Vanishing Act

by Carolyn Keene

  She was just pulling into Martin Rosenay’s long, gravel driveway when the radio suddenly stopped working—and the sound began.

  A horrible, screeching, unbearably loud blast. A blast in full Sensurround blaring out through the car speakers, filling the car. And it grew even louder—and then unbelievably louder still.

  Nancy had never felt a pain like the one assaulting her eardrums then. Black and red spots were dancing in front of her eyes, and her arms were shaking uncontrollably on the steering wheel. She fought desperately to keep the car under control, but the ear-shattering screech was finally too much for her. She doubled over in helpless agony—the steering wheel forgotten, her foot pressing down on the gas pedal.

  The car swerved off the driveway, tossing up plumes of gravel before it crashed into the front of Martin Rosenay’s house!

  Chapter

  Nine

  WITH A BONE-JARRING CRASH, the car came to a stop. But with the impact, the terrible sound stopped abruptly. White-faced and trembling, Nancy crawled out of the car and collapsed on her knees on the ground.

  “Are you crazy? What do you think you’re doing? You idiot—you should be locked up!”

  Shakily Nancy stared up at the person who was yelling so furiously from the doorway. She saw a plump little man whose face was red with rage and whose whole body was quivering as he glared down at her.

  “Mr.—Mr. Rosenay?” she whispered.

  “That’s right. And who are you?”

  “I’m Nancy Drew.” Nancy took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet. But her legs were too weak to support her. She sagged against the hood of her car.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she said with tremendous effort. “There was something wrong with the—the speakers. It hurt so much that I—”

  Now Martin Rosenay’s manner changed completely. He jounced down the front steps and rushed up to her.

  “That sound was coming from inside your car?” he asked in horror. “I was way in the back of the house, and even there it shattered my eardrums!”

  “I think it did shatter mine,” Nancy said. Her whole head was throbbing, and Rosenay’s voice seemed to be coming from far off, under water.

  “Well, it’s no wonder you lost control of your car,” he said contritely. “I apologize for yelling at you.”

  “My car! How badly is it damaged? And what about your house?”

  Her pain pushed aside, Nancy rushed to the front of the car. She couldn’t see the front bumper at all. It was buried in the bushes that lined the front of Rosenay’s one-story ranch house.

  “I’d better check this,” Nancy said with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She climbed into the car and held her breath while turning the key. Would it start? The engine turned over once and died. Once again and this time it caught. Nancy backed it up a few feet. Then she got out to assess the damage.

  “Only a couple of scratches! Thank heaven for rubber bumpers!” Nancy said.

  Then she remembered: the house. What had the collision done to it?

  Hastily, she stepped forward and pulled back the bushes in front of the house.

  Nancy could hardly believe her eyes. There were a few scratches in the siding, but that was all.

  “Well, it looks like minimal damage,” she said after a second. “I must not have been going that fast—even though I felt like I was flying.” I’ve got to find out how that radio was rigged, she thought to herself. Whoever did it really wanted me out of the way!

  “Let’s forget about it for the time being, then,” Rosenay said. “A little paint will cover it all. Come on in!”

  He led her up the front steps and through the door. “Welcome to Rosenay’s Rock Memorabilia,” he said.

  Nancy could hardly believe her eyes. Every available surface—tables, chairs, sofas, and the floor—was covered with mementoes and souvenirs. There were heaps of old 45s and autographed pictures. There were buttons and T-shirts and hats and stickers and posters and fluorescent paintings on velvet and even models of Elvis Presley’s tomb.

  “Where do you sit?” Nancy asked.

  Rosenay laughed. “I try not to,” he answered. “You’re interested in Jesse Slade stuff, I understand.”

  “That’s right. I’m investigating his disappearance, and I just wondered whether there might possibly be any clues here.”

  “I don’t know if there are or not, but come into the kitchen. All my Jesse things are on the kitchen table.”

  The kitchen was just as cluttered as the living room. “I guess you try not to eat, either?” Nancy said.

