worry; he's still there."

I reached for my sandwich, ignoring the dubious glances my friends were exchanging.

 

We sat there in my car and waited. And waited. And then we waited some more.

An hour passed, and then two. All of our sandwiches were long gone. My friends were bored and grumpy, and I was starting to wonder if we were wasting our time. Car after car had emerged from the garage, but Granger hadn't been in any of them.

Finally, just as I checked my watch for the millionth time and saw that it was a little after seven thirty, I caught a flash of movement in the dim interior of the parking garage. A moment later a late-model blue sedan pulled up to the ticket window, and its driver leaned out to hand a pass to the attendant.

I gasped, sitting bolt upright. "That's him!" I said, recognizing the driver immediately. "It's Morris Granger!"

"It's about time," George muttered sourly.

The three of us crouched down in our seats, hiding our faces as the blue sedan pulled out. Granger didn't even glance our way as he drove off down the nearly deserted street.

I threw my car into gear so fast that the engine stalled. "Rats!" I muttered, turning the key to try again.

"Nice driving," Bess commented with a giggle.

Ignoring her, I pulled out and followed Grangers car. There wasn't much traffic for the first couple of blocks and I hung back as far as I dared, not wanting him to notice that he was being tailed. Soon he turned onto busy State Avenue, and I was able to stay a car or two behind him without fear of being sighted.

"What's the point in this, anyway?" George complained. "He’s probably just going to drive home, eat dinner, and go to bed. Or something equally thrilling."

I clutched the wheel tighter, knowing that she was probably right. Still, I kept my gaze trained on the taillights of the blue sedan. If he was heading home, he would be making a left soon onto Jackson Street.

And if he did, I was thinking maybe I should just admit that my friends were right and take them home. Driving out to Granger's place again wasn't going to help Leslie any.

My left pinkie finger hovered just over my turn signal, ready to hit it for the turn onto Jackson—but to my surprise, Granger drove right through the intersection without pausing.

"Hey," Bess said. "Shouldn't he have turned back there?"

My heart leaped with sudden hope. Maybe we hadn't wasted the last two and a half hours after all—

"Yep," I said, "if he was going home. Which he's obviously not."

George still didn't seem convinced. "All right, so he's going out to eat before he heads home. Big deal."

But instead of turning right to head over to River Street with its bustling shops and lively restaurants, he turned left onto Union Street. I followed.

"Ugh," Bess complained. "Why did he go this way? Everyone knows it's a mess because of the hospital construction work."

Sure enough, the street narrowed quickly into one lane. The construction workers had gone home for the day, but their orange road cones and signs remained.

I slowed the car to a crawl. There was no other traffic in sight, and I didn't want Granger to spot my car and get suspicious. He pulled past the cones and stopped at the curb, then climbed out without glancing around.

"Check it out," I whispered, my heart pounding with excitement. "He's going into the hospital construction site!"

The future site of the Granger Children's Hospital was little more than a maze of support beams with a few temporary plywood walls here and there. Piles of concrete, lumber, and stone sat everywhere, and pale gray plaster dust coated everything, giving the area the look of a moon colony beneath the dim gleam of the setting sun. As we watched, Granger walked right into the heart of the construction site, carefully stepping around the worst of the debris in his business suit and expensive leather shoes.

"What in the world is he doing here at this hour?" George asked in confusion.

I parked haphazardly in the nearest available spot at the curb, almost flattening a road cone in the process. "Don't you get it?" I whispered. "This must be where he's keeping Leslie! It's the perfect place to hide someone!"

Unfortunately it wasn't the perfect place to follow someone, as I soon discovered. My friends and I scurried after our quarry, but it wasn't easy keeping him in sight without being spotted. The support beams weren't large enough to provide much cover, and the debris littering the ground at every step made it difficult to move quietly.

I winced as Bess tripped over a pile of boards, and they fell with a loud clatter. "Ow!" she whispered, grabbing her foot.

"Get down," I hissed, yanking her behind a stack of cement blocks.

George crouched next to us. "Do you think he heard?" she breathed in my ear.

All I could do was shrug. I leaned forward, listening closely for any hint of footsteps moving in our direction. When there was no sound from ahead, I let out a sigh of relief."I think we're okay," I whispered.

When I peered out from our hiding place, Granger was nowhere to be seen. "Uh-oh," George whispered in my ear. "Looks like we lost him."

"Maybe we should go back," Bess whispered. "He has to come back to his car. Maybe we could just wait, and follow him then."

