002 Deadly Intent (4 page)

“Finished?” asked Bess, helping herself to the remaining half a croissant and the last few bites of the potatoes.

At that moment, the door to the hotel suite opened, and Carson Drew stepped in, wearing a navy blue jogging suit and running shoes, his salt-and-pepper hair pushed away from his face with a sweat band.

“Hi, Dad. Did you have a good run?”

“Very nice. Lots of company. I think half the city must be out jogging in the park this morning. How are
you?”
he asked, planting a sweaty kiss on Nancy’s forehead.

“Raring to go.” Nancy got out of bed and opened her suitcase, taking out her favorite black jeans and a hot pink oversized shirt. “In fact, I wondered if you would mind bringing me with you to Bent Fender’s agent this morning. I’m hoping she might be able to give me some information about Barton. Did you see the headlines about him?” She held the newspaper out for her father to look at.

Carson Drew nodded. “I read the article. The media really have a field day when something happens to a big star. They didn’t have anything substantial to report, though. Well, perhaps Ann Nordquist can help. I’m meeting her—” Carson Drew checked his watch, “—in forty-five minutes,” he said as he headed for his room.

Nancy showered and got dressed quickly. “Do you guys want to meet me for lunch later?” she asked Bess and George. She was whisking on a light dusting of blush and pulling a brush through her hair.

“Sounds good,” George said. “How about you, Bess?”

“Can’t.” Bess shook her head. “I told Alan I’d meet him at the record producers’. Then we’ll go out for lunch, just the two of us.”

“The same producers who handle Fender?” Nancy shot Bess a quizzical look.

“Yeah. Alan’s gone to talk to them about getting a recording contract.” Bess was almost exploding with joy. “Nancy,” she said, “I know you didn’t get to hear him last night. He was incredible! This is the start of something really big. I can just picture screaming fans all around, begging for Alan’s autograph, trying to get a glimpse of him, to see him smile—and he’ll wade through the crowd and climb into the limousine that’s waiting for him.” Bess smiled impishly. “Of course, I’ll be in the back seat.” Bess opened up the locket she always wore around her neck and studied Alan’s photograph.

“Don’t you think you might be getting the teensiest bit carried away?” Nancy asked gently, trying to avoid jolting Bess out of her fantasy. “I know Alan’s got a lot of talent, but only the biggest groups record on the World label. They don’t go with unknowns.”

“Nan, after last night, Alan is
not
an unknown. They even mentioned him in that newspaper article.”

“Okay, Bess, but don’t be disappointed if they don’t sign him right up. Remember, last night
was his first major show, and his job was really to imitate Barton’s playing as closely as possible.”

“I’m not worried.”

George caught Nancy’s glance and arched a troubled eyebrow.

“Ready, Nancy?” Carson Drew called.

“Ready,” Nancy replied distractedly, her mind on Bess and Alan. She slung her bag over her shoulder. “See you guys,” she said, taking one last worried look at her friend as she left. When, she wondered, would Bess’s bubble burst?

N
ANCY AND HER
father entered the twenty-third-floor office of Ann Nordquist’s agency. The walls were papered with posters of foreign places.

“I love to travel,” Ms. Nordquist explained, after Carson Drew had introduced her to Nancy and explained that Nancy wanted to speak to her for a few minutes. She ran a perfectly manicured hand through her pale blond hair. “I just got back from a tour of mainland China. And the first thing that happens is—that.” Ann Nordquist gestured to the day’s newspaper Nancy had brought along. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Nancy. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. Ms. Nordquist, Roger Gold told me
that you and Barton had been, well, quite frankly, having some problems working together. Something about royalty money.”

A tiny frown appeared on Ann Nordquist’s forehead. “I wouldn’t exactly say we were having problems. You have to understand that royalty revenue is a complicated business. It goes through many channels and often takes some time before it ends up in the artist’s pocket. I don’t think Barton quite understood that. He felt he was getting shortchanged.”

