034 Vanishing Act

by Carolyn Keene

  It was definitely a dismissal. Nancy and George stood up, too. "Thanks, Vint," Nancy said. "Actually, you've been very helpful." Not that helpful, really, she said to herself. "Can I call you if I have any more questions?" she added.

  "Sure! Any time!" Vint sounded a little too enthusiastic.

  "Oh, there is one thing I forgot to ask," Nancy said. "What are you doing now? For a living, I mean?"

  Now Vint looked troubled. "I'm in another band," he said. "You've probably heard of them. The Crisp."

  "The Crisp! But they're—"

  "Doing incredibly well," Vint finished for her. "It's true. But I'd trade it all in just to be able to play with Jesse again."

  And this time Nancy was sure he was telling the truth.

  "Well, what did you think?" George asked, when they were safely back in the car again.

  "There's something going on," Nancy said, "but I'm not sure what. Did you notice it, too?"

  "How could I miss it? When you asked him about Jesse's friends and girlfriend, he just about shriveled up."

  "Yes, that's it," Nancy agreed. "But I was afraid that if I pressed him harder, he'd clam up altogether. I'll try again later."

  She glanced at her watch. "It's almost supper-time. Let's go back to the hotel and meet Bess and hear how her day went."

  The "hotel" where the three girls were staying was actually a group of small bungalows, each with its own kitchen and garage. "Boy, am I exhausted," Nancy said as she parked the car in their garage. "I feel so dirty, too. All I want to do tonight is—"

  "Nancy!" Bess was at Nancy's elbow before Nancy was out of the car. "George! You're back! I've been waiting for you guys forever!"

  She practically dragged Nancy out. "I've found out something very interesting about Jesse Slade," she said breathlessly. "A huge amount of his money is missing—and I'm sure Tommy Road was embezzling it!"

  Chapter Six

  Nancy stopped on the path leading into the bungalow and stared at Bess. "We were just talking to someone who thought Jesse might have been having money problems," she said. "What did you find out?" All of a sudden she didn't feel so tired.

  "Well, come in and sit down and I'll tell you," Bess said. "I just made some iced tea."

  Her face was pink with excitement—and pride. "Now, are you ready?" she asked. "You're not going to believe I figured this all out on my own!"

  Bess took a big swig of iced tea. "Well, I got to Mr. Lawrence's—the accountant's—office," she

  began. "It's a big, dark, and gloomy-looking place that looks like a men's club or something. I was a little scared, but I acted official and asked a secretary to see a computer printout of the general ledger Jesse's manager had kept—just the way you rehearsed me, Nan. I was told I could read it in this little conference room right next door to Lawrence's office. So I took this huge stack of computer paper and went in there and started looking through all the payments Tommy Road ever made while he was Jesse's manager.

  "Most of it I could figure out pretty well," Bess continued, "but there were these huge payments to something called Bailey Promotional. That's where I started to get confused—because there were also huge payments to a public-relations place called Swang and Davis, and both companies were listed in the promotional category in the ledger. And public relations and promotion are pretty much the same thing, aren't they? Besides, the amount being paid to Bailey Promotional was really huge—I mean, hundreds of thousands of dollars. I don't know that much about this kind of thing, but I didn't see how any PR place could charge that much!

  "So. I decided to call them up and just ask them about Tommy Road and Jesse. And guess what!" Bess was practically bouncing in her seat. "There was no Bailey Promotional in the directory! Isn't that fantastic?"

  "But they could be unlisted," George objected.

  "Oh, no. See, this is where I really got smart. I called the California Secretary of State's office. They have a list of all the businesses incorporated in the state. So I asked if they had a listing for a corporation called Bailey Promotional. And they did. It didn't have an address—just a post office box number. And it had been incorporated by a guy named S. Thomas R-H-O-D-E."

  "Tommy Road! Bess, that's great!" said Nancy. "He was sending Jesse's money to a corporation he'd set up! But how could the accountant have missed that?"

  "Well, I finally worked up the guts to talk to Mr. Lawrence," said Bess. "He said that it wasn't his business to question payments that Jesse's manager had authorized. He just paid them. He also said there are lots of different kinds of promotional expenses. So what do yon think?"