I glanced at her in disbelief. "Are you kidding?" I whispered. "This could be our big chance to find Leslie! We've got to keep moving."

"I don't know," George put in. "This is getting a little freaky. Maybe one of us should go back to the car and call for help or something, while the others wait here to keep an eye on Granger."

"How can we keep an eye on him when we don't know where he went?" I argued. "Come on, we're wasting time!"

Bess looked skeptical. "I don't know, Nancy," she said. "I think maybe we should—"

She never got to finish her sentence. "Hey!" Morris Granger exclaimed, staring down at us from the top of the cement pile. "What are you doing here?"

 

A New Direction

 

I gulped as Granger clambered down toward us. We were busted!

Bess and George started whispering wildly, desperately concocting any sort of cover story they could come up with. Bess seemed determined to convince Granger that we were just going for a nice evening stroll, while George was attempting some sort of tale about getting a flat tire because of all the construction out on the street. Neither one of them was making much sense.

Granger just gazed at them, looking confused. I decided it was time to try a more direct approach.

"We were following you," I told him boldly. Things had gone far enough. We were out of time—now we needed some real answers. "We know that Leslie Simmons is missing, and we think you might know where she is."

He stared at me. My friends fixed their eyes on me as well, silenced by my audacity. I held my breath, realizing belatedly that my accusation might not have been the wisest move in the world. After all, we were just three ordinary girls, unarmed in a deserted construction site with a man who might possibly be a ruthless kidnapper...

But instead of looking angry, Granger seemed more perplexed than ever. "Leslie Simmons?" he repeated blankly. "Are you telling me that lovely, talented girl who plays the piano so beautifully is... missing? As in, gone?"

I hesitated, taken by surprise. "Of course she is," I said. "Um..."

"Well, don't just stand there, young lady," Granger exclaimed. "Tell me everything!"

Startled by his unexpected reply, I blurted out the few details I knew—seeing the Simmonses arguing on the street, Leslie's odd absence from the recital, and the rest of it.

Granger listened intently, seeming shocked by each part of the story. "Hmm," he said at last. "But what makes you think she's truly missing, and not just off practicing, as her teacher said?"

I shrugged. "I guess we won't know for sure until that audition tomorrow morning," I admitted, quickly explaining about the conservatory's scholarship. Again, the man seemed honesty surprised. But was he just a good actor?

Granger grabbed me by the arm. I squeaked, startled by the sudden movement. Beside me, I heard Bess gasp.

"Come on," Granger said urgently, turning and dragging me back in the direction of the street. "We've got to get to the bottom of this right now. I think it's time to talk to the Simmonses."

 

Soon my friends and I were standing on the Simmonses' front porch as Granger rapped briskly at their door. I snuck a peek at my watch—it was almost nine o'clock.

A moment later the door opened and Clay Simmons stood before us, looking startled.

"Hello," he said, peering at us uncertainly. "Um, can I help you?"

Granger jabbed a thumb in my general direction. "This young lady just informed me that your daughter seems to be missing," he said without preamble. "Is that true?"

Clay gaped at him for a moment, then turned and stared at me. I saw recognition dawn in his eyes. He glanced behind him into the house. "Heather!" he called."I think you'd better come out here."

Seconds later Heather Simmons appeared at her husband's side. "Why, hello there, Morris, girls," she said uncertainly. "What can I do for you this evening?"

Morris Granger repeated his question. Heather Simmons blinked, but she recovered quickly from her own surprise. "Why don't all of you come inside?"

She led the way into a cozy den off the front hall. A classical recording was playing softly in the background. I wondered idly if it might be Leslie's school orchestra. Soon we were all seated—all except for Granger, who paced restlessly in front of the fireplace.

"Now," he said briskly, "let's get down to business. Miss Drew here seems to think your daughter might be in some trouble—perhaps even kidnapped. If that's true, I want to help however I can. I'd like to put up a ten-thousand-dollar reward for her safe return. Just give me the go-ahead, and I'll make sure the information is plastered all over town by tomorrow morning."

Heather and Clay Simmons appeared a little overwhelmed. "Oh, Morris," Heather said. "We really appreciate such a wonderful, generous offer. But the truth is, we're not even certain that anything is wrong."

I saw her exchange a glance with her husband. Deep worry lines were etched on both their faces. Whether they were certain anything was wrong or not, I could tell they were fearing the worst.

"Please, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons," I spoke up earnestly. "Could you just tell us what's going on? Maybe we could help somehow."