“And he wasn’t?”

“I don’t think so, not unless something irregular is going on at World.”

“They’re my next stop,” Nancy said. “Maybe you could tell me the names of the people there who handle Barton and Bent Fender.”

“Certainly. In fact, I’ll make a list for you.” The agent reached for a piece of paper, and Nancy studied the attractive woman as she wrote. She had a pleasant, straightforward manner, and she seemed open enough. But Nancy wondered whether there was more to her disagreement with Barton than she’d let on.

“Here you are.” Ann Nordquist pushed the list toward Nancy, a half-dozen names written out in her neat, round handwriting. “I ought to warn you about Harold Marshall. He’s not the easiest man to deal with.”

“Well, I’ll try my best,” Nancy said. She and Ann Nordquist chatted with Carson Drew for a
few minutes, Ann confirming some of the things the members of Bent Fender had said about Barton—that he tended to be publicity shy, and that he had indeed picked himself up and vanished on two occasions without telling a soul.

“That makes finding him all the more difficult,” Nancy told her, “because if he has been kidnapped, there are going to be plenty of people who won’t believe it.”

“Like the little boy who cried wolf,” Carson Drew supplied.

“Exactly.” Nancy stood up to go. “Well, I’ll leave you two to do your business. Ms. Nordquist, thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome. I hope you can track Barton down quickly. We’re all awfully worried about him.” Ann Nordquist extended her hand to Nancy. “I hope next time we’ll meet under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I do too. By the way, would any of the people on this list fit these descriptions? A tall, heavyset man with straight dark hair, but balding slightly. Or a shorter man with dark wavy hair, possibly wearing a gold ring in the shape of a dragon or sea monster?” Nancy looked up from her notes on the two men who had been seen backstage.

Ann Nordquist thought for a few seconds. “I don’t believe so. No.” She shook her head.

“Okay. Well, thanks again.” Nancy said goodbye and walked the ten blocks to World Communications’ offices. Normally, she would have been
thrilled to be on the streets of New York, watching the stream of people and window shopping, but that day she walked quickly, her mind on Barton Novak as she weaved through the crowds. Had he been kidnapped, as Roger Gold suspected, or had he gone on his own, as the rest of the band seemed to think?

Soon, World Communications loomed up in front of her, an imposing steel and glass tower with uniformed guards at the door.
Not again,
Nancy thought, recalling the guards at Radio City Music Hall. She prepared a little speech, but was surprised when the guards let her in with no trouble. In fact, though she found out no new information about Barton, the people at the company were happy to answer her questions. That is, until she got to the last person on the list Ann Nordquist had given her—Harold Marshall.

She opened the door with his name on it and found herself standing before a stylish, sharp-featured young woman of about her own age. The woman’s dark hair gleamed with henna-red highlights, and her blue sweater was cut low in the front.

“Yes?” The woman looked up from her desk.

“I’d like to see Mr. Marshall, please.” Nancy smiled.

The young woman did not smile back. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I’d like to speak with him about Barton Novak.”

“Barton?”

“I’m investigating his disappearance.”

“Mr. Marshall is a very busy man, Miss—”

“Drew. Nancy Drew.” Nancy extended her hand.

The young woman barely touched it. “I’m afraid he’s all booked up today.”

“Could it be that he has something to hide?” Nancy suggested, surprised at her own brazenness. When she got no response, she moved toward the inner door and pushed it open.

“Hey, what are you doing? You can’t go in there!” the secretary announced, following behind.

“I’ve already done it,” Nancy replied. She found herself facing a small, wiry man with a brown mustache and glasses, who was sitting behind an enormous desk. “Hello, Mr. Marshall.”

“Who are you?” He released a cloud of noxious cigar smoke as he spoke. “Vivian, what’s she doing here? I gave specific instructions that—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Marshall,” Vivian said, her voice taking on a honey-sweet tone, “but she barged right in here. I couldn’t stop her. Please don’t be angry.”

