The Bluebeard Room, Page 3

  By the time the curtain descended, Nancy felt exhausted. So, she could see, did Bess and George.

  “Well, how did you like it?” she asked.

  “I’ll never forget tonight!” Bess confided huskily, reaching over to clutch Nancy’s hand. All George could do was nod in enthusiastic agreement.

  A buzz of chatter filled the auditorium as everyone stood or shifted position to ease their cramped muscles. Some were hurrying up the aisles to the restrooms or for refreshment refills, but most remained seated, knowing the group would soon return for their encore numbers.

  A uniformed usher was making his way along the front row. Nancy suddenly realized he was approaching her.

  “Miss Nancy Drew?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “This is for you!” He held out a folded message.

  5

  Press Party

  Even before she opened the note, Nancy guessed whom it was from. The paper bore the Crowned Heads’ insignia, a cartoon of Lance Warrick weighed down by a huge king’s crown sagging at a cockeyed angle, with the other members of the group around him wearing only slightly less imposing coronets.

  The message was scrawled in purple ink—royal purple—and signed in his usual joking fashion, L. R. Nancy knew this stood for Lancelot Rex.

  Her two friends were staring at her eagerly.

  “Tell us!” begged Bess. “Who’s it from?”

  “As if we can’t guess!” said George.

  “Lance is inviting us to the press party after the show.”

  A chorus of awed exclamations made Nancy aware that her two chums weren’t the only ones around her keenly interested in her message from the rock king.

  Presently the curtains rose again to loud stamping, cheering and applause as the Crowned Heads returned for their encore. The rock king and his group wound up their performance at peak power, knowing they had their fans completely enthralled.

  Nancy felt sure now that it hadn’t been just her imagination . . . all those times when he’d paused at the edge of the stage and gazed down through the glare of the spotlights, he really had been singing to her! And now he was doing it again!

  She shivered with suppressed excitement. How in the world had all this come about? In little more than twenty-four hours, she had not only met the hottest star on the international rock scene, but the acquaintance seemed to be taking a romantic turn!

  Let’s not get silly now, Nancy cautioned herself. I come from a nice little suburban community called River Heights, and I have a boyfriend back there named Ned Nickerson, who’s much more my type than this British wild man, Lance Warrick!

  But it was hard to think sensibly with that pulsating rock beat throbbing through the auditorium.

  After numerous curtain calls, the show was finally over. The fans began surging out through the aisles as noisily and good-naturedly as they had entered.

  “Where exactly is this press party?” inquired George, her mouth close to Nancy’s ear.

  “The note said any guard could direct us!”

  From a transverse aisle behind the orchestra seats, steps led down to a corridor. It, too, was filled with a jostling crowd. But after Nancy displayed her invitation from Lance at several checkpoints, the girls succeeded in reaching a pair of double doors, through which at last they gained admission to the press party.

  Inside was bedlam. The reception room seemed filled to overflowing. Several TV crews were busy interviewing celebrities and taping the party for the next morning’s news show. The guests were milling about, while waiters circulated with trays of refreshments. And somewhere in the room, Nancy imagined, were Lance and the rest of his group, although she couldn’t glimpse any of them.

  The babble and din were deafening.

  “We should’ve brought earplugs!” joked Bess.

  A television reporter thrust a microphone in Nancy’s face. “Hey! Aren’t you Nancy Drew, the detective?”

  She smiled and nodded, slightly embarrassed.

  “Have you solved the mystery of why the whole town’s going bananas over Lance Warrick and the Crowned Heads?”

  “They’re very talented musicians.”

  “Look! There’s Adam Muir!” exclaimed George. He, was one of the two group members who had accompanied Lance to the garden party.

  A strikingly attractive young woman of twenty-one or twenty-two suddenly loomed at Nancy’s shoulder. “Can I help you, luv?” she chirped in a charming British accent. Less charming was her artificial smile.

  “I’m Nancy Drew, and these are my two friends, Bess Marvin and George Fayne.”

  “Is Lance or one of the group expecting you young ladies?” she asked pointedly.