Heather Simmons gave me a slightly suspicious glance. "How did you get involved in this, anyway?" she asked. "Did your father say something to you?"

"No!" I exclaimed immediately, realizing what she was thinking. "I swear, Dad hasn't breathed a word to me. I really figured it out."

Sort of, anyway, I added in my mind, with a guilty peek at Morris Granger. The more time I spent with him, the more certain I was that he didn't have anything to do with Leslie's disappearance.

Meanwhile Heather Simmons sighed and glanced at her husband. "Well," she said after a moment, "we're not even certain that there's anything to worry about. Leslie simply disappeared over the weekend, leaving only a note."

"A note that didn't look like it was written in her handwriting," Clay Simmons broke in with a frown.

His wife nodded. "Yes," she said. "Sort of scribbled though—like she was in a hurry."

"What did the note say?" George asked curiously, beating me to the question.

"Just three words: 'I'll be back,'" Clay replied. "And signed with her name." He shrugged. "At first we assumed she had just gone somewhere for the afternoon. But when she hadn't turned up by dinnertime, and then by bedtime, we naturally started to worry."

"Naturally," Morris Granger said, nodding sympathetically.

Heather smiled at him; then her expression turned anxious again. "We weren't sure what to do," she said. "At first we didn't want to run to the police in case it was just a misunderstanding or something. But when she hadn't turned up by Sunday night—"

"That's when we decided we had to do something" Clay continued. "But by then, the possibility of foul play had crossed our minds. We feared that Leslie might be in greater peril if we went to the police."

"You can say it, Clay," Heather told him with the hint of a smile. "I was afraid to go to the police." She glanced around at the rest of us. "My husband wanted to talk to them, especially after we spoke with your father about it, Nancy. He urged us to go straight to Chief McGinnis and tell him everything. But I still thought it was better to wait, in case we heard from the kidnappers, or from Leslie herself. Now I wonder if we've waited too long. If it's too late." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. "Who would want to hurt poor Leslie—or our family? And why?"

Morris Granger finally stopped his pacing. He sat down on the couch beside Heather. "It's all right," he said kindly, patting her on the hand. "Hang in there. I'm sure she'll turn up. And my offer stands. I'm a big fan of your daughter's music, and I would be thrilled to play any part in helping you get her back."

"Thank you." This time it was Clay's voice that cracked with emotion.

The classical music was still playing in the background as Mr. and Mrs. Simmons showed us to the door a few minutes later. The melancholy notes of a cello solo reflected my discouraged mood as I bid Mr. and Mrs. Simmons good night and followed my friends out to my car, which was parked behind Granger's sedan at the curb.

Now what? It was pretty clear to me that Mr. Granger was innocent—which meant I'd lost my number-one suspect. No, make that my only suspect. We were no closer to finding Leslie than we'd been when this all started. But there had to be a way to solve this... What was I missing?

My friends were quiet as we waved good-bye to Mr. Granger and climbed into my car. It took me two tries to start the engine; I was so deep in thought that I forgot to put the car into gear before stepping on the gas.

"Try to remember how to drive long enough to get us home, okay, Nancy?" George said with a yawn from the backseat. "Oh, and wake me up when we get there."

I caught myself humming a simple melody under my breath as I drove through the quiet, darkened residential streets toward George's house. For a moment I wasn't sure where the tune had come from. Then I realized it was the cello solo I'd just heard playing at the Simmons house.

Suddenly I gasped as an image of a cello flashed in my head. I leaped in my seat, jamming my shoulder against the seat belt and accidentally hitting both the gas and the brake at the same time. The engine let out a loud, protesting crunch and cut out, stalling in the middle of the street.

"That's it!" I cried out excitedly. "I've got it!"

 

A New Clue

 

"What? What's wrong?" Bess yelped

I grinned at them sheepishly, realizing that they had both been dozing off as I drove. "Sorry," I said, carefully starting the engine again. "Didn't mean to startle you. But listen—I think I know how to find Leslie."

"Really?" George sounded skeptical.

"We've been looking at it all wrong," I explained, pulling over to the curb and putting the car in park so I could talk to them. "This whole time, I've been assuming that someone wanted Leslie to disappear to distract her mother from the mayoral paperwork deadline. But I just realized—it isn't about politics at all. It's about music!"

In the dim glow of the streetlight, Bess looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

I twisted around to look at George. "Remember that woman I was talking to at the recital?" I asked her. "Mrs. Sharon?"

George shrugged. "Sure," she said. "We joked around about her name. Why?"

