George looked doubtful. “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.” She knew me well.
“But something tells me it’s about the warehouse. The one that burned down. And judging from what Dad was saying to the cops, it sounds like that’s what he thinks too. I want to find out more about the two people who wanted to buy it. Nicole and …”
“Aaron,” Bess said. Something about the way she said his name caught my attention.
“Bess?”
“What? He seemed nice. We chatted for a while.” Bess paused and looked at the ground. “And … maybe we have a date tomorrow.”
I laughed. Of course they did. “So you got to talk to him?”
“A little.”
“Do you think he could have killed Daniel?”
“I don’t know! I mean, he seemed nice. A little arrogant. We only talked for, like, fifteen minutes, though, so I have no idea.”
“Well, hopefully you can find out some more tomorrow. George, that puts you and me on research and Nicole.”
“She seemed pretty suspicious,” said George.
“Or at least totally weird,” chimed in Bess.
“She was definitely a big fake. And it’s interesting that she runs a bunch of voodoo shops—didn’t Daniel say something about the warehouse site being cursed?”
I yawned and looked at the clock. Three a.m.! How had that happened? “Wow, it’s late! All right, let’s figure this all out in the morning.”
My dreams were full of crazy costumes, fires, and scary music. It felt like I’d spent six hours watching a horror movie that didn’t make any sense. By the time I showered and got down to eat breakfast, Dad was already gone for the day.
“Sleep well?” Bess asked at the table.
“Blargh,” I responded.
“Me too,” she mumbled into her cereal. Somehow she still managed to look perfect, while I was pretty sure the bags under my eyes were bigger than my suitcase.
“So what are you doing with Aaron?” I asked Bess.
“He’s going to show me around the French Quarter, and then we’re going to dinner. He said there’s a lot of great stuff to see in the area. Don’t worry, I’ll listen for anything suspicious.”
“I’m going to give Nicole a call now and see if she’ll agree to talk to me.”
I fumbled in my bag for my cell phone. Man, was I not a morning person.
I called information and got Nicole’s office number.
“Hi, Nicole? This is Nancy Drew—I was at Daniel’s party last night?”
“Oh, you poor girl! How are you doing? This is terrible, just terrible. My cards saw it coming, you know. I tried to warn him.” Nicole sounded like a bad actress in a movie about New Orleans.
“We’re all in shock here. It’s been really hard. My dad, Carson Drew, is assisting Daniel’s sister, Yvette, with his estate, and I said I’d help them. Do you have some time later, maybe we could talk?”
All right, it was a little bit of a lie. But only a little one! I was helping them. They just didn’t know it yet.
“Oh, Nancy, I wish I could! But today is the first day of Mardi Gras season, and I’m afraid it’s just impossible. But I would be honored if you took a free cemetery tour with my company, Haunted New Orleans!”
Well, I thought, at least we’ll get a chance to be near her, and maybe I can pump her for some information.
“Thanks, Nicole, that’d be great. Can my friend George come along too?”
“Of course. And if your father would like to join us, he is most welcome.”
The tour was set for three o’clock. We were to meet up on the corner of Esplanade and North Rampart Street.
The tour was easy to find, especially because the woman leading it was wearing an all-black Southern belle outfit, complete with a black lace parasol.
“Rats!” I muttered. The tour leader was strange—but she wasn’t Nicole. “So much for that plan.”
“We might as well take the tour anyway,” said George. “It looks like it could be interesting.”
I looked at the sun and nodded. The next thing on my sleuth agenda had to wait until after sundown, anyway.
And George was right. The tour was pretty interesting. I never knew one city could have so many freaky ghost stories! Serial killers, witches, voodoo curses, ghosts, haunted mansions—it was all to be found in New Orleans’ French Quarter. But my favorite were the graveyards, which seemed to be everywhere throughout the city. They were beautiful and creepy and very Victorian.
“And here, in St. Louis Cemetery Number One,” said our tour guide, “we have the tomb of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie Laveau.” Our guide’s fake Southern accent was so thick that “here” sounded like “HE-ya.”
The marble tomb she pointed to was small and unassuming, but there were candles and flowers all around it, and the marble itself was covered in hundreds of chalk Xs. I was about to raise my hand and ask what they were for, but before I could, she explained.
“Many still come to ask her for favors from beyond the grave, and leave offerings, or make a mark of three Xs.”
A few of the people in our tour group laughed nervously and took photos. But the tour guide’s words were scary, even if her accent was ridiculous. When a cloud suddenly slipped in front of the sun, and the graveyard went dark, even the nonbelievers hurried to leave the graveyard and get to the next site. I considered coming back with an offering, since hey, who couldn’t use a little luck? But the graveyard seemed like a scary place to come alone at night.
The tour finished up right around sunset, which was perfect timing for the next part of my evening’s agenda.
“Hey, George,” I said, “why don’t you head back to Dan—to Yvette’s house and do some research on the warehouse fire, and the troubles they’ve been having with the reconstruction? It might give us some leads.”
“Sure,” said George. “I’ve been jonesing for some computer time, anyway. I need to catch up on my RSS feed—wait, what are you planning?”
