002 Deadly Intent (2 page)

“Thanks for inviting us to come tonight,” Nancy said to them.

“The pleasure’s ours,” Barton replied gallantly. “We get to have the hottest detective around at our show tonight.”

Nancy could feel heat rising to her cheeks. Barton’s face had been on the cover of
Rolling Stone, Time, People,
and half a dozen other major magazines, and he was complimenting
her.
“I am beginning to make a name for myself,” she said humbly.

“Beginning? From what I hear, you’ve done it.” He looked at Nancy. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you after we’re finished playing tonight.” Nancy cocked her head. Did she detect a note of urgency in Barton’s voice?

“I’d be glad to,” she said, trying to read his expression. But if he was worried about something, he gave no further clue. Instead he joined in the enthusiasm of her friends.

“This is a dream come true for me,” Alan blurted. “I’m Fender’s biggest fan. And I’ve learned a lot by listening to you,” he said to Barton.

“You play guitar?”

Alan nodded. “I mean, I’m no—well, no Barton Novak.” He grinned. “But I’m getting better all the time.”

“Do you play in a band?” Jim Parker wanted to know.

“The Mud Castles,” Alan answered. “We’ve been getting gigs in some clubs and bars around River Heights.”

“The Mud Castles?” Roger turned to Alan and studied his face closely. “Hey, you know, I think I heard you when I was visiting my old man a few months ago. Did you play a bar over in the South End—Puffy’s or Puffer’s or something?”

“Puffin’s. Yeah, that was us. But how come we didn’t recognize you?”

“I had on dark glasses and a hat,” Roger said, almost apologetically. “It’s nice to be able to go out like a regular guy once in a while, have a couple of beers. But I had to leave when someone at a table near the bar started giving me funny looks. I just didn’t want to hassle with anyone figuring out who I was.”

Nancy tried to picture Roger in her hometown bar, rubbing elbows with people she’d known all her life.

“Yeah, I like that little place,” he went on.
“And Alan, your band was terrific. You play lead, right?”

Alan nodded.

Roger turned to his fellow band members. “This kid is okay.” He jabbed his finger in Alan’s direction. “More than okay. Someday he’ll put us out of business if we’re not careful!”

The smile on Alan’s face could have lit up the entire room. Nancy flashed Bess a thumbs-up sign.

“We’ll be out of business sooner than you think,” Linda interjected, “if we’re not on stage in half an hour.” She looked at Nancy and the others. “Make yourselves comfortable. Play some Ping-Pong or something while we get ready.”

“We’ll be back soon,” Barton Novak broke in, “and then we’ll take you out to the wings to watch the show.”

Nancy grinned. She sensed that this night—this rock concert—would be special.

• • •

George was going for the game point twenty minutes later when the lounge door burst open. The ball flew by unheeded as Roger Gold appeared in the doorway.

“Show time?” Nancy asked excitedly, putting down her Ping-Pong paddle. Then she saw the worried expression on Roger’s face as his eyes darted around the room.

“Barton’s not here?” Roger was trying to
sound calm, but Nancy could hear the edge of panic in his voice. His hands were clenched, knuckles white, on the doorframe.

“What’s wrong, Roger?” she asked.

“Barton’s disappeared. I’ve looked all over the building, and he’s gone.”

“Disappeared?” George finally caught the bouncing Ping-Pong ball. “Maybe he just went out to get some air.”

“Five minutes before we go on? No way!” Roger took a deep breath. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Real bad.”

N
ANCY STOOD IN
Barton’s dressing room with her friends and the rest of Bent Fender. On the vanity lay uncapped tubes and containers of stage makeup. An open can of Cherry Coke was almost full. A guitar was leaned up in the corner of the room, next to a portable amplifier.

“It looks like he was right in the middle of getting ready,” Nancy said. “Not like he planned on going anywhere.”

“You’re sure?” Roger asked.

“There’s no question about it,” Nancy replied grimly, bending down to look under the vanity. A pair of cowboy boots—the ones the rock star always wore on stage—sat on the floor.

