False Notes

by Carolyn Keene

  “I still can’t believe Mayor Strong is really retiring,” George mused as the three of us continued strolling down the block. “He’s been around practically since we were all in diapers.”

  “I know,” I said. “And I think a lot of people will be voting for Heather Simmons to replace him if she really does enter the race. She’s very qualified for the job.”

  “Besides, a lot of people aren’t too thrilled with the only other choice so far,” George added. “I mean, for one thing, Morris Granger has only lived here for about five minutes. I heard he still has homes in about five other cities! When did he buy that town house of his anyway?”

  Bess wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. But count me in as one of the less-than thrilled,” she said. “The last thing this city needs is some superrich corporate type like him swooping in and taking over.”

  “He probably only wants the job to make it easier to take over Rackham Industries,” George agreed, referring to the local computer company and the biggest employer in River Heights. “Then he’ll move the whole company to some kind of offshore tax haven and leave this place destitute.”

  I laughed. “Hold on,” I said. “You’re making him sound like some kind of dastardly deviant. Don’t forget, he’s already done some good things for the town.”

  George shrugged. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. “So he built a new public skating rink and a couple of playgrounds. Big deal. That’s chump change for a guy like him.”

  But Bess looked conflicted. “He’s starting work on the new Granger Children’s Hospital, too,” she reminded George. “Remember? It’s that new construction site over on Union Street.”

  Suddenly I stopped short, noticing a display in the art-store window we were passing. “Hey,” I said, pointing. “Do you think Dad might like something like that? He likes modern art, right?”

  “You mean that painting of a big gray blob with purple polka dots?” George looked skeptical. “Let me guess, Nancy. This means you still don’t have any good ideas for a birthday present.”

  I grinned. “You got that right,” I admitted. “I’ve been walking all over town today in search of the perfect gift, but nothing seems quite right. He’s always hard to shop for, but for some reason this year it’s harder than ever.”

  Bess looked sympathetic. “Did you ask Hannah for help?”

  “Yep. No dice.” Hannah Gruen, our longtime housekeeper, knows Dad about as well as anyone. But she hadn’t had any brilliant ideas either. She was taking the easy way out herself—her gift to Dad was going to be fixing all his favorite foods for his party on Thursday night.

  “All right, what about asking Ned?” Bess suggested. “He’s a guy—he should be able to help you figure something out.”

  “I asked him,” I said. “The only thing he could come up with were golf clubs or CDs. But Dad just bought himself a new set of clubs a couple of months ago. And he has so many CDs, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  George’s eyes lit up. “I know!” she said. “Why not get him a gift certificate to the music store? Then he can pick out his own CDs.”

  “I guess,” I said without much enthusiasm. “If I can’t come up with anything else, I’ll probably do that. It just seems kind of impersonal, you know?”

  Bess looked over at me as we walked on. “Sounds like you’re getting pretty discouraged.”

  “Nancy Drew ‘discouraged’?” George exclaimed. “Never! I won’t believe it. Not the famous amateur sleuth who’s tracked down more criminals than the entire River Heights Police Department. Not the determined investigator who won’t rest until every single clue is uncovered. Not the girl who wouldn’t give up until she cracked the code of Bess’s diary.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Very funny,” I said, giving George a shove. “But you’re right. I’m not giving up. I’m going to find the perfect birthday gift for Dad if it kills me!”

  Unfortunately I still hadn’t solved the mystery of Dad’s birthday gift by the time I headed home for dinner. My head was spinning with all the possibilities I’d considered and rejected: designer clothing, tropical fish, sports memorabilia, electronic equipment.… While Dad’s many interests and hobbies provided numerous possibilities, nothing seemed original or special enough to make the perfect birthday gift from his only daughter.

  I let myself into my house. The dim coolness of the front hall was a welcome relief after being in the heat. “Hello, I’m home!” I called.

  “Hi, Nancy,” Hannah’s familiar voice returned from the direction of the dining room. “Hurry up. Dinner’s just about on the table.”

  As I went into the powder room off the front hall to wash my hands, I caught a whiff of the tantalizing odor of Hannah’s famous squash and mushroom soup. That made me feel a little better. But I couldn’t help but continue to think about my fruitless shopping expedition as I hurried into the dining room a few minutes later and took my usual seat at the polished mahogany table.

  Dad and Hannah were already seated. “Hi, Nancy,” Dad greeted me, glancing up from his soup. “How was your day?”

  “Okay, I guess.” The words came out sounding a little gloomy, even to myself. I forced a smile, not wanting Dad to guess why I was feeling so down in the dumps. “Oh, actually something sort of interesting—and a little weird—happened this afternoon.”

  “What’s that, dear?” Hannah asked, passing me the soup tureen.

  I helped myself to a bowl of the thick, ginger-scented soup. “I was downtown—er, just doing a little window shopping,” I said. “I stopped in to visit with Lucia Gonsalvo in her shop. While we were having tea, we spotted a couple on the street outside. I thought they looked familiar, but at first I couldn’t remember who they were.”

  “Oh, really?” Dad turned and winked playfully at Hannah. “Uh-oh. Sounds very mysterious so far. The summer heat must be affecting Nancy’s brain.”