  "I think you did a wonderful job," Nancy said sincerely, and George nodded her agreement. "I don't see how there's any other way to figure this—Tommy Road must have been embezzling, and Jesse must have found out. At last, a real lead! Now we have a motive—a reason someone would have wanted Jesse out of the way."

  Then Nancy's face fell. "Oh. But it's going to have to wait," she said in a disappointed voice. "Renee told me that tomorrow's going to be completely crazy. She said I'd really have to buckle down—as if I haven't already been."

  "How'd your day go, anyway?" Bess asked. "I forgot to ask."

  "Don't ask," Nancy and George said in unison. Nancy grinned. "At least not until after supper," she said. "Let's go find a good Mexican place. Los Angeles is supposed to have millions of them."

  "Perfect," Bess replied. "I was so excited about this embezzling thing that I didn't even notice how hungry I was—if you can believe that."

  Without meaning to, Nancy and George spoke in unison again. "I can't," they both said.

  "Nancy, why did you ever let me eat so much? I feel like a gorged boa constrictor!" Bess groaned theatrically as they walked back into the bungalow a couple of hours later.

  Nancy laughed. "Bess, I refuse all responsibility. No one was forcing you to order that food, you know."

  "I know." Bess sighed. "But I've got to blame somebody. Do you guys want to see if there's anything good on TV?"

  "Not tonight," Nancy said. "I need a good night's sleep. I'm getting up at six tomorrow so I can go in to TVR early. I even arranged for a wake-up call."

  "How? By telepathy?" George asked. "I've been with you ever since you left the office, and I haven't seen you go near a phone." „

  "I made the call from TVR," Nancy said, flushing a little. "I wanted to make sure Renee knew I was really trying hard."

  Bess—who had heard the whole story of Nancy's day during dinner—leaned over and gave her a hug. "You'll show that Renee," she said comfortingly. "You just wait until tomorrow. She won't know what hit her."

  Songbirds were going full-blast outside as the sun streamed in across Nancy's bed and landed directly in her face. Groggily she rolled over and looked at her watch. Then she sat bolt upright in bed.

  The hotel management was supposed to wake her at six o'clock. Now it was after eight!

  "They must have forgotten about me!" she gasped, throwing the covers back and jumping out of bed. "Oh, I'm going to be so late!"

  A tousled-looking Bess peered in, rubbing her eyes. "You're still here?" she said, yawning.

  "I sure am," Nancy said grimly, "and the second I'm dressed, I'm calling the hotel desk to find out what happened."

  She hurried into a pair of acid-washed jeans and an oversize sleeveless orange shirt. Then she picked up the phone and punched the number of the bell desk.

  "This is Nancy Drew. I asked to be woken at six," she said angrily when the clerk answered. "Why didn't it happen?"

  "But, Ms. Drew, what about your note?" The woman at the other end sounded astonished.

  "What note?"

  "Well, I just got on duty, but there's a note on the desk canceling your wake-up call. It's signed with your name. I—I guess the clerk just assumed you had dropped it off. I mean, why wouldn't he?" The clerk sounded completely at sea. "Ms. Drew," she said, "there's obviously been some kind of mix-up. I'm so sorry—I don't know what to say."


  "Oh, don't worry," Nancy heard herself answering. "It's not your fault, and anyway, it doesn't matter too much."

  And that's really true, she told herself. I have to remember that my job at TVR isn't a real job. But someone left that note. Someone's trying to make me look bad at TVR. And I have a very good idea who it is. But I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she's getting to me.

  "Where have you been, Nancy?" Renee asked an hour later. "I thought I told you this was going to be a big day."

  Renee sounded offhand, but there was an undercurrent of anger in her voice. Nancy did her best to ignore it. She'd decided on her way over that the most professional way to handle this would be to act as though it had never happened. Renee had probably sent that note—at least, Nancy couldn't think of anyone else at TVR who would have done such a thing—but on the off-chance that she hadn't, it would definitely be wiser not to confront her.

  "I'm very sorry, Renee" was all Nancy said. "What would you like me to do first?"