“Nothing. I just want to explore a little bit.”
George snorted. “Yeah, right. I know I can’t convince you not to do what you’re going to do. But be careful, Nancy!”
“Always am!” I responded.
George just snorted again. She hugged me, and we parted ways.
I walked through the streets of the French Quarter, by myself but far from alone. Every block seemed to have more people out than the entire population of River Heights! People in top hats and masks and feather boas and princess dresses and every kind of costume you could ever imagine. Above my head, parties swirled on the beautiful wrought-iron balconies that seemed to front every building in the neighborhood. It would be easy to forget what I was doing here and get swept away in the party, but I convinced myself to keep going. I had a mystery to solve!
Finally I found the block I was looking for. There, on the corner, was the burnt shell of Daniel’s warehouse. It must have once been huge. Three-quarters of the building was still standing, although one end looked like it had collapsed in on itself. The windows and doors had all burst, and there were black soot streaks all over the outside. The remains took up half a block. Even this long after the fire, I could still smell smoke when I got near it.
There was police tape around the doors and windows. I did a quick look around. The street was full, but everyone was too caught up in having a good time to pay any attention to me. I chose a likely-looking door, one that had been half destroyed by the fire. On the count of three, I ducked through the entrance and shouldered the door open.
I waited for a moment in the darkness, to make sure no one came after me or shouted for me to stop. Once I was certain my entrance had gone unnoticed, I reached into my bag and pulled out a tiny but powerful headlamp. I used to make fun of George for always having a headlamp on her, but she was right—they left your hands free and made detective work that much easier. Every girl should have one.
The headlamp illuminated the remains of s
craps of canvas, melted statues, and destroyed drawings. Most paints are extremely flammable, so this place must have gone up like a tinderbox. What the fire hadn’t eaten, the water from the fire trucks had washed away.
“Ow!” I yelled, before I remembered I was trying to be sneaky. I’d stubbed my toe on some tools, which must have been left by the workmen.
For a second, my voice echoed throughout the building. Then it kept echoing, and I realized it wasn’t my voice!
A weird wailing sound was coming from the second floor of the building. It might just have been wind, but then, it might not… . I looked at the stairs. They were scorched, but they were made out of concrete. They looked okay… .
I decided to chance it. I walked quickly but carefully, trying to step as gently as possible and stay on each stair for as little time as possible. I made it to the first landing with no problem. A smashed window provided some light from the street, and I could see the second set of steps in front of me. They looked fine.
I made it up three steps when a screeching, metal-on-stone noise began in front of me. The stairs were pulling away from the floor! I scrambled forward, but I was too late. There was no way I was going to make it to the second floor before the stairs collapsed. They were moving faster now, swaying as the supports popped out of the wall one by one.
I screamed and stepped backward. I grabbed for the railing—and it disintegrated beneath my hand. I fell.
Luckily, I hit the landing with my rear. But the struts that supported the landing were pulling out of the wall as well. I turned back to the stairs that led down to the first floor, but I could see at a glance it was no use. I’d never make it. The entire staircase was about to collapse, and take me with it!
CHAPTER 6
FRANK WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS
“Whoa! Excuse me, sorry, coming through!”
I didn’t think it was legal to skateboard in an airport. At the very least, it wasn’t safe. Yet Lenni Wolff was doing it right now, zooming past baggage claim, ducking and weaving around disembarking passengers and skycaps loading luggage—barreling right toward us. Joe and I were about to leap out of her way when she came to a skidding halt a foot from us.
“Frank! Joe! Man, you guys travel in style.” Lenni was grinning from ear to ear as she unbuckled her helmet and released her signature crazy hair. This time, it had leopard spots dyed in it. When we first met her, while working on a mystery at the Galaxy X extreme sports park, it had been bright blue and spiky.
We hadn’t been sure which side she was on at first, but she’d helped us out a lot—even if she’d been causing some of the trouble we were trying to prevent. If anyone could get us in with the kind of folks who might know about the robberies down here, it was Lenni.
“First class? Last minute?” Lenni gave out a low whistle. “My ticket must have cost buckets!”
She tossed her helmet at me and picked up her board. She kept walking out of the airport, leaving Joe and me to scramble to keep up with her.
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, ATAC pays for everything—”
“About that,” said Lenni. “I still don’t trust them. Who are they? Why they are all secretive? And how do they have so much money? Seems a little suspicious to me. You’re lucky I’ve always wanted to see New Orleans. And it sounds like whoever these people are, they’re hurting innocent people.”
Lenni might not be one for rules, but she was big on protecting the underdog, which was why I knew she would come help us, regardless of how she felt about ATAC.
“People have been hurt in these fires. And everything they had was either stolen or destroyed,” Joe chipped in.
Lenni’s lips flattened into an angry line. “What are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s get them.”
We hopped into a waiting cab and went back to the hotel. We’d had breakfast with our parents and told them we were spending the day at the National World War II Museum. We hoped Mom wouldn’t decide to come looking for us.
On the way back, we briefed Lenni on what had happened so far. When we got to the part where everyone chased us, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“Of course no one would talk to you! Look at you two!”