  I grinned. “Maybe a little,” I joked. I paused for a moment to blow on my soup, because it was still too hot to eat. “Since it took me about ten minutes to realize that it was Heather and Clay Simmons. You know, the woman who’s been talking about running for mayor of River Heights, and her husband, who teaches over at the university? But the weird part was, Lucia was sure there was something terribly wrong by the way they were acting—and I’m not sure she wasn’t…”

  My words trailed off as Dad’s soup spoon clattered loudly against the edge of his bowl, bounced off the table, and fell to the floor. “Excuse me,” he muttered, diving down to retrieve it.

  I stared at him in surprise when he sat up again. His face—which a moment ago had looked relaxed and jovial—was suddenly hardened into an expression of shock.

  Mystery or Not?

  I was startled at the sudden change in Dad’s demeanor. But I quickly realized that there was only one likely explanation: The Simmonses must be clients. Dad was always careful to respect the attorney/client relationship, and I knew better than to press him when he got like that.

  Anyway, maybe that explained away the whole “mystery,” I thought as Hannah bustled off to the kitchen to fetch Dad a clean spoon. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Simmons were having some sort of legal trouble, and that’s why they had been arguing on the street. If so, this was starting to look like a serious case of None of My Business.

  Clearing my throat, I decided it was time to change the subject. Since the Simmonses were still in my mind, I started to think about their daughter. Leslie Simmons was just a couple of years younger than I was. I didn’t know her that well, but everyone in town knew that she was a talented pianist and one of the most promising musicians River Heights had seen in a long time.

  “Hey, speaking of the Simmons family,” I said as Hannah returned and placed a spoon on the table next to Dad. “I heard the other day that Leslie is trying out for that scholarship the conservatory is awarding to the most promising high school musician.”

  Dad had just raised a spoonful of soup to h
is mouth. At my comment, he almost choked on it. The spoon clattered into his bowl again as he pounded on his own chest, coughing and sputtering.

  I stared at him. What was going on? Obviously the entire Simmons family was a sensitive subject for him at the moment. But why? He regularly represented a lot of people in town, from Lucia Gonsalvo to Harold Safer to the outgoing mayor, and he didn’t start choking every time one of their names came up. Whatever was going on with the Simmons family, it had to be big.

  When Dad got his breath back, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. Then he met my gaze briefly before looking away.

  “Sorry, Hannah,” he said in a slightly raspy voice. “I just got distracted there for a moment. Nothing to do with your soup—it’s delicious, as always.”

  I could take a hint. It was clearly time to drop the whole topic of the Simmons family.

  “Yes, it’s great,” I added, smiling at Hannah and taking a quick sip of my own soup. “What kind of mushrooms do you put in it again?”

  After that the conversation at the dinner table proceeded more normally. But I was still thinking about the earlier incident as I helped Hannah clear the table. That little sixth sense of mine was tingling—not to mention my curiosity. Maybe it was none of my business, but I couldn’t help wondering if the Simmonses were in trouble, and if what I’d witnessed that afternoon had something to do with it.

  As soon as I could, I excused myself and hurried upstairs. I closed my bedroom door, picked up the phone on my bedside table, and dialed George’s number.

  “Okay, so what’s the big emergency?” George teased as she swung open her front door a few minutes later.

  Bess appeared in the doorway behind her. She looked curious. “Yeah, Nancy,” she added. “I was planning to give myself a pedicure tonight.”

  “Sorry to tear you away from such exciting plans,” I said, only half kidding. Bess takes grooming and beauty treatments very seriously. “Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  George led the way down the hall to the stairs. The Faynes’ house is a comfortable, rambling colonial where George lives with her parents, her older brother, Sebastian, when he’s home from college, and her younger brother, Scott. Soon the three of us were entering her messy, chaotic bedroom. It was a large room, but it seemed much smaller because of the masses of power cords crisscrossing the floor, and the computer equipment and other electrical gadgets stacked on every possible surface.

  Bess blinked and looked around at the mess. “Hey,” she said in surprise. “You cleaned up in here!”

  “Yeah, a little.” George flopped onto her unmade bed. “Okay, enough chitchat. What’s going on, Nancy?”

  I perched on the edge of George’s desk chair, which I had to share with a set of stereo speakers and a spare modem. “It’s about Heather Simmons,” I began.

  “That again?” George interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Nancy. A woman arguing with her husband does not a mystery make—not even when that woman happens to be running for mayor.”

  “I know, I know.” I held up my hand to stop her. “But listen to this.…”

  I quickly described my innocent comments at dinner, and Dad’s extreme reactions. As I did, my mind kept turning over what I was saying, poking and prodding at it to try to make sense of it. That’s one of the reasons I like it when my friends help me with cases. Talking to them about weird things and puzzling clues often helps me figure things out faster.

  Bess looked uncertain. “Okay,” she said when I was finished. “So that tells us… what? That they’re probably his clients. So? That doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a mystery brewing.”

  Meanwhile George was licking her lips. “Do you think Hannah has any of that soup left over?” she asked. “I remember it well—she brought it to that potluck thing at the fire station. It was delicious!”

