The problem with this arrangement, Nancy soon realized, was that hundreds of passengers were going through security every hour. There was no way to know which ones were headed toward Gate 10 and which ones were headed toward the other nine gates in this section of the airport.
“If we could just go through security,” Bess said, “it would be better. Then we could wait in the area right near the gate.”
“Yes,” Nancy agreed, “but as the sign says — “ “ — only ticketed passengers are permitted beyond this point,” George said, imitating the airport security people.
“We need a new plan,” Nancy said.
She got up and walked back to the ticket desk. “I’d like to find out if a passenger named Markella Smith has checked in yet,” Nancy said to the woman behind the desk, whose name tag said Ms. Palomino.
“I can’t give out that information,” Ms. Palomino explained.
“It’s very important that I talk with her,” said Nancy. “I missed her when she came in on Flight 320 yesterday morning.”
“No, you didn’t,” answered the woman.
Ms. Palomino’s remark caught Nancy by surprise, but she had a good reason for saying it. “Flight 320 was canceled yesterday,” she explained. “Maybe she came in on another airline.” “Right,” Nancy said.
“Anything else, miss?” asked Ms. Palomino with an edge in her voice. There was a long line of people waiting behind Nancy.
“Yes,” Nancy said. “I’d like to buy a ticket to Denver. Can you give me the seat next to Markella Smith?”
Ms. Palomino sighed, but she tapped on her computer keyboard. Then she shook her head. “There isn’t anyone named Markella Smith on the passenger roster. Believe it or not, there’s not a single Smith listed on the flight.”
“Are there any other flights to Denver?” Nancy asked.
“Not tonight,” said Ms. Palomino.
George and Bess were clearly disappointed when Nancy reported that it was time to go back to the hotel.
“But we didn’t learn anything,” Bess exclaimed.
“This mystery seems to have fizzled out,” George agreed.
“Not for me,” Nancy said.
To Nancy, the fact that Markella Smith didn’ show up at the airport made the whole thing even more mysterious. Did this mean Markella Smith was still in Boston? And who was Markella Smith anyway? Had she been invited to the wedding? And if so, as a friend of the bride’s or the groom’s? Or was she a stranger — a stranger who for some reason was interested in Meredith’s veil?
“Tomorrow we should find out if Markella Smith was on the guest list,” Nancy said as George drove through the exit at Logan Airport.
But George wasn’t paying any attention to her. Her mind was on the road.
“Nancy, it’s so dark,” George said. “Does it look to you like our right headlight is out?”
“Pull over and I’ll check,” Nancy volunteered.
“No — don’t pull over,” Bess said sharply. “Please, don’t stop!”
By then, George was almost on the highway. Nancy started to turn around, to find out why Bess was upset. But Bess leaned forward from the backseat and grabbed Nancy’s arm so tightly that Nancy almost cried out. Nancy turned a little and
looked into her friend’s frightened face. “What is it?” Nancy asked. Bess held her breath.
“Don’t look now,” she whispered, “but we’re not alone. We’re being followed!”
5
Blackout!
Nancy looked out the back window of the car. “Who’s following us?” she asked.
“Don’t you see that silver car? It followed us all around the airport parking lot,” Bess said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
George checked the rearview mirror and the side mirrors.
“Which silver car?” George said. “The one next to us, the one in front of us, or the one in back?”
“I can’t tell now,” said Bess. “There’s too much traffic.”
“Well, there’s one way to find out if Bess is right,” Nancy said. “Quick, George. Take the next exit.”
George jerked the steering wheel to the right. Their rental car jumped from the middle lane to the exit lane, knifing in front of several cars. Surprised drivers blasted their horns.
“Now everyone thinks I’m a lousy driver,” George said.
“Maybe,” Nancy said, watching a sleek silver car behind them make the same fast maneuver. “But now we know Bess is right.”
“I knew it!” Bess said triumphantly. Then she shuddered. “At times like this, I hate to be right.”
“Okay, fasten your seat belts for takeoff,” George said. She stepped on the gas.
George got off the highway and made several fast turns, trying to lose the silver car behind them. Soon the girls found themselves on a narrow dirt road. Nancy glanced backward. The silver car was still behind them.
“He’s pretty smart. He’s got his high beams on so we can’t see his face,” Nancy said. “And there’s no license plate on the front of the car.”
“What do you bet it’s Tony Fiske?” Bess said. “I’m not making any more bets with you,” Nancy said with a smile. “Besides, Tony doesn’t own a car. Remember? Meredith told us yesterday in the church.”
“But we don’t own a car either — not in Massachusetts, anyway,” Bess said. “We rented one — remember?”
“Good point,” Nancy said.
Their car sped onto a dark, two-lane road that dipped and twisted. They passed small farms. George’s lips were pressed tightly together, and
she drove with both hands gripping the wheel. Nancy looked back at the silver car.
“He could catch us if he wanted to. But he’s hanging back,” Nancy said. “Maybe he wants to see where we’re going.”
“Where are we going?” asked Bess.