  “Take-out. All I eat is take-out. Here’s the Slade stuff,” said Rosenay, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “Have a seat—wait, let me move this stuff.” He shifted a pile of magazines from the chair to the floor.

  There was a surprising amount of memorabilia, considering that Jesse Slade had been famous for such a short time before he’d disappeared. “I wouldn’t have expected so much,” Nancy said thoughtfully as she sat down and began leafing through a pile of photos and articles.

  Rosenay looked a little uncomfortable. “I’ve got a great supplier,” he answered. “He’s in touch with all the Jesse Slade fan clubs—there were about sixty, you know.”

  “How much of it do you sell?” asked Nancy.

  “To be frank, not a whole lot—not yet,” answered Rosenay. “I get a few letters a week or so, but mostly I think of this particular collection as an investment.”

  “Did you know Jesse at all?” Nancy asked.

  “Pretty well. No, that’s an exaggeration, I guess. Let’s say I know people who knew him pretty well. Your friend said you were an investigator. Do you have any ideas about what happened to Jesse?”

  “I’ve got a few. I’m not ruling anything out,” Nancy said carefully. “You don’t have any ideas about what happened to him, do you?”

  “Oh, I have ideas. Everyone has ideas,” said Rosenay. His chubby face suddenly became veiled. “I don’t want to point the finger at anyone, but if I were you I’d ask Renee Stanley and Vint Wylie to explain a few things. Like why they were seeing each other on the sly before Jesse disappeared, and why neither of them seemed very upset once he was gone. It just doesn’t seem quite right to me, that’s all.”

  “Do you really think they plotted together to make him disappear?” Nancy asked.

  “Off the record? Yes, I think that’s exactly what happened,” answered Rosenay.

  “But is that a real motive?” Nancy put down the stack of photos she was holding. She’d been worrying about the motive ever since she’d first begun to suspect Renee. “I mean, if they wanted to go out together, all Renee had to do was break up with Jesse. It might have been a little awkward—but not nearly as awkward as risking a murder charge!”

  “Look, I’m not the investigator,” Rosenay replied. “All I know is, I watched a local-TV news interview with Renee just after Jesse had disappeared. She didn’t mention Vint—even though everybody in the business knew about him. And she kept referring to Jesse in the past tense. Now, why would she do that unless she knew he was dead?”

  “Good point,” Nancy said. She bent her head to a stack of photos. “I’d better start looking through this stuff. I’m sure you don’t have all day.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Rosenay said. “I’ll be out back putting in my tomato plants.”

  For the next half hour Nancy sifted through the piles in front of her. There were lots of letters from Jesse to his fans—probably collected from the fan clubs, she thought—and dozens of pictures and fan magazines featuring him. But no clues leapt out at her.

  At last she stood up and walked out back. “Mr. Rosenay?” she said. “I think I’m done.”

  He put down his trowel and stood up, brushing the dirt off his hands. “Find anything?”

  “Not really,” Nancy said. “But if it’s all right, I’d love to borrow a picture of Jesse to take with me. I’ll bring it back, of course.”

  “No need for that,”
said Rosenay. “I’ll donate it to the cause. I hope you find out what happened to him.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” said Nancy. “Is it okay to take this one?”

  It was a photo of Jesse Slade standing in front of his car. He was laughing at something off-camera, and he looked totally relaxed.

  “He looks so happy here,” Nancy said. “I guess that’s why this is my favorite of all the ones you have.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” For a second the two of them stared at the picture in silence. “You’re welcome to it,” Rosenay said. “And give me a call if there’s anything more I can help you with.”

  “I sure will. Thanks, Mr. Rosenay,” said Nancy sincerely.

  He walked with her to the front of the house and watched as she got into her car. “Careful, now,” he said anxiously.

  “Don’t worry,” Nancy replied. “Your house is safe from me!”

  Feeling more cheerful than she had when she’d set out that morning, she headed back to TVR. This time, she kept the radio turned off.