  "Well, I know you don't have any experience working with entertainers," Renee said, "but you're about to get some. A stand-up comic named Bonzo Bob is coming in today. He's been doing the comedy clubs recently, and I'd like you to talk to him to see if you think there's any way you can use him on your show. See what you think, anyway."

  "Oh, that sounds like fun!" Nancy said, trying to hide her sarcasm. She could hardly believe her luck. She was supposed to be talking to people in the music business about Jesse, and she had to interview a comic.

  It didn't take long for Nancy to realize that Bonzo Bob was not going to be on TVR. Nancy couldn't remember ever seeing anyone who made her feel less like laughing. And she'd never seen anyone with so little talent act so temperamental.

  Bonzo Bob came bouncing into the little office where Renee had set Nancy up and shouted, "All right! Let's party! I'm a party dude!"

  Oh, no, Nancy thought. What is he wearing?

  Yellow-checked bicycle shorts, wingtip shoes with gartered black socks, a red sleeveless tank top, and a white beret with a graduation-cap tassel were what Bonzo Bob obviously thought would make people remember him. But he doesn't look funny, Nancy thought—just dumb. Well, maybe he was nicer than he looked.

  "I'm Nancy Drew," Nancy said, smiling. "I'm the guest veejay for this week. It's great to meet you, Bonzo—uh, I mean Bob."

  For a long minute Bonzo Bob stared goggle-eyed at her. Then he opened his mouth and bellowed, "Whaaaaat? So TVR doesn't think I'm good enough for a real staff person to interview me, is that right? They think it's okay to send a lousy guest? Well, I've got news for you, Miss so-called veejay. Bonzo Bob is worth a lot more than that! Do you know how many people come to see my act at Attention Talent? A lot more than come to see you!"

  Stay poised, Nancy told herself. You never have to see him again. "Please, won't you sit down?" she asked in as composed a voice as she could manage. "I promise to be as—as 'real' as I can."

  "Sure you do," he answered bitterly. Nancy still couldn't tell if he was genuinely angry or if he thought he was being funny. "I believe that like I believe politicians tell the truth. And speaking of politics . . ."

  It was all downhill from there. By lunchtime

  Nancy's ears hurt from being screamed at, and she could count on one finger the number of jokes that had made her even smile. Bonzo Bob had spent the time alternating between insulting her lowly status at TVR and spewing out the worst humor she had ever heard. When he finally stormed out—again, without making it clear whether or not he was kidding—Nancy felt limp with relief.

  "Well, I guess he's not right for us," Renee said briefly when Nancy described her morning's work. "Look, whip down to the commissary and get some lunch to go. I've got another job for you."

  Not a word of thanks for all her wasted effort! Nancy was fuming as she walked down the hall toward the commissary.

  When she came back with her turkey sandwich, she encountered Renee bent over a street guide. "See this intersection?" she said, pointing to a map. "There's a great bargain basement there called Kendall's. All the kids in the Valley use it—and today they're having a massive sale. I want you to head over there and find out what the scene's like. Take notes, buy a few things if they look interesting—TVR will reimburse you. We're thinking of doing a fashion segment."

  Nancy tried to remain cheerful, but it was hard. All this running around wasn't answering any of her questions. It looked as though being undercover was going to be more of a hindrance than a help.

  "The scene" at Kendall's turned out to be a huge store, all on one level, filled with long tables. All of them were heaped with jumbled piles of ultrafashionable clothes. The aisles were jammed with girls who were snatching clothes off the tables and trying them on wherever they happened to be.

  Nancy took a deep breath and waded in. There was a table of tops in front of her. Curious, she reached out to pick up a leopard-print vest with skull-and-crossbones buttons, but just as she did, a lightning-quick hand snaked in from behind her and grabbed the vest. "I saw it first!" a girl squealed.

  Too bad Bess isn't here, Nancy thought. She'd actually enjoy this madhouse!

  It was almost four o'clock when Nancy finally got back to TVR. Tired but satisfied, she walked up to Renee's cubicle. In her hand was a shopping bag stuffed with clothes. She'd had to wait in line forty-five minutes to pay for them, but it was worth it. The clothes were some of the weirdest she'd ever seen, and she had decided that Kendall's would be a great place to feature on TVR.

  Renee was in her office, bent over a pile of fan mail. "Well, it's really a madhouse there, but I think you could get some—" Nancy started.