“I don’t know,” George said.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” cried Bess. “You’re the driver!”
“But I’ve been trying to lose this guy,” George said. “I haven’t been watching the road signs.”
“Relax. We’ll come to asign soon,” Nancy said.
“Maybe it’ll say River Heights,” Bess said, trying to hide her fear with a joke.
But George didn’t laugh. “I hope it says Gasoline,” she said pointedly.
Nancy and Bess looked at the needle. It registered E, for empty.
How many things could go wrong at once? Nancy thought with frustration. They were lost, traveling down a dark two-lane road. An unknown driver was following them, and they were about to run out of gas.
Just then a sign appeared announcing that the next city was only two miles away.
“Wait!” Bess said when she saw the name of the town on the sign. “Are you sure we want to go to Salem, Massachusetts? That’s where they burned witches at the stake.”
“That was three hundred years ago, Bess,” Nancy replied. “Besides, we’ve got to find a gas station. Keep driving, George, there’s bound to be one ahead.”
A moment later Nancy, Bess, and George pulled into a dark, quiet city where every store was closed up tight. The first sign they saw said Welcome to Salem, Massachusetts. To Bess’s horror, there was a picture of a witch on it. The next two signs advertised the Witch Trail and the Witch House.
Except for the silver car behind them, the streets of Salem were completely deserted. They passed stores like Hilda’s Broom Closet, the Cauldron Coffee Shop, and the Tisket-A-Tasket Casket Book Store, hoping to see some signs of life — a lighted window, a human being, even another car. But the town was dead.
Finally the two-car procession — their car followed by the silver one — came to the center of town. A Gothic stone building loomed like a dark giant over the town square. Even in the daytime the building would have looked forbidding. But in the dead of night, it looked absolutely gruesome.
“What is that?” asked Bess.
George read the sign. “It’s the Salem Witch
craft Museum,” she said.
“Why are we stopping in front of it?” Bess asked, looking out the back window. “In fact, why are we stopping at all?”
“We’re out of gas,” Nancy said quietly.
The silver car stopped thirty feet behind them and turned off its headlights. The waiting game began.
“Forget it!” Bess suddenly shouted. “I’m not just going to sit here.” She leaped from the car and started running across the square without any idea where she was going.
Instantly Nancy and George jumped out of the
car and began running after her.
“Bess! Wait!” Nancy shouted.
Nancy heard another car door slam behind her, and she knew without looking that the driver of the silver car had gotten out.
If only Bess hadn’t gotten out of the car, Nancy thought to herself. At least in the car, with the doors locked, they were somewhat safe. Here, on the streets of Salem, all the shops were closed, locked, and dark. There was no place to hide or get help.
Bess turned down a side street and George ran twice as fast to catch her.
Nancy looked back. The driver of the silver car was only a block away. He was tall, Nancy could see. But in the shadows, that was the only thing about him she could make out. He was running right toward her.
She turned the corner, following George and Bess.
For the next ten minutes, the girls ran through the empty streets, turning this way and that. Every street was dark. The whole town was sleeping.
Eventually George and Nancy caught up with Bess. But the tall man pursuing them was still a block behind.
“We could split up,” Nancy said, breathing heavily. “He can’t chase all three of us at once.”
“No!” Bess whispered. “Let’s go this way.”
She raced down an alley and the others followed. Tired, their legs aching and cramped, the three girls slowed to a walk. The footsteps behind them slowed, too. Halfway down the alley, they realized they had made a terrible mistake. They were in a dead end — trapped! There was no way out.
Suddenly Nancy spotted a light in the window of a tall stone building on their right. She beckoned to her friends and they followed her to the building’s back door.
“Is it unlocked?” George whispered. The figure of their pursuer was a tall silhouette at the far end of the alley.
Nancy nodded. “If this creep follows us in, at least we’ll be able to see him in the light,” she said.
But when the girls stepped into the gloomy building, they found it dark. Apparently the light they had seen was coming from a room above. In the pitch blackness, they climbed a stone stairway leading up to a landing. There Nancy found a black curtain. She parted it to peek into a dimly lit room.
“Where are we?” Bess asked.
“Brace yourself, Bess. You aren’t going to like this,” Nancy said.
She stepped through the curtain and held it open so that George and Bess could follow.
The minute Bess moved forward, her skin turned icy cold. There, a few feet away, was a young woman being burned at the stake!
“I think we’re in the Witchcraft Museum,” Nancy said.
“No, no, no,” Bess moaned.
Just then all the lights went out and the whole building went black.
6
Inside the Witchcraft Museum
In the pitch-dark museum, Nancy reached out and grabbed the shoulder closest to her. It was Bess’s and she was trembling.
“He’s followed us in here,” George said in a whisper.
“Don’t move, Bess,” Nancy whispered. “I’m too scared to move,” Bess answered. They listened in the darkness. Footsteps … slow footsteps … in another room … coming closer …
Nancy felt Bess almost collapse. “Don’t scream,” she told her friend.
“He can’t see us in the dark,” George said.
