Stage Fright (Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Book 6) (7 page)

Just then, my phone rang. I looked at the screen—Vijay!

“Hey man,” I said. “Tell me you have some news for me.”

“What, you think I’m calling just to talk to you? Not.” Vijay laughed. “That juice box you sent me? Definitely dosed, my friend. But here’s the weird part: It had ipecac in it.”

“Ipecac?” I asked. “Isn’t that medicine?”

“Yes and no. It’s an emetic, which means it’ll make you puke. But lots of people have it in their medicine cabinet. You said Claire’s been receiving death threats?”

“Yeah, and the other night someone nearly killed her understudy.”

“Ipecac wouldn’t kill anyone. They give it to children all the time. The worst it can do is ruin your evening.”

Hmm … that was interesting news, even if I didn’t know how it fit in with the rest of the case. Yet.

“Hey Veej, can you do me a favor?” I asked, pulling my portable forensic kit out.

“No, I cannot get you the new ZOMG Kill game.”

“Not that! If I sample these juice boxes right now, can you tell if they all have ipecac in them?”

“Sure, now that I know what I’m looking for I can do that in a few seconds.”

One by one, we tested the juices. Each one came up
positive for ipecac. Someone wanted to make certain Claire didn’t go on last night.

“How hard would it have been for someone to do this?” I asked Vijay.

“Easy-peasy, my friend. With a syringe and a bottle of ipecac, this could be done in … five minutes maybe?”

The boxes came up negative for everything else: no fingerprints, no other poisons, no identifying marks.

“Oprah’s back on,” Vijay said. “I have to go.”

“Oprah?” I started to ask, but the line was already dead. Veej was a weird dude, but I liked him.

All right, Joe,
I told myself.
Think.

This wasn’t a coincidence. These drinks didn’t come pre-poisoned. So all I needed to do was follow what the cops called the “chain of evidence.” If I could make a list of everyone who touched these juice boxes since they entered the theater, the poisoner would have to be on it. I needed to talk to someone in charge.

I locked the dressing room behind me. A flash of pink hair appeared out of the corner of my eye and I saw Jason, Claire’s dresser, walking by carrying a poorly balanced stack of women’s shoes.

“Sorry, coming through,” he said as he passed. The top pair of shoes slipped off his stack, and I hurried to pick them up.

“Thanks,” he said, as I placed them on top of the pile. “I’ve got to get all of these polished by tonight!”

“That’s a lot of work!” I said. An idea occurred to me. “Hey, maybe you can help me with something. When we do our shows back home, we don’t have a lot of staff. How do you guys handle it when someone leaves unexpectedly? Like, when Meredith left, who took over her job?”

“Oh, man,” said Jason. “Usually, I’m the one who has to take up the slack. But it wasn’t me when Meredith left….” He thought for a second.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe ask Laurel? Someone had to be paid to do it, and if there’s any money involved, Laurel is in the middle of it.”

“Thanks,” I yelled as Jason rushed off. “Do you know where I could find her?”

“Her office! Top floor.”

Although Laurel was one of the hottest producers on Broadway, her office was smaller than I had expected. It had a faded green carpet and a wooden desk that, although elegant, had seen better days. The two giant computer screens on top of it, however, were top of the line.

“Yes?” Laurel said as I walked in. Her fingers were flying across her keyboard, and she only pulled her eyes away from the screens for half a second to see who I was.

“I had a question for you. Do you have a minute?” I asked, trying to be polite—she was our employer.

“Sure,” she said.

Laurel didn’t even pause her typing, so I leapt right in.

“I have a question about Claire’s juice boxes.”

“Rider seven point two in her contract. Costs us about thirty-five dollars per week. It’s the price of having a star. Just one of those adorable little perks.”

The way she said the word “adorable” made it sound like a four-letter word.

“That wasn’t my question actually. I was wondering if you knew who got them for her.”

“Purchasing is my department. I order them through Whole Foods.”

She still wasn’t getting it. All she seemed to care about was the money, not the fact that the juices had been poisoned. I needed to get her attention. I put my hand on top of her computer monitor. Suddenly, she had eyes for nothing but me.