  Bess and George were waiting for her in Dan’s office when she got back. “We were hoping you’d get here soon. Oh, Nancy! We had the greatest time!” Bess exclaimed when she saw her. “The restaurant was so good—and there were all kinds of stars having ‘power breakfasts’—and Dan’s the coolest guy in the world! Thanks so much for taking this case! Did you find out anything at that guy’s house?”

  “Well, nothing too specific,” Nancy answered, “but he did give me a few ideas—and this picture.” She took the picture out of its envelope and held it out to her friends.

  “Nice,” George commented. “Hey, that’s a different color, but it’s just like Dan’s car.”

  Nancy went to George’s side and stared at the picture again. Then she snatched it out of her friend’s hands.

  “Rosenay knows where Jesse is!” she gasped. “This picture proves it!”

  Chapter

  Ten

  YOU’RE RIGHT, GEORGE—it is just like Dan’s car!” Nancy said angrily. “Dan bought his a year ago! Jesse’s car is a Lamborghini, too, so this has to be last year’s model!”

  “Last year’s model? But that means . . .” Bess began.

  “Right, Bess,” said Nancy. “It means Jesse was around last year. And that means he’s probably still around now! Jesse could even be the ‘friend’ Martin Rosenay talked about—that would make sense. And Rosenay may be keeping his whereabouts a secret so that he can corner the market in Jesse Slade memorabilia. To think that I trusted him! And Jesse—why is he hiding out?”

  “Are you sure about all this?” asked Bess.

  “As sure as I can be without Jesse standing here. I can try to trace the license plate—too bad Jesse’s standing in front of the second half of it. I’m sure that car is no more than a year old.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?” asked George calmly.

  “I’m going right back there and tell Rosenay—No, wait. I can’t do that.” Nancy stopped pacing. “I’ve got to stay here. If I have only until tonight before I have to leave TVR, I’d better not waste any time. I’ll go down and see if Renee’s in and if she can use me for anything.”

  “What about us?” asked Bess.

  “Let’s see . . . I can’t think of anything right now, guys. I guess you’d better take the afternoon off and go shopping.”

  But Bess was frowning. “Ordinarily you know I’d take you up on that like a shot, Nan. But don’t you think you could use us for something around here? If it’s your last day and all—”

  Nancy felt very touched. Even if she never managed to solve this case, it was great to have such good friends. “That’s nice of you, Bess,” she said. “I really can’t come up with anything at the moment, but why don’t you two come down to Renee’s office with me? I could use some moral support when I talk to her.”

  “Fine,” George said. “And if she has any filing or something to do, we’ll do it.”

  When the three friends got to Renee’s office, she wasn’t there. “She’s in the conference room down the hall,” a man said as he walked by and saw them. “I just saw her in there.”

  Renee didn’t notice them walk in. She was too busy watching a tape of some concert—and when Nancy looked more closely, she saw Vint Wylie on the screen. It must be the concert from the night before.

  “Hi, Renee,” Nancy said, plunking herself down next to the veejay. “What are you watching?”

  “Oh! You startled me!” Renee whirled around with an irritable scowl.

  “It’s just a tape of the Crisp concert from last night,” she told Nancy. “I was watching it to see—uh, to see whether we could use any of it.”

  “And to see Vint, right?” Nancy asked. Behind them, Bess and George silently sat down. “You two are going out, aren’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Renee snapped.

  “Well, I guess I should level with you. I’m a private investigator,” Nancy said, and Renee’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t really come to TVR as a guest veejay. I’m looking into Jesse’s disappearance.” I don’t have to mince words, she told herself. There’s no reason why I need to stay on Renee’s good side anymore. “I was surprised to find out that you and Vint are going out.”

  “Do you know Vint?” Renee asked cautiously.

  “I talked to him yesterday,” Nancy said.

  “You talked to Vint?” Renee whispered.

  “Uh-huh. But he didn’t mention that the two of you had been together for three years. Didn’t he mention that I’d come by?” Nancy continued.

  Renee shook her head.