"Her daughter Diane is a cello player," I reminded her. "But think about it: There was no cellist playing at the recital, remember?"

"I remember that," Bess said, looking confused. "But who is this Sharon person?"

I quickly explained. "So anyway," I went on, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, "why wouldn't Diane Sharon be at the recital? Maybe she was off practicing for the scholarship auditions too."

"But what does all this mean, Nancy?" George asked with a shrug. "You're not saying that Diane Sharon kidnapped Leslie, are you?"

"Not exactly," I said. "But I think we ought to go talk to her parents and see what they know about all this. Do you have your handheld computer with you, George?"

"Of course." George reached into her bag.

George looked up the Sharons' address on her handheld computer, and I put the car in drive again. Bess still seemed worried.

"But what are we going to say to them?" she said. "It's almost ten P.M.—we can't just go barging in there accusing them of stuff without any proof."

I shrugged. "We'll worry about what to say when we get there," I told her grimly. "If we want Leslie to make it to that audition tomorrow morning at eight fifteen, we've got to act now."

 

Unfortunately it took us quite a while to find the right house. The Sharons lived at 970 Maplewood Street, but the tiny screen on George's minicomputer had shortened the address, so we spent way too long driving around on Maple Street looking for an address that didn't exist. By the time we finally realized our mistake and found the right street, it was after ten thirty.

Maplewood Street was located in a fancy new subdivision on the outskirts of town, and number 970 turned out to be an opulent home set on an acre of lush grass on a corner lot. When we pulled into the driveway, we saw that there were lights on downstairs.

"At least we won't be waking them up," Bess said.

We climbed out of the car and hurried to the front door. I raised my hand to knock.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" George asked.

I didn't bother to answer her. Instead I rapped sharply on the door several times. A moment later a teenage girl opened the door and stared out at us, her jaw moving steadily as she chewed gum.

"Diane?" I asked.

"No," the girl replied, tossing her long, blond ponytail over her shoulder. "I'm Rachel. The baby-sitter."

"Does Diane Sharon live here?" George asked.

Rachel nodded. "Yeah, but she's not home," she said. "That's why I'm here watching Lewis."

"Oh." I swallowed my disappointment. "Do you know where Diane is, or when she'll be home? Or Mr. and Mrs. Sharon?"

The baby-sitter shrugged and snapped her gum. "Nope," she said. She let out a short laugh. "I'm just glad you're not them, 'cause Lewis was supposed to be in bed over an hour ago!"

Just then a small, brown-haired boy appeared in the hallway behind her. He was wearing pajamas and carrying a comic book, and looked about eight years old.

"Hey," he said, sounding sleepy. "What's going on? Are Mom and Dad home?"

"Not yet," Rachel told him over her shoulder. "It’s just some friends of your sister's."

I didn't bother to correct her. "Hi, Lewis," I called to the little boy in a friendly voice. "Listen, do you have any idea where your parents went tonight?"

The boy yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Huh?" he said sleepily. "Are they home yet? I want to tell them about Captain America and the evil fish..."

I exchanged a glance with my friends. The little boy was so tired that he wasn't making much sense.

Meanwhile the baby-sitter was frowning at us suspiciously. "Hey," she said. "Why are you asking about Mr. and Mrs. S? I thought you were here to see Diane."

"Diane," Lewis mumbled before any of us could answer. "Diane's not here. She got to go play at the cabin and I didn't."

"Cabin?" I said quickly, my sixth sense suddenly buzzing like crazy. "What cabin, Lewis?"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to him." Rachel waved her hand dismissively. "The kid's been complaining all night because Diane got to go to the family vacation cabin up at Lake Firefly. Got to miss music school for it too."

"Yeah." Lewis sounded grumpy. "But I still had to go to arts and crafts day camp and make stupid rope bracelets."

I took a step forward eagerly. "Tell me more about this cabin, please, Lewis," I said. "Where is it, exactly? Do you know the address, or—"

"Hey!" Rachel interrupted. "If you really are friends with Diane, shouldn't you know all this already? Who are you guys anyway?"

I hesitated. "Okay, we don't really know Diane," I said at last. "But we sort of met her mother this week, and we really need some information—"

"I think you'd better come back when Mr. and Mrs. Sharon are here," the baby-sitter said. With one last crack of her gum, she slammed the door shut in our faces.

I clenched my fists, aggravated at how close we'd come to getting the information we needed. Still, at least now we had a trail to follow.

"Come on," I told my friends, spinning around and hurrying back toward the car. "We're going to Lake Firefly!"