  Her face was beautifully painted, and her taffy-blond hair was in an artfully styled bush. Her sleek figure was sheathed in a silver lamé jumpsuit, and on her feet were raspberry suede boots with stiletto heels.

  Nancy displayed the handwritten invitation.

  “Oh yes, you’re that one.” Her dazzling smile flashed on and off. “Well, Lance may be tied up for a while, but if you’d care to join the other girls . . .”

  She fluttered her hand vaguely in the direction of several obvious groupies.

  “Thanks, we’ll manage.”

  “Yes, do. And enjoy yourselves. I’m Jane Royce, by the way.”

  “Do you believe that?” George blurted as the high-styled Miss Royce snaked off through the crowd, hips aswing. She was already beaming her charm at a bald-headed record company executive.

  Nancy grinned. “A breath of London in the outposts of empire!”

  She had just glimpsed Lance Warrick surrounded by reporters and hangers-on. Would she even have a chance to talk to him in this madhouse?

  Bess wormed her way to a refreshment table and returned clutching three glasses. “Two Cokes and one bitter lemon—best I could do!”

  She spoke with her mouth half full. After chewing and swallowing hastily, Bess added, “And they have all sorts of yummy-looking tidbits! Let’s nibble!”

  “You’re on a diet, cuddles—remember?” George said sternly.

  The swirling tide of the guest throng brought them in sight of the Crowned Heads’ drummer, Bobo Evans. Seeing the girls, he plowed a path toward them, accompanied by the synthesizer keyboardist, Adam Muir. Both, like Lance, were still in makeup.

  Bobo’s moon face was wreathed in a smile. “Blimey, if it ain’t the three little dolly-birds from the garden party!” he exclaimed. “You remember that society bash on Long Island, don’t you, Adam?”

  “But of course, my dear! How could I forget?” The keyboardist’s long, delicate fingers brushed Nancy lightly under the chin. “Lancelot was chatting up this lovely little redhead. And thanks to her, we were privileged to meet these other two charmers!”

  Bobo came from Liverpool and sounded like Ringo Starr, but Adam’s accent was South London cockney, spoken in a high-pitched ladylike simper.

  Ned would certainly have disapproved of Adam, but Nancy couldn’t help smiling at Adam’s insouciant showmanship. She half suspected it was a carefully cultivated act à la Boy George. His face was powdered dead white, and his shiny black hair was slicked back in 1920’s movie style. A long cigarette holder dangled from one limp-wristed hand.

  “We thought the show was wonderful!” Bess gushed. “You really had the audience turned on!”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what turns us on,” said Bobo. “All the birds out there in the concert hall listenin’ to us and lovin’ us!”

  “Must you go back to England so soon?”

  “That’s what the king says, duckie, but if you can talk him out of it . . .!”

  As Bess laughed happily, George said to Adam, “Who’s that creature in the silver jumpsuit?”

  “Jane Royce, you mean?”

  “Right. What’s her job?”

  “Publicity. Does all our advance promotion. Acts as producer, too, for some of our records when Lance doesn’t feel like doing it personally.”
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br />   “So that’s it.” George shot an acid glance across the room at the silver-suited young Englishwoman. “She came on as if she was the Crowned Heads’ housemother and boss-lady.”

  Adam tittered in delight, one hand on his hip. “My dear, you don’t know the half of it! She’s the Queen Mum herself! Oh yes, indeed—quite the power behind the throne is our Janie!”

  Nancy was not exactly pleased to think of Jane Royce having any control over Lance Warrick, but tried not to show it.

  Bess headed back to the refreshment table with Bobo. And Adam was accosted by a feature reporter who drew him away to face the lens of a news photographer. Adam insisted on bringing George along on one arm to pose with him.

  George balked at first, fearing she might, in her own words, “look silly.” But Adam smoothly overrode her reluctance. Nancy was glad to be left alone to relax and collect her thoughts.

  The respite was brief. Feeling a hand on her arm, Nancy turned—and caught her breath as she found herself face to face with Lance Warrick! Her heart gave a sudden lurch.

