False Notes

by Carolyn Keene

  “Okay, now what?” George said as soon as they were gone. “We know Leslie’s not here. So what are we supposed to do now?”

  “Let’s split up,” I suggested. “We can all talk to people, try to find out if anyone knows anything. Oh, and let me know if you find that music teacher, Mrs. Diver. I’d like to talk to her.”

  My friends nodded, and we went our separate ways. I headed into the large, airy auditorium. A few dozen people were already inside. Some were in their seats reading their programs, while others stood chatting near the doors, or in clusters near the stage, watching the students set up their music stands and instruments on stage.

  I wandered down the aisle, pretending to watch the students, but I was actually paying more attention to the conversations going on nearby. I heard several older women chatting about Leslie’s absence and expressing kind concern as they discussed the possible reasons. A little farther down the aisle, a pair of women in their late twenties were debating about whether to stay or go, since they’d come primarily to hear Leslie. Mrs. Fayne was right. Everyone here was talking about Leslie.

  I glanced toward the stage. A short, plump woman had just scurried out onto the stage with a skinny teenage boy in tow. The woman had curly bright-red hair, and was wearing a flowered dress and cat’s-eye glasses on a chain around her neck. The boy had pimples on his nose and a miserable expression on his face. As I watched, the woman led the way to the grand piano at one side of the stage and lifted the cover off the keys. She gestured at the keyboard and I could see her chattering rapidly at the boy, though I couldn’t quite hear her words from where I was standing. I took a few steps forward, straining to hear.

  “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” a woman’s voice said from very nearby.

  I jumped, realizing that I’d just stepped in front of a preppy-looking woman in her early forties. She was perched on the arm of one of the aisle seats, watching the stage. She nodded toward the woman and teenager.

  “Poor Matthew has to step in and play Leslie’s part,” the woman said. “He must be terribly nervous.”

  I smiled politely. “Yes, I just heard that Leslie won’t be here tonight,” I said. “I was really looking forward to hearing her play. Do you know why she can’t make it? Is she sick or something?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” the woman replied. “She has an audition on Thursday morning for the conservatory scholarship and she’s on retreat for a few days, getting in some extra practice.”

  “It sounds like you know Leslie well,” I commented, carefully keeping my voice casual. Had I just found the answer to the mystery? “My name’s Nancy, by the way. Nancy Drew.”

  “I’m Marcia Sharon,” the woman said, not seeming to recognize my name as she shook my hand. “And yes, I know Leslie. My eldest daughter, Diane, is a classmate of hers at school, and the two of them are in music camp together this summer. My Diane plays the cello. Mrs. Diver says she’s the most talented cellist she’s seen in years.” The woman’s eyes reflected her pride in her daughter.

  “How nice,” I said politely.

  I was about to question her further when George suddenly appeared at my side. “Excuse me,” George said breathlessly, grabbing my arm. “I’m afraid Nancy is needed elsewhere.”

  Before I could protest, she dragged me halfway down the aisle. “What was that about?” I asked, yanking my arm back and glancing at Mrs. Sharon, who was already talking to someone else. “I was just finding out some useful information.”

  “I thought you wanted us to let you know if we found Leslie’s music teacher,” George said. She pointed to the stage. “Well, that’s her up there by the piano, talking to that skinny kid.”

  “Oh.” I rubbed my arm absently as I glanced at the woman in the flowered dress. I sighed. “Well, it might not matter after all. That woman I was talking to back there—Mrs. Sharon—says Leslie’s on a retreat to practice for her audition.”

  “Sharon?” George said. “Did you say Mrs. Sharon?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Wasn’t that the name we saw on the list of audition times for the scholarship contest?” George prompted. “We thought it was funny because ‘D. Sharon’ was so close to ‘D. Shannon,’ remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “She just said her daughter’s name is Diane. I guess that means she’s trying out for the scholarship too. Mrs. Sharon said she’s a cellist.”