 

A Long Drive

 

"Lake Firefly?" Bess caught up with me halfway to the car. "Are you kidding? That’s at least a four-hour drive from here!"

I kept walking. "So we'd better get started."

"Wait, Nancy," George added. "Even if Leslie is up there at that cabin with Diane, doesn't that solve the mystery? The two of them must be on a sort of rehearsal retreat, just like Mrs. Sharon told you. They'll probably both be back in plenty of time for their auditions tomorrow morning."

"I'm not so sure about that," I said darkly. "If Leslie went up there of her own free will, why wouldn't she tell her parents? It just doesn't make sense."

I had reached my car by now. Opening the driver's-side door, I slid in and buckled my seat belt. Then I glanced out at my friends, who were still standing on the Sharons' driveway looking uncertain. "Coming?"

"But are you saying you think the Sharons kidnapped Leslie?" Bess asked. "Why would they do that?"

"To make her miss that audition tomorrow," I said. "Don't you get it? Everyone in town thinks Leslie is a shoo-in for that scholarship. I mean, even the CEO of Rackham Industries knows about her! With her out of the picture, Diane Sharon has a much better shot at winning."

George looked troubled. She glanced over her shoulder at the Sharons' house. "Now you're the one who's not making sense," she told me. "I mean, look at this house—the Sharons obviously have plenty of money. Why go to all that trouble just to win a scholarship? They could pay Diane's way at the conservatory without it."

"I don't know," I said a bit impatiently. "Maybe they're just greedy, or jealous because Leslie's more talented than their own daughter. Whatever their reason, I intend to make sure they don't get away with it if I can help it. And that means leaving for Lake Firefly—now. If you don't want to come along, I can drop you off at home on my way out of town."

Bess sighed loudly. "All right, all right," she said. "I guess we'd better come along. Right, George?"

"I guess so," George said, sounding a bit disgruntled. "But I get the backseat so I can sleep on the way there."

"No problem," I said, relieved. Despite my bold words, I didn't relish the thought of driving all that way in the middle of the night by myself. "But before you start snoozing, you'd better call our houses so they're not worried about us."

"And tell them what?" George climbed into the backseat and pulled out her cell phone. "That we're driving halfway across the state to some kidnapper's vacation cabin?"

Bess was already strapping herself into the front seat. "Just tell our folks that we're staying over at Nancy's," she suggested. "And tell Nancy's dad and Hannah that she's staying with one of us. That way they won't worry."

George nodded. As I drove off past the quiet, darkened homes of the Sharons' development, she placed the calls. My friends and I were getting a little too old for slumber parties, but we did occasionally sleep over at one another's homes for one reason or another, so nobody questioned her story. I felt a little guilty about the lie, but I figured my father would understand when I explained later. He always does.

Soon we were driving up the entrance ramp and onto the main highway, heading north out of town. Instead of falling asleep as she'd threatened, George had pulled out her handheld and was busily punching keys. The little machine let out a series of clicks and beeps.

"What are you doing?" Bess asked, turning around in her seat to see. "Playing games?"

"Nope," George responded distractedly. "If we're going all the way up to Lake Firefly, we might as well be prepared. I'm researching the Sharons."

"Good plan," I told her, glad that she seemed at least a little bit more interested in the case. "Let me know if you find out anything good."

George nodded. Several minutes passed in silence, except for the bloops and bleeps of the computer and the sound of soft music from the radio, which Bess had just switched on. Then I heard George let out a low whistle. "Well, this explains a lot," she commented.

I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "What?" I asked. "What did you find?"

"It seems the Sharons are in debt up to their ear-lobes," George replied. "All their money is going toward paying for their fancy house, the vacation cabin, and a couple of expensive cars. They really don't have much to spare for stuff like conservatory tuition."

"The conservatory isn't cheap, either," Bess added. "A few months ago Maggie told Mom and Dad that she wanted to go there instead of to 'real college,' as she called it." She grinned. "Mom and Dad knew she was just looking for an excuse not to study for her math test. So they found out how much the tuition would be, and told her she had to save up at least half if she wanted to go there. That was the end of that."

I chuckled at Bess's story. Her twelve-year-old sister was always coming up with crazy schemes. My smile faded, though, as I thought about what George had discovered. I found myself grimly unsurprised to hear about the Sharons' money problems. Hadn't Dad once told me that most crimes had something to do with money? It was only in the movies that people did desperate things for love or revenge or other reasons. In real life, the almighty dollar was usually the primary motive.

