034 Vanishing Act

by Carolyn Keene

  "I guess you're right," Nancy said. "But listen, Carta. You said you hadn't been expecting that question. What were you expecting, if you don't mind telling us?"

  "Oh, something boring about what it's like being the only girl in the band. That's what people usually ask me."

  "Well, we'll skip that, then," Nancy said. "What about—Oops! Wait, folks. One of the studio guys is giving me some kind of hand signal. I think—yes—you're about to see Temple of Doom's new video. Let's take a look."

  "Okay, three minutes until you're back on, Nancy," said a cameraman. Everyone in the studio began talking at once.

  The makeup woman rushed up to Nancy and began powdering her face. "Too bad we didn't get a chance to do this before," she said, "but I don't think anyone will notice. You're doing great."

  Nancy was shaking all over. "Great?" she exclaimed. "All I did was goof up!" She turned to Carta. "I called you a drummer! I can't believe it!"

  "Hey, it's okay," Carta said. "I'm having a good time. They'll see me sing on the video, anyway."

  The makeup woman had finished, and now it was the hairdresser's turn. "Not much to do here," she said to Nancy. "We'll just mousse you up a tiny bit."

  The cameraman was looking over the hair-dresser's shoulder. "You're doing fine," he said reassuringly. "Very relaxed. Just make sure you don't turn away from the camera. Pretend it's a friend you're talking to."

  "Carta, don't forget to mention the name of the new album!" came the frantic voice of Carta's agent.

  "I will," said Carla calmly, "If it comes up. I don't have to talk about music all the time. If Nancy wants to talk about something else, that's fine with me."

  "Okay, folks, back in places" came a technician's voice. "Nancy, keep up the good work." .

  The next twenty-two minutes passed in a blur. Nancy couldn't decide whether she was totally relaxed or more nervous than she'd ever been in her life. Whichever it was, she knew there was no point in trying to pretend she was totally comfortable in front of a camera—so she didn't try. And between commercials and switches to music videos, she managed to feel as though she were having a real conversation with Carta. They talked about everything, from what their high schools had been like to their favorite brands of ice cream.

  When the show was over, everyone in the studio broke into applause—even Carta's agent.

  All the lights came on, and Nancy looked out at the many faces that had been hidden by the dark. "Is that all?" she asked. "I don't get another chance?"

  "You don't need one," the director said, walking up to her chair. "You came across completely naturally, and that's the most important thing."

  "I hope Renee agrees with you," Nancy said, surprised and embarrassed when she started to yawn.

  "It's perfectly natural," an assistant said. "It's the tension draining away."

  Nancy smiled gratefully and peered around the studio. "Where is Renee? She was pretty upset with me just before the taping. I'd have thought she'd stick around to see how I did."

  "She's probably tense because of the concert. In fact, she's probably at the stadium by now," a cameraman said.

  "What concert?"

  "The Crisp. They're at Featherstone Stadium tonight. I bet Renee left early to go with Vint."

  "Vint Wylie?" Nancy asked. "She knows him?"

  "Knows him! They've been going together for almost three years—ever since Jesse Slade disappeared."

  "But I talked to—" Nancy stopped. She was supposed to be undercover and couldn't go around telling people she'd been talking to Vint Wylie!

  The cameraman didn't notice Nancy's hesitation. "Renee doesn't mention it much around here," he said. "There's the thing about Jesse Slade."

  "What thing about Jesse?"

  "Well, you know that she was Jesse's girl before she started going out with Vint, right?"

  "She was?" Nancy asked incredulously.

  "Oh, yeah. They were quite an item. It didn't look too good when she started seeing Vint so soon after Jesse disappeared."

  Suddenly he stopped. "Hey, what am I doing? I shouldn't be saying all this!"

  "It's all right," Nancy assured him. "I won't tell anyone that you told me."

  He seemed to perk up. "Okay," he said. "Anyway, I'm not telling you anything you wouldn't have found out sooner or later. Well, I've got to take off. Nice talking to you!"

  Nice talking to you, Nancy thought. You've certainly added an interesting new angle to this case. And you've given me some pretty prime suspects, too.

  No wonder Vint Wylie had lied about not knowing who Jesse Slade's girlfriend was. What if he and Renee had actually started seeing each other before Jesse died? Had they murdered Jesse?