“Barton had these on when we were introduced to him before. That means—”

“—that wherever he is, he’s barefoot,” George finished.

“Exactly. That’s why I don’t think he intended to leave this room.”

“You mean he was just sitting here, and then . . .” Bess’s voice trailed off.

“Something
happened. Maybe someone knocked on his door and he got up to answer it.” Nancy thought out loud, trying to piece the puzzle together. She felt herself switching gears, the excitement she’d experienced at meeting her rock idols melting into the clear, quick thinking that had earned her her reputation as a detective.

She pulled open the door to the little dressing room, just as Barton might have done. Across the corridor was a rehearsal studio for the Rockettes, who danced in special shows at Radio City Music Hall. Lights from the street washed through the room, glinting off the mirrors lining one wall. The hallway between the two rooms was littered with stage props and lighting equipment.

Nancy stepped out of the room to inspect the jumble of boxes, painted scenery, and other theater paraphernalia. “Hey, you guys, come look at this.” A few yards down the hall, the contents of a box of lighting gels was scattered every which way. A papier-mâché tree trunk
nearby was broken in half. “Looks like a scuffle,” Nancy noted.

“Here’s something else,” Bess observed. A broken lamp lay on the floor down the hall.

“Wow! There’s a whole trail of things!” Nancy said.

“I don’t know, Nancy,” Linda Ferrare spoke up. “We’ve performed in a lot of places, and it’s not that unusual for the backstage or storage areas to be a jumble of stuff like this.” She paused, and her voice dropped. “Besides, I think there’s something you ought to know. It’s been kept quiet because we don’t want the press to find out. But this isn’t the first time.”

“I don’t understand.” Nancy surveyed the trail of clues. “Has Barton vanished before?”

“Not exactly.” Mark Bailey spoke up. “A few years back—twice—he just took off. We were scared stiff at first because he didn’t tell anyone anything, but both times it turned out that he just couldn’t cope with the pressure of being a super-celebrity. The first time he flew off to some island in the Mediterranean and rented himself a house on the beach for a few weeks. The second time he spent the weekend with some friends in the country.”

“Yeah, but Mark, don’t forget, that was two years ago,” Roger said, “when we were just starting to make it big. Barton’s gotten much better about dealing with his fame.” A worried
look crossed his face. “I just don’t have the same feeling about this.”

“Why not?”

“Look,” Roger said, “this whole ‘Rock for Relief’ thing was his idea. I know he’s pretty quiet about his sister, but he’s totally devoted to her. You know that. He wouldn’t let her—or anyone like her—down.”

“What does his sister have to do with it?” Nancy asked.

“She’s been in a wheelchair all her life,” Roger explained. “That’s one of the reasons Barton got the idea for these shows. I’m positive that he wouldn’t run out on us now. Besides, if he were planning on going, he wouldn’t have left all that stuff in his dressing room. Even his guitar is there.”

Jim Parker ran a nervous hand through his short dark hair. “But he’s got two other guitars, Roger. I don’t know. Barton’s done some crazy things.”

Nancy listened carefully. Barton was beginning to be a real human being to her, with fears and weaknesses like any person. If he had chosen to vanish before, she had to consider the possibility that he might do it again. On the other hand, there was evidence to the contrary.

Nancy sighed. “I can’t begin to make guesses about someone I’ve just met, but I’m inclined to agree with Roger. Vanishing just before a big
show like this doesn’t make sense and isn’t going to be overlooked by the press. If Barton wanted to get away from it all, he couldn’t have picked a worse moment to do it.”

“Look, everything you’re saying sounds reasonable,” Linda volunteered, “and it’s true that Barton’s become more comfortable being, well, being a hot item, but just recently he’s been a lot more like the old Barton. I don’t know, he seems really uptight about something.”

Nancy couldn’t help thinking about the urgency she’d sensed when Barton had asked about her detective work. “Linda, do you have any idea what was bothering him?”

Linda shrugged. “Beats me. But he’s been acting weird for the past couple of weeks. Ever since . . .”

“Ever since what?”