  I glanced at the stage, wondering which of the teens milling around up there was Mrs. Sharon’s daughter. I didn’t see any cellos up there. Maybe she wasn’t set up yet. Or maybe she was skipping the recital to practice for the audition too.…

  But I wasn’t really thinking too hard about Diane Sharon. I was much more interested in what I’d just learned about Leslie Simmons. Could it be true? All this time, was Leslie merely off practicing somewhere, preparing her piece for the scholarship tryouts? Was the mystery only in my head after all?

  There could have been other explanations for that scene I saw on the street the day before. Mr. and Mrs. Simmons could have been arguing about almost anything. Just because they looked in the general direction of the police station once or twice didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe they were fighting about her running for mayor. Or about how to pay for Leslie’s tuition at the conservatory if she didn’t win the scholarship. Or what to have for dinner even.

  I suddenly noticed that George was no longer at my side. Glancing around, I saw that she had hopped up onstage and was talking to Mrs. Diver, pointing to me at the same time. A moment later the two of them hurried in my direction.

  Putting a polite smile on my face, I waited for them to climb down off the stage and reach me. I wasn’t anywhere near as interested in talking to the music teacher as I had been a few minutes earlier. I figured, however, that it wouldn’t hurt to confirm what Mrs. Sharon had told me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Diver,” I said when George introduced us, shaking the woman’s hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. My friends and I are really looking forward to hearing your students play tonight. But we were a little disappointed to learn that Leslie Simmons won’t be among them!”

  The woman’s pleasant expression turned into a frown. “Ah, yes,” she said in a light, fluttery voice. “I was disappointed by that myself. It hasn’t been easy to find someone to take over her part at the last minute.”

  “You mean you didn’t know she was going to be away?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Diver said. “Her father called me at home over the weekend to let me know she would be going on retreat this week to rehearse.” She shook her head, her frown deepening. “I tried to change his mind, of course—even started to offer to help her rehearse myself, stay late after camp or whatnot. But he cut me off before I could finish my sentence.” She sounded a bit wounded. “You know, until then I’d always found Clay Simmons a delightful man—polite and witty. But he was a whole different person on the phone that night. Very brusque.” She drew herself up to her full height of about five foot even, glowering at the memory. “He all but came out and told me to mind my own business!”

  Stakeout

  George and I made sympathetic noises as Mrs. Diver muttered a bit more about Clay Simmons. All the while my mind was racing. This changed everything. It now looked like there was a mystery to solve here after all!

  I was sure this was an important clue. Clay Simmons wasn’t the type of person to be rude for no reason—I was certain of that.

  He and Heather might have been using this rehearsal-retreat story as a cover, so people wouldn’t start asking too many questions about where Leslie was. That way they could keep the kidnapper happy in the hope that he’d return their daughter unharmed.

  It occurred to me that I might be exaggerating the meager evidence I had and convincing myself that there was a mystery when there really wasn’t one. But I quickly shrugged off the thought. What was the worst that could come of continuing to investigate? If Leslie turned up at that audition on Thursday morn
ing, safe and sound, I would be more than happy to admit that I was wrong and take all the teasing my friends could dish out. But if she didn’t…

  I shook my head. I had to keep digging… just in case. Leslie’s safety might depend on it.

  Unfortunately I wasn’t able to continue my investigation until late the following afternoon. By the time the recital let out, it was time to head home to bed. Wednesday morning and early afternoon were filled with the charity tag sale, where I was kept busy marking prices, ringing up sales, and assisting customers.

  I finally managed to escape from the sale at around four thirty. Earlier I had called Bess and George and asked them to meet me at Food for Thought, a sandwich shop near the university. I’d called Ned too, but he wasn’t home.

  After a quick walk across campus, I hurried into the cramped but cheerful shop, which always smelled of sour pickles and frying bacon. My mind was racing as I tried to figure out what to do next. There wasn’t much time left; the filing deadline was just a little over forty-eight hours away. If I didn’t find Leslie soon, Granger was going to get away with his plan. And I definitely didn’t want that to happen.