  She never finished. "Where on earth have you been?" Renee shrieked. "You go on the air in five minutes!"

  Chapter Seven

  NANCY DROPPED THE BAG of Clothes to the floor.

  "What do you mean?" she said.

  Renee was already propelling her down the hall in the direction of the studio. "I told you you'd be doing a live guest-veejay appearance at four!" she cried. "You're interviewing Carta Tarleton!"

  "Carta Tarleton?"

  "Yes. She's the lead singer for the Temple of Doom."

  Nancy's heart sank. The Temple of Doom was a heavy-metal group whom she'd only seen on TVR once or twice. Nancy felt as if she were trapped in a nightmare. "I'm sorry, Renee, but you didn't mention anything about this!" Nancy panted as they raced along.

  "I most certainly did tell you about it," Renee snapped. "Yesterday, just before you left. I remember it clearly."

  Quickly Nancy reviewed the events of the day before. She was absolutely sure Renee hadn't said anything. This had to be another way she was trying to sabotage Nancy's work at TVR.

  But I'm not going to give her that chance, Nancy vowed. I'll make good on this if it kills me!

  "Well, there must have been some mix-up," she said in as calm a voice as she could manage. "Just fill me in on what I need to do, and I'll try the best I can not to mess up."

  "It's too late to fill you in," Renee scolded her. "Just keep looking at the camera. Someone will cue you when they're about to switch over to a video. Here we are. No time to make you up— they'll have to do it during the first commercial."

  They were at the studio door now. Renee pushed it open.

  "Where was she?" someone hissed as Nancy and Renee rushed toward the set. "I'll explain later," Renee shot back over her shoulder. "Is Carla here?"

  "Yes. I'm her agent," a dark-haired young woman answered. "We wanted some time for Carla to talk to the veejay first. It's really not fair to make a star go on without any warm-up, you know!"

  To Nancy's intense relief, Renee didn't blame her for being late. All her energy seemed concentrated on making sure Nancy got on the air. "Sorry. A mix-up," Renee told the agent. "Can't do anything about it now. Okay, Nancy. Here's your chair."

  She pushed Nancy into the anchor's seat in front of the camera. "Good luck."

  Nancy's heart wa
s pounding, and her hands were clammy. Face the camera, she told herself. And smile!

  She looked up and stared into the camera. It was like staring into space. All she could see was the camera—everything else was black. Above her, the floodlights were beating down, but Nancy wasn't even conscious of how hot it was. Every nerve was concentrated on making this work.

  A technician to the side of the camera waved to get Nancy's attention. He held up ten fingers— ten seconds to go. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Nancy felt as if she had a metal band being pulled tight across her chest. Five. Four. Three. I can't do this! she thought wildly. Two. One. She was on.

  Nancy smiled into the blackness and was startled by the sound of her own voice. "Hello. I'm Nancy Drew, your guest veejay," she began, "and I'm brand-new at this. You have to bear with me for a little while because I'm so nervous I can hardly breathe, much less speak." There was a stifled laugh off-camera.

  Now Carla Tarleton was slipping into the seat next to Nancy's. Nancy could hear her breathing fast and knew Carla was nervous, too. That realization made Nancy feel much calmer.

  "Today we're going to be talking to Carla Tarleton, the drummer for the Temple of Doom," she said. "I mean, the lead singer for the Temple of Doom. Sorry, Carla!"

  She turned to look at Carla, and for the first time noticed what her guest was wearing—a white leather T-shirt, a turquoise leather miniskirt with metal studs, and thigh-high boots entirely covered with yellow feathers. "Wow!" Nancy said involuntarily. "What incredible boots! Where did you get them?"

  For an awful moment Carla just stared, open-mouthed, at Nancy. Then she broke into easy laughter. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't ready for that question," she said. "Uh—Big Bird made them for me. No, actually, I made them myself. I bought the feathers at a warehouse and glued them on one at a time."

  "But that must have taken forever!" Nancy exclaimed.

  "Just about, but it was a perfect thing to do on the road. Gave me something to occupy myself on the bus. Some people do needlepoint, I glue feathers on boots. There's not much difference, really."