The Red Slippers (5 page)

When I walked into the hotel, I spotted Michael in the lobby, reading a newspaper. I hadn't expected finding him to be so easy.

I straightened my sweater and approached him.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you Michael Carter?”

He looked up at me, surprised. “Yeah, but call me Mike,” he said. “And you are?”

“Nancy Drew,” I introduced myself, extending my hand. “I'm the president of my school's Future Business Leaders of America. We have to do a report on a successful business in our state, and I picked Sharp Image.”

A slow smile spread over Mike's face, and he straightened in his chair.

“Is that so?” he asked.

I nodded earnestly. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Sure, I don't see why not,” Mike answered.

“Great.” I pulled out my notebook. “Could you tell me how you got the idea to start Sharp Image?”

“Well, it all started in college, when I had to turn in a paper on Monet for an art history class. We had to include pictures of the paintings. . . .”

Mike kept talking, but I wasn't paying attention to his words. Instead I stared at his face. This past summer I had studied a book on how to read facial expressions. It turns out there are tons of facial muscles that move unconsciously. Expressions flit across our face in microseconds, revealing our true emotions before we can consciously change our appearance. There are even police departments that employ people who can read faces in order to help determine when suspects are lying. They call them human lie detectors. I had been practicing on George, Bess, Ned, and even my dad for the past couple of months, but this was my first chance to try it during an actual case.

The book I read, written by the scientist who pioneered the research, suggested that once you have a sense of your subject's basic facial movements, you needed to catch them off guard. Surprising someone gives you the best chance of catching a micro-expression.

George walked in right on time. She found the hotel worker closest to Mike and me and strode up to her confidently.

“Hi,” George said loud enough that Mike and I could hear her. “I'm helping the ballet company that's in town to perform.” Mike's head whipped around, but I didn't take my eyes off his face. His eyebrows sank in and the muscles around his eyes tightened—a classic fear response.

“I was wondering if I could hang this poster for their upcoming performance in your lobby,” George continued. “We think your guests may want to attend the show.”

I kept staring at Mike. If he were paying attention to me, he'd probably think I was being extremely creepy, but his entire focus was on George. His mouth twitched as his teeth clenched and his cheeks sucked in.

“Unfortunately,” the hotel clerk told George, “we have a no-advertising policy in our lobby.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” George said. “Thanks for your time.” She exited the hotel.

Next to me, Mike's entire body relaxed. The hotel clerk noticed Mike and approached us.

“Mr. Carter?” she said. Mike looked up at her nervously. George had definitely caught him off guard with the poster. “Is your cat okay?”

“What?” Mike said loudly.

“Your wife called about your cat being stuck in the chimney. Were you able to talk her out of there?”

“But I don't have a cat,” Mike said with a look of surprise.

“Oh, I must have been mistaken,” the hotel clerk said.

“Excuse me,” I said, standing up quickly. “I have an appointment I need to get to.” I didn't want to stay around too long in case Mike figured out that a nosy girl had come in asking him questions not long after someone called claiming to be his wife. Sometimes being a detective is all about knowing when to make your exit.

As soon as I set foot outside, George accosted me.

“What did his expressions tell you?”

“I don't think he's our guy,” I said.

George's face fell in disappointment. “Are you sure?”

“Well, it's an inexact science, and when he saw the poster he was definitely angry and embarrassed, but I didn't see anything that indicated that he was surprised or shocked that you would be asking to hang it, which he would have been if he knew it had been defaced.”

“Darn it,” George said, pounding her fist into her thigh. “I really wanted it to be him.”

“I know,” I said.

Just then my phone rang. It was Bess.

“Nancy!” she said breathlessly as soon as I answered. “You have to get back to the theater right away. Something horrible has happened!”

I PULLED UP IN FRONT
of the theater, where Bess was pacing back and forth nervously. She yanked my car door open before I had even turned off the engine.

“Nancy! Thank goodness you're here. I don't know how I let this happen.”

“Bess, slow down,” I urged as I switched off the ignition and unbuckled my seat belt. “Just tell me everything.”

Bess paused, as if she were searching for the right words. “I think I'd rather show you.”

George and I followed Bess back into the theater. We walked quickly through the lobby, where clusters of dancers were whispering among themselves. They all looked shaken up.

We entered the auditorium, which was almost completely empty. Only Jamison sat in the front row, staring at the empty stage, seemingly lost in thought.

Bess indicated we should be quiet. I nodded. Based on what we'd heard earlier, I had no doubt Jamison would bite our heads off if we disturbed him.

We tiptoed past him and entered a door to the right that led backstage. The difference between what the audience sees onstage and what actually happens backstage never ceases to amaze me. It's part of what made me want to study ballet in the first place. When I was five, I saw
The Nutcracker
performed at that very theater. The daughter of one of Bess's mom's best friends was playing Clara, the lead, so we all got to go backstage after the performance. While we were watching the show, I had been completely captivated, transported to the Land of Sweets. But backstage I saw the pulleys that controlled the curtains, the painted backdrop that I had believed was a magical kingdom, and the costumes. For some people, seeing how the magic was made might have ruined the experience, but for me, seeing all the work that went into a production made it all the more impressive.