  “Nancy, my sweet! What a charge I got out of seeing you down there in the front row! A vision of loveliness with those red-gold locks!”

  It was hard not to smile with pleasure at such words. He went on, “And what a gorgeous surprise! Positively lifted my performance to new heights! I’d no idea you were a rock fan, much less a fan of mine, especially after that brush-off you gave me at the garden party!”

  Nancy’s smile gave way to bewilderment. “I . . . I don’t understand. Didn’t you expect me to use those tickets?”

  “What tickets?”

  “The ones you sent.”

  “Me?” It was Lance’s turn to look blankly bewildered. “I never sent you any tickets . . .”

  6

  Powder Bag

  Seeing the startled, dismayed expression that flickered over Nancy’s face, the rock star groped for a way out.

  “Well now, look, luv! The gang all knew what a terrific impression you made on me. I reckon one of them sent you the tickets.”

  Nancy smiled politely, appreciating his tact. “Yes, I expect it was something like that. . . . Anyhow, I thought your performance tonight was out of this world! You and your group were terrific!”

  “I say! Aren’t you the sweet thing to shower us with such compliments!”

  Nancy felt like falling through the floor. How could she have been so vain as to think a world-famous star like Lance Warrick would go out of his way to invite her to his sell-out concert?!—as his personal guest yet!

  Most humiliating of all, she’d exposed her nitwit fantasies! And now he had obviously sized her up as one more groupie candidate . . .

  “This press party’s just for the vulgar mob,” Lance was saying, “but we’ve laid on a real celebration later on at the hotel. Your presence is expected, need I add—by royal command!”

  The king of rock slipped a cozy arm around Nancy’s waist. “There’re a couple of limos standing by. The gang and I’ll sneak away as soon as the streets clear a bit and this lot here gets enough of a buzz on so they won’t notice. Meantime, why don’t you and your friends stick close to the other birds, so we’ll know where to find you when the time comes?!”

  Nancy felt slightly sick. Already he was consigning her, Bess and George to the status of royal groupies.

  “Thanks, but we really can’t stay much longer,” she heard herself respond. “We’ll probably be flying out of New York tomorrow, so we’d better get our beauty sleep.”

  “Oh, come on now!” Lance wheedled. “What does a ravishing creature like you need with any beauty sleep?”

  But Nancy merely smiled and shook her head as she slipped out of his one-armed embrace. He reluctantly let her go with a quick kiss on the cheek as other guests clamored for his attention.

  Once she was out of Lance’s sight, Nancy looked around for a place to collect herself. A powder room offered the nearest refuge. As she hurried toward it, she felt her cheeks burning with shame and tears prickling her eyes.

  Fortunately no one seemed to notice her unnerved state. All the other females in the powder room were too busy chattering away excitedly. Nancy found a place in front of the mirror and dashed cold water on her face.

  How silly to get upset! she scolded herself. I’ll never see Lance again after tonight anyway, so what difference does it make?

  She repaired her makeup deftly with a few quick strokes of mascara and dabs of eye shadow and lip gloss. As Nancy turned from the mirror to put the cosmetics in her bag, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a silver-clad figure disappearing out the door.

  A faint resentment stirred at the thought that Jane Royce might have observed her distress. But Nancy had her feelings under control now and dismissed the matter with a shrug.

  Outside the powder room, the press party was still in full swing.

  A magazine writer recognized the famous young sleuth and waylaid her for an interview. While they chatted, Nancy’s roving glance spotted George Fayne. She was engaged in a lively discussion with several other guests on the subject, Nancy later learned, of rock music trends.

  George rejoined her when the interview was over. Together they went looking for Bess and found her still at the refreshment table. Bobo Evans, it seemed, had wandered off with the group’s bass player, Freddie Isham, but Bess had lingered to sample some chocolate strawberries which had just been added to the array of tidbits.

  “Heavens, can’t we leave you alone for two minutes?” George teased. The complaint ended in a gulp of delight as Bess silenced her by popping one of the strawberries into George’s mouth.

