False Notes (4 page)

“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.

“Didn’t Deirdre play the flute in elementary school?” Bess said.

“Yes,” I recalled. “For about ten seconds!”

As my friends continued to joke around at Deirdre’s expense, I returned my attention to the computer screen.
Simmons, L.
I stared at the name thoughtfully, remembering how strongly Dad had reacted to my mention of Leslie’s name.

“Hey, George,” I said, interrupting whatever she was saying to Bess. “Can you check out one more site?”

“Sure. What?”

“River Heights High School,” I said. “I want to see if we can find out anything more about Leslie Simmons.”

Bess cocked her head at me as George went to work. “Why?” she asked. “Even if she has something
to do with this so-called mystery, what’s the high school home page going to tell you? It’s summer, remember? School’s out.”

George glanced up at her as the home page loaded. “Yeah, but the school bulletin board is still active all summer,” she reminded Bess. “A lot of kids keep in touch that way, remember?”

Bess wrinkled her nose. She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Yeah, the geeks, maybe.”

I swallowed a laugh as George shot her cousin a dirty look. Then I leaned over and pointed to a link. “Look, there’s the bulletin board,” I said. “Let’s see if Leslie has checked in lately.”

It turned out that she had—quite a lot, actually. There were all kinds of entries from her. Some were just chitchat, while others had to do with her music studies.

“Look, she’s been going to music camp over at the university’s performing arts building,” Bess said, pointing to one entry.

George nodded. “I knew that already,” she said. “My mom wants to go to their recital—I think it’s this week. She loves to hear Leslie Simmons play.”

“Interesting,” I said. “And look, here’s something even more interesting. Leslie’s most recent bulletin
board entry was at two thirty-eight
P.M.
on Saturday—two days ago. There’s nothing since then, even though she was posting several times per day up until then.”

George shrugged. “So?” she said. “She’s got a big week coming up—first the recital, then the audition on Thursday. She’s probably practicing twenty-four seven.”

“Maybe.” I stared at the screen. “It’s just a little weird, that’s all.”

Bess narrowed her blue eyes at me. “Nancy, I know that look,” she said. “You’re coming up with a theory, aren’t you? Come on, spill it.”

I smiled. Bess was right—I was starting to think I might know why the Simmonses had looked so upset earlier. But I wasn’t quite ready to share yet.

“In a minute,” I told my friends. “First, let’s take a little ride over to the Simmons house, okay?”

Bess and George exchanged a perplexed glance. Then they both sighed.

“All right, come on,” Bess said. “I’ll drive.”

Soon we were cruising down a pleasant, tree-lined residential block in the eastern section of River Heights. The streetlights had just come on, even though dusk had barely thickened the shadows beneath the shrubs and playsets in the neatly tended yards. I pointed to a green-shuttered white clapboard house about halfway down the block.

“That’s their house,” I said. “I sold raffle tickets door-to-door a couple of years ago for the hospital fundraiser, and I remember talking to Mr. Simmons in front of his house. He bought five tickets.”

George leaned forward from the backseat of the car to give me a funny look. “You know, sometimes it’s downright scary the way your mind files things away, Nancy.”

Bess idled at the curb in front of the house. “Well?” she said. “What do you want to do now? Should I park?”

I bit my lip, not quite sure how to proceed now that we were there. I stared at the house. There were two cars in the driveway, and several lights were on inside. Through the large picture window to the left of the front door, I could see a grand piano.

“No, just wait here a sec,” I said, reaching for the door handle. “I want to check on something.”

I hopped out of the car before my friends could ask any more questions. The theory that had been forming in my mind still hadn’t totally jelled yet, but my sixth sense was tingling like crazy.

Not knowing exactly what I was going to say, I moved up the front walk and rapped on the door. A moment later I heard footsteps inside, and Heather Simmons answered.

She gasped at me and looked very startled. Even
though we’d never actually met, she obviously recognized me. “Nancy Drew!” she blurted out. “Did your father—” She gulped, clearly struggling to regain her composure. “I mean, hello. Please come in. What can I do for you this evening?”

I pasted a friendly smile on my face as I stepped into the foyer. “Sorry to bother you this late, Mrs. Simmons,” I said. “I’m just out reminding people that the River Heights Animal Shelter will be doing a pet adopt-a-thon next weekend at Bluff View Park. There will be games and door prizes and all sorts of fun stuff. I hope you and your family will come out and support us.”

That was all true enough. I volunteered once a month at the shelter, and we were all excited about the event. But even while I was talking, I was shooting curious glances around at the inside of the house. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for—any clue, any small hint that might confirm my growing suspicions. My gaze darted over the half-open coat closet in the foyer, the large arched entryway into the living room, the dark-colored grand piano in front of the window, the last rays of sunlight gleaming on the slightly grayish keyboard.…

“Oh!” Heather Simmons blinked, seeming distracted. “Well, thank you, Nancy. I’m sure we’ll try to make it if we can.”

“That’s… great.” I was suddenly distracted myself. I had just spotted it—the clue I needed. “Um, okay, then. I’d better be going,” I added. “Thanks for your support.”

Mrs. Simmons looked a little confused at my abrupt farewell, but she didn’t seem eager to change my mind about leaving. As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I sprinted for Bess’s car. I flung the door open and jumped inside.

“I was right,” I said breathlessly. “I just saw something in there that confirms what I was thinking: Leslie Simmons has been kidnapped!”

H
uh?” Bess and George
said at the same time, their faces registering identical expressions of surprise.

“It all makes perfect sense,” I said, my words practically tumbling over each other in my eagerness to explain my theory. “The deadline for filing those papers to run for mayor is this Friday, right?”

“Uh-huh,” George said. “So?”

“So don’t you get it?” I exclaimed. “Someone obviously wants to distract Heather Simmons so she won’t be able to file!”

“Obviously,” George said, in a tone that indicated that she thought I was off my rocker.

Bess looked troubled. “But who would do something like that?”

“Why, Morris Granger, of course!” I said. “He’s the
only possible suspect. He’s got the money and the power and connections to pull off something like this. And I’m sure he’d love nothing more than to run for mayor unopposed.”

“Whoa… hold the phone, here.” George held up both hands. “Back up a second, Nancy. What happened in there to lead you to this, er,
interesting
conclusion?” She gestured toward the Simmons house.

“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you that.” I poked Bess in the arm. “Let’s get going. We probably look kind of suspicious sitting out here in front of their house.”

As Bess drove back toward George’s house, I filled my friends in on my brief conversation with Mrs. Simmons. I mentioned how distracted she had seemed while talking with me.

“Don’t tell me that’s your big clue?” George said skeptically. “There better be more than that—or you might have to give back your World’s Greatest Amateur Sleuth title.”

I grinned and shook my head. “There’s definitely more,” I assured her. “I was trying to look around while I chatted with Mrs. Simmons—you know, to see if I could spot anything suspicious or out of place.”

“Like a big ransom note cut out of newspaper letters?” Bess giggled. “Let me guess: It was tacked up on the wall and signed in blood.”

“Very funny,” I said. “No, it was nothing as obvious as that. It was the piano. I was sort of staring at it out of the corner of my eye, thinking that it was weird that Leslie wouldn’t be sitting there practicing with the recital and auditions coming up.”

Bess shrugged and glanced over at me before returning her gaze to the road. “Even piano prodigies have to take a break sometime,” she said. “Maybe she was in the kitchen having dinner. Or taking a shower. Or out with friends.”