  Wait a minute, Nancy said to herself. Where's the motive? Could Renee and Vint be tied in to Tommy Road? Or did they have another reason to want Jesse dead?

  Lost in thought, she walked slowly through the halls back to Renee's cubicle. She reached downn to pull her purse out from under Renee's desk— and that's when she saw the note.

  Please send Nancy Drew to my office immediately.

  Winslow Thomas

  Instantly Nancy's heart began to pound. Had Winslow seen her interview with Carla? Was he angry?

  When Nancy reached his office and saw his grave face, she did not have her fears allayed.

  "Sit down, Nancy," he said crisply. "I want to talk to you. Hang on a second. I want Dan in here, too."

  Oh, no, Nancy thought.

  Winslow picked up the phone. "Call Kennedy and get him in here," he ordered his secretary. Then he hung up and turned to Nancy.

  "You did a jolly good job interviewing Carta," Winslow said unexpectedly. Then he added, "Considering your lack of preparation. You were poised, but I think you'll agree that the whole interview wasn't very, well, professional. I mean, you certainly hadn't done your homework, had you?"

  What was Nancy supposed to say? She'd had no time to do any "homework"—but she didn't want to tell tales on Renee. Before she could decide on an answer, Winslow spoke again.

  "I also heard you were late this morning." He picked up a marble paperweight and began turning it in his hands, staring at it intently, unwilling to meet her eyes.

  Finally he looked up. "What kind of progress are you making on your case?"

  "Well, I—I have some leads, but—" Nancy knew she sounded as though she was floundering.

  "But nothing definite," Winslow interrupted. "I thought that was what you'd say. Look, under the circumstances I can't justify having you here as a guest veejay any longer. I hate to say it, but I'm going to have to ask you to give up this case."

  Chapter Eight

  "But, Mr. Thomas, I've only been working for two days!" Nancy protested. "It always takes me a few days to start unraveling a case!"

  "Be that as it may," Mr. Thomas said, "it's— well, disruptive having you here. Some members of my staff have started asking questions already. It hasn't escaped their attention that you came on as a guest veejay without coming through any of the normal channels. I can't fend off their questions much longer."

  "But I—I don't understand why it would be ibad if people knew who I was," Nancy said. "I'd think it would be good for TVR to get the credit for solving this mystery!"

  "Not if the solution's unpleasant," Mr. Thomas countered swiftly. "And I'm afraid it will be."

  "You wanted to see me, Mr. Thomas?" Dan Kennedy was poking his head into the room.

  "Yes. Sit down. I've just been telling Nancy that I'd like her to stop investigating this matter with any help from us. I think it's doing the station a disservice. I wanted you to know, Dan," Winslow added wryly, "since you brought Nancy and her friends here in the first place."

  Dan looked worried. Nancy couldn't blame him. Winslow wouldn't fire Dan because of her, would he?

  She couldn't let that happen. She had to prove that Dan had been right in asking her to solve the mystery of Jesse's disappearance.

  Nancy gathered up all her resolve. "Mr. Th
omas," she said, "do you think you could give me another twenty-four hours here? If I don't have the case solved by then, I promise I'll forget it."

  "I—I think that's a good idea," said Dan hesitantly. "I have complete confidence in Nancy, Mr. Thomas. She's been so busy since she got here that she really hasn't had any time to do much investigating."

  Mr. Thomas met both of their eyes with his steely ones. Then quickly he stood, nodded his head, and said, "All right, Nancy. You've got your twenty-four hours. Use it well."

  "Thank you," Nancy said with heartfelt relief. "Thank you very much. I do have an important lead I can follow up tomorrow morning." Last night she'd asked George to call Martin Rosenay, the dealer in Slade memorabilia, to set up an appointment with him for the next morning.

  "I guess you'll be late tomorrow?" Mr. Thomas asked with a sly smile.

  "I guess I will be," said Nancy, unconsciously holding her breath.

  "Go ahead," said Mr. Thomas. "You can leave a note on Renee's desk and tell her I said it would be all right."

  "I will. And thanks again, Mr. Thomas."

  George and Bess were watching the evening news when Nancy walked into the bungalow and threw herself onto the couch. "I'm never moving again," she groaned.