  “I wonder why not,” Nancy said thoughtfully.

  “He—he probably didn’t want to worry me.”

  “Worry you? About what?” Nancy asked.

  “Well, he knows I get pretty upset whenever—whenever anybody asks about Jesse. I—He wouldn’t have wanted me to know that someone was stirring the whole thing up again.” Renee drew in a shaky breath.

  “And is there any reason you didn’t mention that you and Vint had been seeing each other?” Nancy continued implacably. “It’s not a secret, is it?”

  “N-no,” Renee stammered. “But we never—” She cleared her throat. “I—Well, it’s just a little bit awkward. That’s really the only reason I try to downplay it. You know, a veejay and a musician going out . . . people might get the idea there were possibilities for—well, conflict of interest.”

  “I can see how they might,” Nancy said. “I haven’t had time to check Jesse’s will yet, Renee. Is there anything in it I should know about?”

  Renee was scowling now. “What is this—a firing squad? Oh, all right,” she muttered after a second. “Yes. He left me some money.”

  There was a little pause. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Nancy!” Renee burst out. “But Vint and I don’t know what happened to Jesse. We really don’t! You have to believe me!”

  “Why?” was all Nancy said.

  “Because—because—why would we do something like that?” Renee was twisting her hands together so hard that her knuckles were white. “It’s true that we didn’t tell Jesse we’d started going out—but that doesn’t mean we’d kill him! And he wasn’t going to leave me that much!”

  “I didn’t mention killing him!” Nancy said sharply. “Do you think he was killed?”

  “Why, of course I do. I mean, what else could have happened? How could he still be alive?” Renee’s eyes were enormous in her white face. She leaned forward and grabbed Nancy’s wrist painfully hard. “He isn’t alive, is he?” she almost shrieked.

  “I’m not sure, Renee.” Gently Nancy pulled Renee’s clawing hand off her wrist. “But I never rule out anything.”

  “Oh, no,” Renee said breathily. “It can’t be!”

  She stood up on shaky legs. “I-I’m on in fifteen minutes,” she said. “I don’t want to be late.” And she walked slowly from the room.

  “If Jesse is alive, what’s Renee worr
ied about?” Nancy asked out loud. Unless—unless she thought she’d killed him herself—

  Nancy gave herself a mental shake. “I’m wasting time sitting here speculating about all this,” she said. “I bet Renee knows more than she’s saying.” She leaned forward to switch off the tape in the VCR, and then paused. “I can’t resist watching Vint for a second,” she said.

  The Crisp was the kind of group that was really proud of being down-to-earth and unflashy. They never wore anything fancier than T-shirts and jeans, they never used any lighting effects fancier than a strobe, and they always sang songs about ordinary working-class people. Nancy didn’t follow them much—she actually thought they were a little boring—but they’d been topping the charts for six months now. Vint certainly knew how to pick people to play with!

  There he was in back, brandishing a two-necked white bass guitar and looking much more wide-awake than when Nancy had talked to him in person. He appeared to be unconscious of the camera—except that he had an uncanny knack for always facing it. Even when the concert ended and the band took a bow, Vint angled his body slightly toward the camera instead of the crowd. Very subtle scene stealing.

  The audience screamed in disappointment when it finally became clear that the band wasn’t going to do another encore. Once again Nancy leaned forward to turn off the tape—and once again she stopped. The tape had just cut to what was obviously a huge post-concert party at Vint’s house.

  “Hey!” said George. “Let’s watch this for a second, too! Bess never got a chance to see what Vint’s house was like.”

  As she watched, Nancy saw that all the trees on Vint’s property had been covered with tiny hot-pink lights, and the swimming pool was ringed with potted tropical trees of all kinds. There was Renee on Vint’s arm. He was wearing jeans, but she was in a skin-tight strapless leather mini dress.

  The camera focused in on a waiter’s tray next. It was full of tiny hollowed-out potatoes filled with caviar. As Nancy watched, a woman’s hand with fluorescent green nails reached in and picked one up.