False Notes (8 page)

Ned snorted. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” he said. “Seriously, Nancy, you’re really not even sure yet that your kidnapping theory is right. Do you really want to put yourself through the Deirdre Experience only to have it turn out that Leslie’s just visiting relatives or something?”

I was about to argue, but I sighed instead. I had to admit that he had a point. Hunch or no hunch, I didn’t have any solid evidence that there was actually a mystery to be solved.

“I guess you’re right,” I said heavily. “I just wish I knew for sure where Leslie Simmons is right now.”

“I know.” Ned sounded sympathetic. “Well, maybe she’ll turn up soon and you’ll have your answers.”

“Her music camp recital is tonight,” I said. “If she shows up for that, I guess this will all be a big false alarm. If she doesn’t…” I glanced at Ned. “Hey, want to go to the recital with me? It’s open to the public—George’s parents are going.”

Ned shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“From what I know about Leslie, she wouldn’t miss that for anything,” I mused, talking more to myself than to Ned. “If she turns up, it means there’s no
mystery, and we’ll just have an evening of nice music. If she doesn’t, it will prove that something fishy really
is
going on.” Seeing Ned shoot me a slightly doubtful look, I added, “For me, at least.”

I realized it might also give me an opportunity to talk to some of Leslie’s friends and teachers. One of them might know something useful.

There was no more time to think about it just then. Ned pulled his car up to the university’s football stadium, where my charity group was setting up for a giant fund-raising tag sale. The sale was scheduled to begin the next day and run through the weekend, and was expected to attract thousands of visitors. All sorts of local businesses had donated items or services to be sold or raffled off, and many individuals had contributed as well. I had volunteered to work at the setup and also help run one of the booths the next day.

After asking Ned to call Bess and George to see if they would come to the recital too, I hopped out of the car, and Ned drove away. Then I sighed and walked into the stadium, feeling a little impatient at the thought of missing out on a whole afternoon of investigating.

I tried to look on the bright side as I glanced around at the tables piled full of countless donated
items, from outgrown tricycles to valuable antique vases and everything in between. I probably wouldn’t be able to do much sleuthing while I was here—but maybe I’d at least be able to find something for Dad’s birthday.

“So did you find anything for your father?” Bess asked as Ned pulled into a parking space in one of the university lots that evening. She and George were sitting in the backseat, and I was in the passenger seat up front.

“No,” I said. “I must’ve checked out every table in the place. I had the perfect excuse for browsing: I was in charge of one of the pricing guns. But I didn’t find anything good.”

I sighed, feeling another pang of guilt about not spending more time shopping. Still, I knew that Dad would understand if he knew what was going on. He knows that I can’t resist a mystery, especially one where someone might be in real trouble. And he knows that I can’t think about much else until it’s solved.

My friends and I found the hall where the recital was being held. I checked my watch as Ned bought tickets in the high-ceilinged, carpeted lobby.

“We have about half an hour until it’s supposed to start,” I told Bess and George. “That should give us
time to find out whether Leslie is here—and start asking questions if she isn’t.”

“Yoo-hoo! Girls!”

I looked up to see George’s parents hurrying toward us through the crowd that was beginning to trickle into the auditorium. Mrs. Fayne was waving and smiling. Mr. Fayne looked slightly disgruntled.

“You didn’t mention that you and your friends would be here tonight, Georgia,” Mr. Fayne said. “If I’d known, I would’ve made you bring your mother so I could stay home and watch the game on TV.”

“Oh, stop it.” Mrs. Fayne gave her husband a playful shove.

George wrinkled her nose at her hated full name. Her parents were just about the only people who could call her Georgia and get away with it.

“It was kind of a last-minute plan,” she said.

“Well, I hope you’re not too disappointed,” Mrs. Fayne said, shaking her head. “I just heard that Leslie Simmons won’t be playing tonight after all. The whole place is buzzing about it.”

“Really?” I perked up. “Are you sure?”

Mrs. Fayne nodded. “I ran into some women I know from my bridge club. They told me they heard it straight from Leslie’s music teacher, Mrs. Diver. Such a disappointment.”

Ned returned at that moment from the ticket window. He exchanged greetings and pleasantries with George’s parents. A moment later, the Faynes spotted some other friends and excused themselves.

“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!”

G
eorge 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 morning, 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.