“Ever since we started talking about our new contract.” Linda’s olive complexion went pale. She glanced from one member of Bent Fender to the next. “You don’t think he’s going to leave the band, do you?”

“No way, Lin,” Roger reassured her. “Look at the way he’s been going at the songs he’s writing for the new album. He’s totally into the music we’re making now.” Roger paused. “But he has been tense about the contract.” He turned to Nancy to explain. “He thinks we’re not getting all the royalties we’re entitled to. He started fighting with our agent and our producer. That’s
why we called your father. We decided to bring in a lawyer.”

Nancy nodded. But before she could ask more questions, the telephone in Barton’s dressing room rang shrilly.

Mark grabbed the receiver. “Yes?” Pause. “Hey, thanks for calling. Have you found him yet?” His expression darkened, and Nancy held her breath. “Right. Okay, I understand.”

“That was the stage manager,” Mark said when he hung up. “No trace of Barton, and the audience is getting pretty rowdy. They want to know why we’re not on stage. What do we do?”

Jim shook his head thoughtfully. “Whew. All those handicapped kids are out there. We can’t let them down.”

“Yeah, but how are we supposed to play without the main attraction?” Linda asked, her tough tone barely hiding the concern in her voice. “Boy, if this is Barton’s fault, I’m going to make him disappear for good.”

“I could cover the leads,” Mark said, “but can you imagine doing ‘Fever’ with one guitar?”

“ ‘Fever?’ What a great tune. I can play every riff in that song,” Alan said.

Roger spun around and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Alan looked at the ground, embarrassed. “At a time like this I guess no one wants to hear me go on about playing your music.”

“No, maybe we do,” Roger said, studying Alan intently. “Can you play all our tunes?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Really well,” Bess added proudly. “He has a great voice, too.”

Roger grabbed Barton’s guitar from the corner of the room and fiddled with the knobs and dials on the amp. “Try the fast middle section on ‘Fever.’ ” He pressed the guitar into Alan’s hands.

Astonishment filled Alan’s brown eyes. Roger flashed him a smile of encouragement. “Go ahead,” he said.

Nancy listened as Alan tuned the guitar strings and, after taking a long, deep breath, sang the familiar Fender music in a clear, confident voice.

“Not bad.” Linda’s face was serious, her eyes appraising. “What else can you do?”

“How about ‘Little Brother’?” Jim asked, as Alan finished up on ‘Fever.’ “Do you know that one?”

Alan’s brow crinkled in concentration. “That’s an oldie,” he said, “but I think I can do it.” Once again, music filled the room as Alan broke into a slow, dreamy number from Bent Fender’s first album.

“What do you say?” Roger addressed his fellow band members. One by one, Nancy saw them signal their approval.

“Champ,” Roger said, putting his hand on
Alan’s shoulder, “how would you like to be our pinch hitter tonight?”

As if in a fog, Alan put down the guitar. “Me? You want
me
to play with Bent Fender?
Here?”

“We need your help,” Roger said.

“We’ll pull you through the rough spots,” Mark promised.

Nancy watched as Alan’s angular features reflected a rainbow of emotions from doubt to dazed happiness. Then the smile left his face. “What about Barton?” he asked suddenly. “Are you going to call the police?”

“They wouldn’t take this seriously,” Roger replied gloomily. “Not after the other two times. Barton’s earned himself quite a reputation.”

“But you can’t just do nothing,” George said.

Nancy cleared her throat. Despite seeing her dreams of vacation vanishing as rapidly as Barton had, she said, “Look, maybe I could—”

“Nancy,
would
you?” Roger didn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence. “I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be.”

Linda, Jim, and Mark echoed his sentiments.

“Nancy Drew can’t turn down a chance to do some sleuthing,” George said. “It’s in her blood to track down clues.”

Nancy had to admit that George was right. Nothing was more of a challenge than solving a mystery. But just then, the tingle of enthusiasm that she usually felt at the beginning of a case was
overshadowed by her worries about Barton. Maybe he
was
running away again, but if not, she couldn’t lose any time. He might be in terrible danger.