“So what?” Bess answered quickly. “We can’t
see how to get out of here either.”
“Shhh,” said Nancy.
The footsteps were in the room now.
A man’s voice called out, “Who’s there?”
The three girls shivered. Bess pulled away from Nancy quickly, and the next thing they heard was a loud crash. “Oh, no,” Bess moaned. Then the lights snapped on.
Bess was standing by a mannequin dressed in witch’s rags that was part of a display. She had run into it in the dark and sent it crashing to the floor.
Nancy looked from Bess to the young man standing in the doorway. The museum lights reflected off his long, curly brown hair. He wore a white silk dress shirt and khaki jeans, and held a long ax with both hands. The handle was longer than he was tall. Its curved blade was as big as a watermelon.
The three girls froze with fear.
“What do you want?” Bess asked in a terrified voice.
The man walked toward them, turning the ax in his hands. “You know, three hundred years ago the penalty for trespassing was having a leg cut off and that was considered just a warning,” he said with a satisfied smile. He stopped a few feet from them. Then he asked, “What are you doing in here?”
George started to answer, but she hesitated. It was difficult to take her eyes off that enormous ax.
Nancy spoke up. “Why have you been following us all night?” she demanded.
“I haven’t been,” said the man.
Suddenly a door down the stairs behind them slammed loudly.
Bess jumped. “What was that?”
“That was the museum’s back door,” the man said. His voice turned from calm to concerned. “Someone just left in a very big hurry. You were being followed, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” all three girls said at once.
“Hold this,” said the man, handing the ax to George. “I’ll take a look downstairs.”
“And I’ll come with you,” Nancy said quickly. Together the two went through the black curtain and down the stairs. The museum’s ground floor was completely quiet — and completely deserted.
“Well, whoever followed you inside has left,” the man said. “I’ll lock the door to make sure he stays out. By the way, I’m David Kaufman, the curator of this museum.”
Nancy introduced herself, and David locked the door. Back upstairs, the detective introduced him to her friends.
“I’m really sorry about knocking over your witch,” said Bess.
“That’s all right.” David smiled. “Meredith has a worse fate planned for her future.”
“Meredith!” George and Nancy both said at once.
“Yes, I must admit that I name all of my witches in the museum,” David said sheepishly. “This is Meredith. She’s going to be beheaded in the next exhibit.”
He took the ax from George and set it down, then moved the witch mannequin over to a chopping block. “I came in tonight to set up this display for tomorrow,” he explained. “Pretty realistic, don’t you agree?”
The girls agreed, and then Nancy told David about being followed, about running out of gas, and finding the back door of the museum unlocked.
“Why were you being followed?” David asked somewhat suspiciously. “You’re not witches, are you?” he teased.
“No — we’re detectives,” Nancy answered. “Or at least I am. I’m on a case for a young woman named Meredith, who lost her wedding veil.”
David smiled. “Meredith — what a coincidence. No wonder you flinched when I mentioned my friend, here.” He gestured toward the mannequin. “Well, I’m about to lock up for tonight. Why don’t I give your car a push to the gas station.?”
David went around turning out lights and locking doors. Then he let Nancy and her friends out the front of the museum. Outside, Nancy looked up and down the empty streets. Only crickets could be heard in the quiet Salem night.
As they approached their car, George leaned over to Nancy and said, “The silver car’s gone.
“Gone but not forgotten,” Nancy said uneasily. Then she noticed that
the driver had left a message for them — on the trunk lid of the car. “Definitely not forgotten!”
Everyone walked around the rented car to look at the damage. Its trunk lid was bent and scratched, as if someone had been jumping on it.
“What’s this all about?” David Kaufman said. “It can’t be just a missing veil.”
“No, it can’t,” Nancy emphatically agreed.
Eventually David Kaufman’s truck nosed up behind the rental car and managed to push Nancy and her two tired friends to the gas station. Then the curator waved goodbye.
In front of a small, dimly lit log cabin garage were just a couple of gas pumps. But compared to the dead quiet of the rest of Salem, the place was hopping.
Inside, the station manager was sitting with a couple of other men talking and listening to country music on a loud portable radio. Nancy tried to get his attention. But the short, stocky man ignored her, and Nancy was sure he was doing it on purpose.
Across the room Nancy noticed another driver, a tall, younger guy with platinum blond hair and an earring. He was looking up at a map taped to the wall, as if he needed directions. He glanced quickly at Nancy, then pulled a New England Patriots football cap down over his hair with a jerk and walked out.
Finally the manager got up and followed Nancy outside to the car.
“I’m usually closed at this hour. This is your lucky night,” the manager said.
“Have you seen a small silver car?” Nancy asked as the man stretched the hose over to the car’s gas tank.
“You mean, ever in my life?” he said with a laugh.
“I mean tonight,” Nancy said.
Instead of answering, he grabbed a squeegee to wash the back window. “Boy, what happened to your car?” the manager asked, looking at the trunk.
“It’s been a long night,” Nancy said.
“I guess so,” he answered.
The Case of the Vanishing Veil Page 4