  "Can I get you a soda? Did you have another bad day?" George asked sympathetically.

  Nancy sighed. "Yes, please, to the first question. Yes and no, to the second. It was interesting, at least." Quickly she filled George and Bess in on what had happened.

  "At least you got to veejay. Do you have a tape?" Bess asked.

  "Yes, they gave me one," Nancy said. "But I don't much feel like looking at it right now."

  "I can't believe you didn't tell Mr. Thomas it was Renee's fault you weren't prepared!" Bess said. "Why are you taking all the blame for this?"

  "Believe me, I wanted to tell him," Nancy said.

  "But it just wouldn't be a good idea—especially now that she's a suspect. I don't want her to suspect that I suspect her, if you see what I mean. The nicer and more uncomplaining I am, the more relaxed she'll be around me."

  "Well, you're just too much of a saint," Bess said. "But I suppose you're right."

  "Did you two find out anything?" Nancy asked.

  "Not that much," George said, "except that spending all day reading microfilm in a newspaper archive makes your eyes go crazy. I think I know every detail of the police investigation into Jesse's disappearance—"

  "And I know every review of every song he ever released—" Bess put in.

  "But nothing that looked like a clue," George finished.

  Just then the phone rang. Nancy picked it up. "Hi, Nancy!" It was Dan Kennedy. "I just wanted to cheer you up."

  "Well, I'm not feeling too great," Nancy admitted.

  "Anything I can do to make you feel better? Are you free tomorrow morning after your appointment? Somebody canceled on me, and I've got a couple of hours open all of a sudden. I'd love an update on the case."

  "Oh, Dan, I'm sorry. I'm going to be busy all morning," Nancy said regretfully. Then, from

  the corner of her eye, she saw Bess jumping up and down and pointing excitedly at herself and George. "But Bess and George are free," Nancy said. "Can they stand in for me?"

  "Sure!" Dan said. "I'll take them to Fumetti's for breakfast. It's the latest hot spot. You know— mineral water and famous people."

  "Sounds perfect," Nancy said with a laugh. "Should they meet you at TVR?"

  "Sure. We'll go in my Lamborghini. It's my one luxury. I got it last year when my career took off. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right— right?"

  "Right. Thanks, Dan."

  Nancy hung up and turned to her friends, smiling for the first time in hours. "We aim to please," she said.

  The next morning Nancy dropped Bess and George off at the studio and stopped for a minute to admire Dan's car before heading to her appointment. She had just taken the exit for Chelmsford when her car phone suddenly began to ring. Astonished, she picked it up.

  "Nancy? This is Lily, the receptionist at TVR. I'm sorry to bother you, but someone's just dropped off a package for you. There's a note on it that says it's urgent that you receive it immediately."

  "A package? Who left it?"

  "I don't know. I was away from my desk for a few minutes, and when I came back it was sitting here."

  "Well, I'm on my way to an appointment that I really have to keep," Nancy said. "Could you possibly open it and tell me what it is?"

  "Uh, gee, Nancy, I don't think I should," Lily answered uncertainly. "There's a sticker on it that says 'Private and Confidential.'"

  "I see. Well, I guess I'd better come back, then," Nancy said. "Thanks, Lily."

  Shaking her head in frustration, she turned and headed toward the freeway entrance that would take her back to the center of town.

  She arrived at TVR, half an hour later, to find Lily looking terribly embarrassed.

  "Nancy, you're not going to believe this," she said, "but I can't find the package. I was just on my way down to see if someone had taken it to Renee for you."

  "I'll do that," Nancy said.

  But there was no sign of the package in Renee's cubicle. And there was no sign of her package in the mailroom. Nancy checked on the off chance that it had been taken there by mistake. There was no sign of the package anywhere.

  "I—I just don't know what happened," Lily said, faltering. "I went to the copy machine for a second to make some copies for Mr. Thomas, and when I came back, the package was gone! Do you think it was something important?"

  "I hope not," Nancy said. She felt like screaming. A whole hour wasted, when she had so little time left! "Well, don't worry, Lily. It's not your fault." And she headed back out to her car.

  Well, I've got to make the trip all over again, she thought to herself as she sat down in the driver's seat and switched on a classic-rock station. Then she headed out into the traffic.

  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 th
robbing, 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 sard 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."