  “No more! You’ve had enough!” Bess declared sharply, rapping George’s knuckles as her cousin reached for a second helping.

  Nancy doubled up with laughter.

  “By the way, didn’t I see you with Lance Warrick?” Bess asked her titian-haired chum.

  “You did. And he invited us to a private party at his hotel. But don’t get all atwitter, Bess dear. We’re not going,” Nancy added, seeing her friend’s china-blue eyes light up at the prospect.

  Bess’s plumply pretty face fell. “Why not?”

  “Because he already has us classified as groupie recruits, that’s why.”

  Much of the fun seemed to go out of the party at Nancy’s revelation and, as midnight was fast approaching, the three girls decided to leave.

  Half an hour later, a taxi deposited them outside the Gothic apartment building on the West Side.

  “Hope we won’t have to wake your aunt,” said George. “Or will she be waiting up?”

  “Probably. Aunt Eloise is sort of a night owl. But it doesn’t matter either way,” said Nancy, rummaging in her handbag. “I have a key.”

  Suddenly she caught her breath and her hand seemed to freeze. Then she fished out her key and hastily closed her bag.

  “Something wrong?” asked Bess.

  “Yes, but let’s not talk about it now. It’s nothing to lose any sleep over. I’ll explain tomorrow morning.”

  • • •

  After breakfast the next day, George brought up the subject. “Are you going to tell us now what you found in your purse last night, Nan?”

  The teenage sleuth nodded and rose from the table. The others followed her into the sitting room. Nancy picked up her handbag, opened it and took out a small transparent plastic bag filled with sparkling white powder.

  George’s and Bess’s eyes widened, and Miss Drew gasped in dismay. “Oh no! Is that what I think it is, Nancy?”

  “I’m afraid so, Aunt Eloise. But not to worry. I’ll see that it’s disposed of properly. Do you mind if a policeman comes here to the apartment?”

  “Of course not, my dear. Do as you think best.”

  Nancy telephoned a lieutenant in the New York Police Department whom she had met on an earlier case. After hearing her story, he promised to send a narcotics squad detective over.

  Later the phone rang. Mrs. Harwood was on the line. />
  “Nancy dear, you’re booked on a flight to London leaving tomorrow evening. Is that agreeable?”

  “Wonderful!” Nancy enthused. “Where shall I pick up my ticket? At the airport?”

  “You can pick it up this afternoon. My travel agent’s holding it for you, along with enough traveler’s checks to cover all expenses. Her office is on Fifth Avenue.” Mrs. Harwood gave her the exact address, then asked, “What about your passport, dear?”

  “No problem. I brought it with me to New York. Daddy was expecting to fly to Venice on legal business and thought I might like to go along, but that’s been put on hold. I’m all set.”

  Bess and George had overheard enough to guess that Nancy’s travel arrangements to London had been finalized. Both clamored for details, and Nancy found herself wishing her two girl friends could accompany her on the flight to England.

  They were equally wistful. “Gee, wouldn’t it be great if we could shop at the London stores together, and take in a concert at the Palladium!” said George.

  “Instead of which, we’ll be flying home to River Heights,” said Bess regretfully.

  “Never mind, maybe we can make it a threesome next summer,” Nancy said hopefully.

  Their chat was interrupted by the bell from the lobby. The police officer had arrived. Nancy buzzed him in, then opened the door to meet him when he stepped off the elevator. He strode toward her down the hall, a sharp-featured, steely-eyed man in plain clothes.

  “Sergeant Weintraub, narcotics squad.”

  “I’m Nancy Drew, Sergeant. Please come in.”

  She introduced him to her aunt and friends, and invited him to sit down. “I suppose you’ve been told why I called?” she said to him.

  “Only briefly. I’d like to hear it in your own words, Miss Drew.”

  Nancy explained how she had found the plastic bag full of white powder in her handbag after returning from the concert. “I assume this is cocaine, or am I jumping to conclusions?”

  He examined the evidence. “Nope, it’s coke, all right—high grade stuff from the looks of it. Any idea how this got in your purse, Miss Drew?”