When I got home that day, I told my dad I wanted to take ballet. As much as I wanted to learn how to dance, I also wanted to learn how to put on a show. I like knowing how things work and seeing behind the scenes. It's part of what I enjoy about being a detective. Every person is putting on a show of some kind, projecting an image into the world. As a detective, you get to see behind that mask. You see what makes a person tick, who they really are.

Bess led us through another door, farther into the theater. The hallway was brightly lit with fluorescents and lined with doors whose signs read
COSTUME SHOP
,
PROPS
, and
WORKSHOP
.

Finally Bess stopped in front of a door marked
LILAC FAIRY DRESSING ROOM
and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Maggie said from the other side.

As soon as the door swung open, my jaw dropped. The entire room had been destroyed. All of Maggie's belongings—her makeup, her brush, her phone, her clothes—had been thrown on the ground and stomped on. The lightbulbs lining the mirror were shattered. The mirror itself sported a long crack right through the middle. One of a chair's legs had been broken off.

Maggie sat crumpled in the far corner of the room, as if she was trying to stay as far away from the chaos as possible.

“It looks like a hurricane came through here,” George said.

“I take it back, Nancy,” Maggie said, looking up at me, tears streaming down her face. “I want you to catch Fiona red-handed. She needs to be stopped!”

“We'll nab whoever did this!” I told Maggie. “You have my word.”

“Mine, too,” George said.

Next to me Bess cleared her throat. We all turned to look at her.

“The thing is,” she started, “I kept a close eye on Fiona all afternoon. She never left my sight for more than a few seconds. There's no way she had time to do all of this,” she said, swinging her arm out to take in the full dressing room.

A loud sob erupted from Maggie. “You mean we have no idea who did this?”

It was closer to the truth than I wanted to admit. The poster hadn't turned up anything, and with Bess ruling out Fiona, I was at a loss. Looking at Maggie, though, I couldn't say that out loud.

“Just because Fiona didn't do this herself,” I said, “doesn't mean she wasn't behind it.” Maggie looked up with a glimmer of hope on her tear-streaked face. “It's been a long day,” I continued. “Why don't we go to dinner and you can give us a rundown of Fiona's friends who might have helped her.”

Maggie nodded. “That sounds good.” She quickly changed into her street clothes and we headed out.

Sebastian was sitting on a chair in the lobby, but he jumped up as soon as he saw Maggie.

“Maggie! Are you okay? I heard what happened.” He came close as if he were going to hug her, but held back. I saw Bess smile. She loves couples. I think she was more excited when Ned and I started dating than either Ned or I were.

“I'm fine.” Maggie sighed. “We were actually all going to grab dinner. Do you want to come?”

“I'd love to,” Sebastian answered, following as we all headed out into the cold.

By the time our entrées arrived, Maggie was noticeably calmer. We'd decided to go to Hugo's Restaurant, much to George's chagrin. George is a burger and fries girl, and Hugo's specializes in organic health food. Maggie explained she was on a strict diet. She ate a lot of calories because of how much she exercised, but they were all healthy calories. It was imperative that she maintain her slim figure if she was going to have any shot at becoming a professional dancer.

George had been shocked when she found out all the things Maggie didn't eat: pizza, ice cream, steaks. She couldn't believe that anyone would voluntarily not eat ice cream.

“Evelyn Young and Nicole Rush,” Maggie said. “Those are Fiona's best ‘friends.' I say friends, but they're more like lapdogs. They would do anything for her.”

“Great,” I said. “I'll focus my investigation on them tomorrow.” I turned to Bess. “Can you just walk me through this afternoon one more time? I know you were focused on Fiona, but did anyone leave the rehearsal for a prolonged period of time?”

Before Bess could answer, Sebastian returned from the bathroom. “You guys are still talking about the dressing room? I thought the point of coming here was to give Maggie a break, get her mind off things,” he said. “She needs to relax so she can get a good night's sleep tonight and be ready for tomorrow.”

I was going to protest that I needed all the information I could get to solve this case before the performance. I had less than twenty-four hours, and we'd made very little headway so far.

But looking over at Maggie and seeing how distraught she was, I realized Sebastian was right. We weren't going to solve the case at the restaurant, and belaboring all the details wouldn't help Maggie do her best tomorrow.

I turned to Sebastian. “All right,” I said. “Tell us about you. You seem really young to be the pianist for the tour.”

Sebastian finished chewing a bite of his salmon salad. “Well, my sister, Veronica, is a ballet dancer too.”

“She's not just a ballet dancer,” Maggie added. “She's a member of the New York City Ballet—Jamison's only student to get into the company. Veronica is pretty much my idol.”

“Right,” Sebastian said. “What she said. When we were young, my parents decided we should practice together, make sure we kept each other honest about how much time we put in. She'd dance while I played. By the time I was eleven, I was accompanying all her recitals, and when I was fourteen the school started paying me to play for classes and performances, so I've basically been doing it for most of my life.”