  I sighed. For such a thin girl, George had a practically bottomless stomach. It killed Bess to watch her cousin eat like a pig and never gain an ounce, while Bess herself remained pleasantly plump.

  “It may be nothing,” I told Bess. “But why would Dad freak out so much over an ordinary client? Why did he look more upset than ever when I mentioned Leslie?”

  “I can answer that one,” George said, apparently forgetting about her stomach for a moment. “Maybe whatever legal thing they’re dealing with has to do with her.”

  “Like what?” Bess asked.

  George shrugged. “Well, everyone says she’s a shoo-in for that music prize thing, right?”

  “You mean the scholarship to the conservatory?” I said. “I suppose that’s true. She’s a great pianist. I can’t imagine anyone else in town who could beat her out for the scholarship.”

  “So maybe that’s it,” George said. “Maybe her folks want to make sure they’re not going to be signing anything they don’t want to sign—you know, if she wins.”

  I thought about that for a second. “Maybe,” I said. “But why would Dad seem upset about that? Besides, I have a hunch there may be something much stranger going on here.”

  Bess giggled. “Aha, I see what’s going on here. We’re dealing with a patented Nancy Drew hunch. We might as well just give up right now.”

  I smiled patiently as George burst out laughing. My friends love to tease me about my hunches.

  “Very funny,” I said. “Anyway, I really do have a hunch about this, and I was hoping you guys could help.” I smiled pleadingly at George. “Feel like doing a little snooping on the computer?”

  I knew I wouldn’t have to ask twice, no matter how skeptical George might be. She loves anything having to do with the computer. She’s practically a computer genius—she can find anything on the Internet, and has been the information systems manager for her mother’s catering business since we were all in junior high.

  Soon she was online, scrolling through her search results for any information on Heather and Clay Simmons. I stood up and peeked over her shoulder at the screen.

  “Sorry the monitor’s so small,” George said, glancing up at me. “If I had the money, I’d definitely get a nice, big flat-screen.…”

  Bess and I exchanged an amused look. George is almost always short of money. As soon as she gets a few dollars together, she can’t resist spending it on a new video game or DVD, or the latest gadget she sees down at Riverside Electronics.

  Even on the small screen, it soon became obvious that the search wasn’t going to turn up anything juicy. Most of the entries led to newspaper articles from the Bugle about Heather’s comments to the school board or Clay’s speeches in front of local groups.

  I pointed to a link on the Bugle’s homepage for the River Heights official town Web site. “Let’s check that out,” I suggested. “Maybe it will tell us something interesting.”

  George clicked on the link. Soon the screen was flashing a photo of the town hall, along with a list of topics, from local school information to sources for town maps. “Anything strike your fancy?” George asked, the cursor hovering next to the list.

  “Let’s check out ‘Latest News,’” I suggested.

  The page that came up featured recent press releases and other articles, as well as an archive of past stories. I leaned closer as George scrolled slowly down the list, squinting to read the tiny print.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to an item near the top of the page. “This mentions the mayor’s retirement, and the election for his successor.”

  Bess was reading too. “Looks like Morris Granger has already filed the paperwork to run for mayor,” she said, pointing to a section of text about halfway down the screen. “It says he’s the only one so far. Oh! But look—here it says that ‘another citizen’ has declared an intent to run but hasn’t turned in the rest of the necessary paperwork yet.”

  “That must be Heather Simmons,” I mused. “And look—it says the deadline for the paperwork is this coming Friday. That’s interesting.”

  “Interesting? Maybe,” George agreed. “But
a mystery? Not really.”

  I shrugged. “You may be right. She’s probably still working on it,” I said. “It’s only Monday. She has all week to get it in.” But my mind was buzzing along, trying to fit that bit of information in with what I already knew.

  George was clicking on another link. A second later a colorful site loaded on the screen. The headline read, “River Heights Music Conservatory.” Just under that, it said, “Coming Soon: Check this page for results of the High School Talent Search scholarship competition.”

  The name of the competition was in a different color from the other words. “Is that a link?” I asked George, pointing to it.

  She clicked on it. Another page came up. This one included a list of alphabetized names and audition times.

  “Scroll down and see if Leslie Simmons is on the list,” I told George.

  Bess gave me a perplexed look. “Of course she is,” she said. “Everyone knows she’s trying out for the scholarship.”

  “Here it is,” George said, peering at the screen. “‘Simmons, L.: eight fifteen A.M.’ It’s right here below—oops!” She giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, leaning over her shoulder for a better look.

  George pointed to a name on the list. “Check it out. The name above Leslie Simmons is ‘Sharon, D.’ But when I first looked at it, I thought it said, ‘Shannon, D.’”

  Bess and I both laughed, realizing immediately why George had found that funny. The three of us had gone through school with a girl named Deirdre Shannon, and she was just about the last person we would expect to see trying out for a music scholarship. Deirdre was pretty and rich, and she figured that was enough. She rarely put much effort into anything other than her hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Oh, and guys, of course—she was always turning up with a new date on her arm, not to mention flirting her head off with Ned every chance she got.