  Bess and George were sitting at one of the round, marble-topped tables near the counter. They looked up and waved when they saw me come in.

  “Hi,” I greeted them. “Glad you’re here.”

  George checked her watch. “We’ve been here for ten minutes,” she said grumpily, “and we’re starving. If you hadn’t shown up soon, I was going to order without you.”

  I smiled. “Okay, let’s eat,” I said. “But get your sandwiches to go, okay? We’re short on time, and I want to get going on this investigation.”

  “Get going?” Bess said. “Get going where? What do you have in mind, Nancy?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. I have a couple of ideas, but I’ve hardly had a second all day to think about them.”

  “Go ahead and think,” George said, her gaze wandering to the large menu board above the counter. “Meanwhile, I’ll think about ordering a liverwurst and salami with extra cheese.”

  “Liverwurst?” Bess protested. “Ick! Besides, I thought you said you were in the mood for a burger?”

  “Oh, yeah!” George’s eyes lit up. She glanced from one side of the menu board to the other, looking conflicted. “They both sound great. Then again, so does the double bratwurst special.”

  Bess licked her lips. “Ooh, that does sound good. But I’m trying to stay away from the heavy stuff.” She patted her belly. “I think I’ll have the turkey on rye.…”

  I tapped my foot impatiently as the cousins continued to debate the menu. I could almost hear the seconds ticking away on the big chrome clock over the shop’s door. Was Leslie counting the seconds too, wherever she was? Were her parents counting the seconds until their daughter returned?

  As I’d told my friends, I’d been too busy at the tag sale to think much about the case. But now that I had a moment, I realized that I really had no idea how to proceed. I was sure I had the answers in this case—but how could I prove them? If I went to Chief McGinnis and told him what I believed, he would think I was crazy.

  I’d have to figure out a way to tie Granger to Leslie’s disappearance. I considered trying the fake-interview trick again, but quickly shrugged off that idea. Granger was used to tough business negotiations; a few pointed questions weren’t likely to force a confession out of a man like him. Besides, setting up such an interview would probably take too long, especially since I couldn’t reach Ned. I chewed my lower lip, trying to come up with other options.

  Finally Bess and George made up their minds. We placed our sandwich orders with the short, grizzled old man behind the counter.

  “All right, girls,” he said in a slow, lightly accented voice. “Have a seat over there if you like. I’ll give you a holler when they’re ready.”

  I felt like shouting, “Hurry! Hurry!” as the little man shuffled slowly over to the wooden bin full of rolls behind the counter. His unhurried, deliberate movements seemed to taunt me, to remind me that time was passing and I wasn’t making any progress on the mystery. Deciding it was probably better not to drive myself crazy by watching him, I turned and followed my friends back to their table.

  “Okay, Nancy,” George said as she flopped into a chair. “I can tell you’re really distracted—otherwise, why would you order a boring sandwich like plain turkey on white? Come on, girl. Condiments were invented for a reason!”

  “Sorry, but I don’t have time to figure out exciting sandwich combinations right now,” I said, carefully keeping my voice low so that the other customers in the shop wouldn’t overhear. “I’m too busy thinking about how to prove that Morris Granger kidnapped Leslie.”

  “You know, I hate to say it, but the more I think about your theory, the more far-fetched it seems,” Bess told me, looking troubled. “I mean, I’m not crazy about some outsider coming in and wanting to be mayor of River Heights. Especially someone who might have his eye on Rackham Industries. But I’ve seen Mr. Granger on TV and stuff, and he really doesn’t seem like the criminal type.”

  “And we didn’t find any dirt on him online, remember?” George added. “Why would a guy like him stoop to kidnapping all of a sudden?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why they call it a mystery.” I wasn’t thrilled about their attitudes. If we were going to help Leslie, we had to act fast, not waste time arguing.