“I mean, who brings them to her?” I asked, trying to be as clear as possible.

Laurel looked at me coldly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that on top of funding this show, running the house, and writing your paycheck, I had to know who is responsible for
bringing Claire a juice box
.”

I took my hand off the monitor.

“I’ll ask someone else,” I said, but she’d already turned back to her computer.

As I reached the main floor of the theater, I ran into Damien coming up the stairs.

Maybe,
I thought,
this might be something Mr. Encyclopedia here could help me with.

I used the same lie I’d told Jason, asking who did what tasks around the theater.

“Claire’s juices?” Damien said. “Originally it was Meredith who got them for her. But when she left Madonna took over. Then Madonna threw a fit three days ago, and I started stocking the fridge.”

“So you put the juices in the fridge the night Claire got sick?”

Damien shook his head. “No, I put them in the day before. But I don’t think anyone else would have touched them.”

Jackpot!

I smiled, and Damien tilted his head and looked at me sideways for a second. A thoughtful expression crossed his face.

“Say,” he said. “Where did you say you were from again?”

“Bayport,” I answered. “Frank and I work with the Bayport Regional Theater.”

“Interesting,” said Damien. “I’ve never heard of that theater. Are you guys Equity? Union?”

Thankfully, all of this had been covered in our briefing.

“Not yet.” I shook my head as though I were terribly
sad about it. “Frank and I are hoping that we can learn enough here this week to really bring the theater to the next level.”

“So what shows have you done?”

“Uhh …
Bye Bye Birdie
,
The Music Man
, you know, the usual.”

This conversation was starting to go dangerous places. I tried to edge past Damien on the stairs, but he threw his arm out and leaned against the wall, blocking my exit.

“So you guys are big Sondheim fans?” He smiled. “Me too.”

“We love him,” I nodded. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to—”

“That’s funny,” said Damien. “Because none of those shows are by Sondheim.”

He’d caught me. There was only one way out of this. I needed to bluff, and bluff hard.

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” I said, trying my best to act calmer than I felt. Our cover was in danger of being blown. “I’m not here to explain myself to you. I’m here to work with your boss. On a show that goes up TOMORROW. Are we good?”

Damien might have been a few years older than I was, but I was also a trained ATAC agent. I knew I could make him back down. He was angry now, I could see it on his face. He opened his mouth, but a yell from below stopped him.

“Damien!” Linden’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “Where the heck are you?”

“Here Mr. von Louden!” Damien called back.

Heavy footsteps came racing up the steps. Linden was not happy.

“I’ve been looking for you for thirty minutes!” Linden’s face was red and flushed from running up the steps. “I hope you have something better to do than sit around and chat all day.”

“Yes, Mr. von Louden,” stammered Damien.

“Take these,” Linden said, yanking the glasses off his face. “They’re broken. Again! I need them by tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now come with me. Do you have a pen on you? I need you to call Anthony at the catering place and make sure he has the order correct. Last time, they served shrimp….”

Linden took off down the steps, and Damien had to run to keep up with him. I almost felt sorry for the kid. Almost. Then I remembered his questions, and the look in his eye, and I knew Damien thought we were up to something.

In truth, the feeling was mutual.

CHAPTER
8

NANCY

PRACTICE MAKES DEADLY

“Okay girls, one more time: step, kick, kick, step, down, and jump!”

Linden clicked a steady rhythm against the floor with his heel, and I tried my best to follow Claire as she floated gracefully across the rehearsal room. I kept my eyes on the mirror that took up one entire wall, making sure my lines were elegant and my face wasn’t “twisted up like I tasted something sour,” as Claire put it after the last run-through. I also did my best to ignore Bess and George giggling in the corner. I took a deep breath and followed Claire.

“Better!” Linden commented. “But you’ve got to hit that jump right on the beat.”

Easy for you to say,
I thought.
You’re sitting down
.

Claire came over from the other side of the room. “Here, let me help you.”