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I pushed my car right up to the speed limit and held it there. Luckily there wasn't much traffic on the highway at that time of night.

"It's all starting to make sense now," I said. "I just hope we're not too late. If poor Leslie is trapped up there at that cabin, she's probably frantic at the thought that she's going to miss out on something she's worked so hard for. If we want to help her, we can't lose any more time."

"You're not kidding about that," Bess said, squinting at her watch in the dim light. "It’s way after eleven. We may already be too late."

"We're not too late," I said with determination. "Not yet. And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn't miss that audition."

"But what if the Sharons are up there with her?" George asked. "What if they try to stop us from taking Leslie back home?"

Bess glanced over her shoulder at her cousin, looking worried. "You don't think they'd do that, do you?"

"Of course not," I said with more conviction than I felt. "The Sharons are obviously feeling desperate, or they wouldn't try something like this at all. But they're not criminals. They're not going to, you know, shoot us or something. We'll just calmly tell them that the game is over, and ask Leslie to come back with us. Once we get her to that audition, Leslie's parents and the police can decide what to do from there."

"I guess." George still sounded a little doubtful. "I mean, I hope you're right. I guess we'll find out in a few hours."

After that, my friends fell silent. George put away her computer, and a few minutes later I heard the sound of soft snores from the backseat. Beside me, Bess's blue eyes got droopier and droopier until she finally dozed off as well.

Fortunately I was wide awake. I couldn't stop mentally chiding myself for being so focused on one theory that I'd missed the truth. It had been right under my nose all along. The flat, dark, empty high­way seemed to stretch on endlessly before me, the yellow center divider lines flashing by in a regular, almost hypnotic rhythm.

I should have suspected something like this as soon as I met Mrs. Sharon. Looking back, it was a little odd how quick she was to start blabbing about Leslies rehearsal retreat and everything. But at the time, I was still too focused on Morris Granger's possible motives to think about anyone else's. I shook my head in frustration. Now we'd be lucky if we could find Leslie and get back in time.

But exactly how much luck would we need? I ran the numbers in my head. We had left River Heights at around 11 P.M. Lake Firefly was about a four-hour drive from there. That meant that if we didn't run into any trouble, we should arrive in the lakeside town by three o'clock in the morning.

Of course, then we'd have to try to find the Sharons' house. I decided I'd wake George up when we got closer, and see if she could track down the address online. If we could find Leslie and get back on the road right away we'd be back in River Heights by 7 a.m. That left us time to spare to get Leslie to her 8:15 audition.

After working it out, I smiled. It would be touch and go, but maybe we would be able to pull it off after all.

Just then the car’s engine, which had been purring smoothly, let out a disturbing sputter. Then another. A moment later I felt the power in the gas pedal dropping sharply. I barely had time to steer over to the shoulder before the engine cut off entirely.

I gulped, glancing down at the instrument panel. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I saw that the gas gauge was resting squarely on Empty.

 

Too Late?

 

"Aargh!" I cried. I felt like banging my head against the steering wheel. Why hadn't I checked the gas tank before we left River Heights? But I already knew the answer to that. Like so many times before, I'd been too focused on solving the mystery to think about anything else.

"Wha—whu—huh?" Bess snorted sleepily as she opened her eyes and gazed over at me. "What’s going on? Are we there yet?"

"Not exactly." I cleared my throat, steeling myself for her reaction. "Um... we seem to be out of gas."

Bess smacked herself on the forehead. "Stupid! Stupid!" she cried.

I frowned at her. "You don't have to be insulting," I protested.

"I wasn't talking to you," she said. "I was talking to myself. What's wrong with me? I should know to double-check you on stuff like that by now. It’s not like this is the first time something like this has happened. Or the second. Or the forty-third."

By this time George was awake too. She leaned over the back of the seat and just stared at the gas gauge. "'Well," she said fuzzily after a long pause. "Isn't this just superfantastic?"

I glanced out the window at the dark, deserted stretch of highway. If there were any houses or other buildings within a couple of miles, we couldn't see them—the moon was behind a bank of clouds, and it was too late for lights to be glowing through windows. I tried to remember the last village or farm we'd passed that was relatively close to the road. As I thought back, I also realized that no cars had passed in either direction for at least ten minutes.

"Someone's got to come by sooner or later," I said.

"I'm sure someone will," Bess responded. "But do we really want to flag down some unknown stranger in the middle of nowhere at this hour?"

I had to admit that she had a point. Bess tends to look on the bright side whenever possible, so when she's worried ab


Date: 2016-03-03; view: 569


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