I looked at Joe. Joe looked at me. We shrugged. I thought we looked pretty good.
“You’re obviously not from around here. And you scream money. Or cop. I made a few calls before I got on the plane, and I think I have a lead for you. But first, we need to get the two of you makeovers. Hey, driver!”
Our cabdriver turned his head as Lenni knocked on the glass.
“Yes?”
“Where is there a good costume store around here?”
“This is New Orleans—there are tons of them!”
“Well, take me to the best place to get some hair dye and old clothes.”
That was how we ended up at Fifi Mahoney’s Wig Emporium, in the French Quarter. I’d never seen that many wigs and hats and crazy bangles and beads in one place. I don’t know how Lenni roped us into it, but five minutes after we walked in the door, two women were consulting on new looks for us, while Lenni perused the thrift store next door.
Three hours later we were back in our hotel room, staring at the full-length mirror in our bathroom.
“How are we going to explain this to Mom?” I asked Joe.
“Easy,” he responded. “We wear hats until this mission is over. Then we shave our heads.”
My hair was red. Bright red. Unnatural red. Fire engine red. And Joe? Joe’s head had been shaved to the skin, except for a Mohawk rising up in the middle. We were both dressed in tight black jeans. Mine had patches covering both knees. His had been shredded at the bottom. We were both wearing threadbare old cotton T-shirts, so soft they felt like stuffed animals.
“On the plus side,” I said, “if we run into Mom and Dad on the street, they’ll never recognize us like this.”
“Stop complaining,” said Lenni. “You want to solve this case or not?” She smiled and ran her hand through my hair. “Besides, you guys look cute like this.”
“So who are these people we’re meeting?” I asked.
“They call themselves the Krewe de Crude. Weird name, right?”
“Actually, it makes sense,” I said. “Krewes are what people in New Orleans call the different groups who get together to have floats in the Mardi Gras parade. And crude, well … judging from our outfits, that works too.”
Joe laughed. Lenni shot me a dirty look.
“Anyway,” she continued. “I talked to some friends, and apparently, these kids are some kind of do-good, Robin Hood kind of deal. Rob from the rich, give to the poor. And New Orleans has a lot of poor people who need it. Did you know twenty percent of the city lives in poverty? It’s ridiculous!”
That was Lenni, always full of righteous anger over any injustice.
“They’ve got a warehouse in the Bywater, which is where you guys got beat up, right?”
“We didn’t get beat up,” I said. “But yes, we were in the Bywater.”
“Hopefully they’ll know more about the scene. I doubt these are the guys we’re looking for, but if we get in with them, they can give us some answers.”
“So the plan is we bring them the stuff we were trying to sell, convince them we stole it from some bad corporation, and then hope they talk to us?”
“That’s about it, yeah.” Lenni nodded.
“I’m not sure I really like working with criminals,” said Joe. “Or pretending to be criminals.”
I had to agree.
“Look, sometimes you need to bend some rules.
Can’t make a vegan omelet without breaking some tofu, right?”
“Gross,” said Joe.
I didn’t like their methods—but Lenni had a point. And besides, we needed help if we were going to find the real bad guys before they struck again. So, looking like idiots, we headed back to the Bywater.
We got more stares on the streets near our hotel, but not that many. Whether it was Mardi
Gras or just New Orleans in general (or both), no one seemed to care how we looked. Once we crossed the railroad tracks that led to the Bywater, no one looked at us strangely at all—though I still felt a little nervous when we walked past that café. Thankfully, no one recognized us.
Lenni led us deeper and deeper into the Bywater, until finally we were on a street that was all warehouses.
“This is it,” she said, standing in front of a particularly abandoned-looking one. The front of it was covered in weird red scuff marks.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“They said look for the roses.”
Roses? I thought. I looked around. There was nothing growing on this street, aside from some grass in the cracks of the sidewalk. Then I realized what she was talking about.
“Oh, wow,” I said. I took a step back to see better.
The scuff marks on the building? They were actually giant impressionist paintings of roses. Up close they didn’t look like anything, but if you viewed the building from across the street, they were beautiful.
Lenni knocked on the door.
“It’s open!” someone yelled from inside. I was shocked. They left their door unlocked? In this neighbor hood?
But once we got inside, I understood why. There had to be a dozen people lounging around inside a huge open space. There were couches and rugs and dogs, strange sculptures made of bits of mannequins and feathers hanging from the ceiling. There were plants everywhere, giant vines crisscrossing the space, soaking in the sun that came through the many windows and a partially destroyed roof. The place looked like a cross between a Salvador Dali painting and a junk shop.
“Is Sybil around?”
A voice called out from the couch, “Who dat?”
“It’s Lenni. Sharkey told me to get in touch with you?”
“Come on over,” the voice yelled.
Sybil turned out to be a very young-looking girl in a retro sundress. If it hadn’t been for the flower tattoos that covered her arms and legs, I would have guessed she was fifteen.
Lenni laid out the cover story we had devised. The three of us were in town, hitchhiking across the United States. We had some stuff we came across along the way—“dropped off the back of a truck,” was the way Lenni put it. We’d heard they were the people to get in touch with.
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