She stood behind me and put both hands on my hips. She nodded to Linden, who began his count again. This time, as we went through the moves, Claire kept her hands on me. A quarter of a second before Linden said “down,” she pushed, and my knees bent. By the time he said “jump,” I was already extending up through my toes, leaping into the air.

“Perfect!” said Linden. “You really are a natural at this. I’m very impressed.”

Sweat dripped down my brow. It felt nice to hear, and in fact, I’d been pretty impressed with my skills myself. This wasn’t the easiest stuff to learn, but I had a good memory and was generally physically skilled—I guess being a detective had some practical applications after all! But still, I was ready to do something other than these few steps over and over again. I looked around and made sure the door was closed.

“You guys remember this is just a cover story, right?” I asked.

“No understudy of mine is going to embarrass me onstage. At least, not again,” said Claire. She paused for a moment, pulling from her bag one of her ever-present juice boxes—a new one that I’d purchased for her specially this morning. “Not that you’ll be going on, but still. It’s the principle.”

She flopped heavily to the floor, and I joined her eagerly. I was so sore, I thought my blisters had blisters. Bess, George, and Linden joined us.

“Hey Nance,” said Bess, “do you mind if George and I explore the theater? I mean, if that’s okay with you, Mr. von Louden?”

Bess flashed her megawatt smile at Linden, and he returned one just as bright.

“Of course, girls,” he replied. “Just try to stay out of the crew’s way. Everyone is a little on edge. One day to go!”

That is putting it mildly,
I thought. Everyone was walking around as though the stage were made of glass. No one wanted to be the next injury—especially now that there were real audiences coming to the show. Frank told me that last night’s performance sold three times as many tickets as the night before Madonna was injured.

George and Bess promised to be careful. Their cover story as part of my “entourage” had so far guaranteed them access to most of the theater, and they were so personable, no one asked any questions. With a wave and a laugh, they exited the rehearsal room.

Since we were taking a break, Linden decided to get a few errands done around the theater. He told us to “take twenty” and disappeared out the door. Before it even closed behind him, I could hear him yelling for Damien. I was happy just to sit and massage my aching calves.

“Who’s that?” I asked, as Claire stared at a small photo she’d taken from her bag. “Family?”

“An ancestor,” said Claire. “But not family. Not blood family at least.”

She smiled and turned the picture toward me. It was a black-and-white photo, clearly very old, of a woman in a glamorous gown.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Alla Nazimova,” replied Claire. “One of the early greats of the American stage. Once upon a time, she was the toast of Manhattan. Everyone knew her name. She’s my inspiration. Her, Ethel Merman, Patty LuPone, Lea Salonga, Nell Carter—someday, my name is going to be on that list. The Great Women of the Stage.”

I looked closely at the picture. The woman’s eyes were dark and hooded. She looked mysterious, and somewhat sad. She was the opposite of Claire, who looked like a normal happy teen. Somewhere inside, however, I knew she had to be scared.

“Are you worried?” I asked.

Claire bit her lip and looked at the ground.

“I try not to let it get to me, you know? It’s just … you never know what could happen.”

I nodded sympathetically and scooted closer to where she sat. I put my arm around her.

“Frank and Joe are two of the best detectives I’ve ever met,” I assured her. “And with me around to keep
them on track, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“What?” said Claire. “Oh, you mean the threats and stuff?” She stood up. “I’m not worried about that. That’s part of life when you’re a star. I thought you meant the show. It really isn’t where I want it to be. Speaking of …”

She picked up her giant bag, which looked like the result of crossing a fancy gold purse with a duffel bag. She began pawing through it like a raccoon digging through trash.

“No, no, no, no …” Claire pulled out a curling iron, two books, a cookie wrapped in plastic, and a small troll doll. “How is this possible?” she muttered to herself. “Again!”

Claire looked through the bag more aggressively, pulling objects out left and right. Finally, with obvious frustration, she turned the bag upside down, pouring its contents on the floor.

“Where … is … it?!” she demanded angrily.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, gingerly pushing a pile of make-up around with my toe.

Claire jumped at the sound of my voice. Her furrowed brow smoothed out and she plastered a smile on her face.