  “Why don’t you just wait until tomorrow morning and see if she turns up for that audition?” George suggested. “That way, you’ll know if there really is a mystery.”

  I shook my head. “That just means wasting another half a day, which Mrs. Simmons could use to fill out that paperwork,” I said. “Besides, if Leslie misses her audition, people are really going to notice. They were already gossiping about her missing the recital, remember? What if someone gets so worried that they call the police?”

  George shrugged. “So what if they do?” she said, playing with a crumpled straw wrapper someone had left on the tabletop. “At the rate the River Heights Police Department moves, they’ll get around to investigating sometime next Tuesday.”

  “Joke about it if you want,” I said grimly. “But Leslie could be in deadly danger—and I think we need to do whatever we can to help her.”

  My friends exchanged a glance. “All right, Nancy,” Bess said. “We’ll help if we can. But what do you think we should do?”

  I took a deep breath. “I think we should tail Granger.”

  “Oh, yeah,” George said sarcastically. “Because that worked so well the last time.”

  “No, listen,” I said. “I’m not talking about going to his house this time. We know where his office is. We can go there right now and wait for him to come out. Then we’ll follow him.”

  “Why?” George asked bluntly.

  I shrugged, not wanting to admit that I was feeling a little less than confident about my own plan. “The deadline for the paperwork is getting close,” I said. “Granger’s probably going to be keeping an eye on Leslie from now on, wherever she is. Maybe he’ll lead us there.”

  Bess’s forehead crinkled slightly. “But I thought you said he wouldn’t want to have any contact with Leslie—you know, so she couldn’t identify him after he lets her go. So what good will it do to follow him?”

  “Look,” I said, feeling frustrated. Normally I love it when my friends ask intelligent questions about my cases—they help me figure things out. But at the moment, I didn’t seem to have any good answers for them. Or for myself. “We need to do something. And since Granger is our only suspect, he’s also our only lead. Now, are you with me, or not?”

  Bess and George glanced at each other. They both shrugged.

  “I guess so,” George answered for both of them. “I mean, we’re not about to let you run off after a possible kidnapper all by yourself.”

  It wasn’t exactly the rousing vote of support I might have hoped for, but it
would have to do. “Good,” I said.

  At that moment the man behind the counter called out our names. Our sandwiches were finally ready. We each grabbed a beverage from the cooler near the counter. After paying for our food, we headed outside.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ll take my car. That way you guys can eat while I drive.”

  Bess looked doubtful, but George was already heading for the passenger-side door. “Sounds good to me,” she said, reaching into her bag to pull out her sandwich.

  We didn’t talk much on the short ride to the building where Granger’s office was located. My friends were busy eating, and I was busy thinking.

  Were they right? I clutched the wheel tightly as I waited for a red light to change. Was this a waste of time?

  “Yo!” George mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Earth to Nancy. It’s not going to get any greener.”

  With a start, I realized that the traffic light had changed. I stepped on the gas quickly, causing my car to lurch forward and almost cut off the engine. Bess winced, but kept quiet. I managed to keep us moving, and a moment later I was pulling to the curb directly across from the exit to a parking garage beneath a tall office building.

  “So now what?” Bess asked, taking a sip of her jumbo-size soda.

  “Now we wait.” I cut the engine and leaned back in my seat. “When Granger comes out, we’ll follow him.”

  George looked skeptical. “What if he already left?” she asked. “It’s after five o’clock.”

  “Granger didn’t get as rich and successful as he is by cutting out at five every day,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Don’t worry; he’s still there.”

  I reached for my sandwich, ignoring the dubious glances my friends were exchanging.

  We sat there in my car and waited. And waited. And then we waited some more.

  An hour passed, and then two. All of our sandwiches were long gone. My friends were bored and grumpy, and I was starting to wonder if we were wasting our time. Car after car had emerged from the garage, but Granger hadn’t been in any of them.