Harold Marshall’s expression softened for a split second. “Oh, Vivian, of course it’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Nancy watched him. “But as for you—Miss Drew, did you say?” His expression changed to a sneer as
he turned back to Nancy. “What is so important that you felt you could waltz right in here? First, my office is invaded by an idiot who thinks that just because he banged out a couple of Barton Novak’s riffs last night we must be dying to cut a record—”

“Alan?” Nancy groaned out loud. So poor Alan, filled with dreams of glory, had come face to face with Harold Marshall. Nancy’s heart went out to him and to Bess.

“You’re a friend of his? Look, I told him no dice, and I mean it. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Marshall swiveled around in his chair.

“I am a friend of Alan’s, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m a detective, and I must ask you a few questions about Barton Novak. Ann Nordquist said you handle his band.”

Marshall spun back around, puffing on his cigar. “Ann Nordquist is a pushy dame.”

“You mean you don’t handle Bent Fender?” Nancy asked.

“I didn’t say that. Oh, all right. Go ahead and ask your questions. But be quick about it. I have more important things to do than chat away the morning with someone who calls herself a detective.”

Nancy felt her face flush with anger, but she tried to stay calm. “Mr. Marshall, suppose you tell me everything you can about Barton’s disappearance.”

“Disappearance! Hah!” he snorted. “I hate to
disappoint you, Miss Drew. I know how excited you must be about solving this mystery.” His voice oozed sarcasm. “But Barton Novak is safe and sound.”

“He is?” Nancy’s emotions were a confused jumble of astonishment, relief, and disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“Publicity.” Harold Marshall pronounced the word as if it were an explanation in itself.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a publicity gimmick. News like this is certain to boost sales on Fender’s most recent album. It’s been done plenty of times before. Remember the rumor after the Beatles released
Abbey Road?
That Paul McCartney had died? No, you were probably in diapers back then.”

“I
do
know what you’re talking about,” Nancy countered. She couldn’t imagine a rock-and-roll fan who hadn’t just about memorized the history of the Beatles. “The record buyers kept thinking they saw clues about it on the album cover and in the lyrics to the songs, isn’t that right?”

“The girl detective gets an A plus,” Marshall said snidely.

“So you mean Barton’s disappearance was engineered?” Nancy shook the newspaper in anger, the realization of what Marshall had done washing over her like a tidal wave. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? The rest of the band members are either furious or scared stiff about him.”

“Hey,” Harold Marshall drawled. “That anger
and fear bought us four-inch headlines. If we’d told them, their reactions wouldn’t have been so . . . real.” He allowed himself a satisfied smile.

“That’s a rotten, inhuman trick,” Nancy exclaimed.

“Kid, this is business. What counts is what sells records.” Marshall shrugged. “Those fans are going to go wild when they think Barton’s gone. They’ll start looking for clues in the records, the rock videos. . . . All teens think they’re detectives, as you well understand,” he added condescendingly.

Nancy bristled. “What I understand is that you think it’s good business to lie to Bent Fender’s fans. Either that, or to lie to me.”

“Look, Miss Drew, if you don’t believe what I’ve told you about Barton, that’s your problem. Anybody find a ransom note?”

“No,” admitted Nancy, fighting back the urge to grab the mug of coffee on his desk and fling it in his face. “But couldn’t you tell the rest of Bent Fender where Barton is, just for their own peace of mind?”

“Let’s get something straight.” Harold Marshall’s lips thinned. “We’re sitting on a publicity gold mine here. I only told you what’s really happening so you’d stop wasting my time. If you go to the press with anything I said, I’ll deny it. Who do you think they’ll believe—me, or some kid playing detective?”

He stared at Nancy, challenging her. “As for
Barton, he’s a big boy. He could call the band members to tell them he’s okay—if he wanted. Maybe he wants some privacy. Think of this as kind of a vacation for him. And do us both a favor. Keep your mouth shut about this whole business.”