Perfect Plot (2 page)

“Isn't that where Sherlock Holmes lived?” asked George.

Kate nodded. “Exactly. Dorothea liked to give her guest rooms the flavor of different classic mystery stories. We have Honolulu in the 1920s, an English vicarage, the Maltese Falcon room . . . there's even one done up like a room in Paris a hundred fifty years ago. It's called the Rue Morgue.”

George shuddered. “What a creepy name!”

“It's in honor of the classic story by Edgar Allan Poe,” Kate explained. She pushed the door to the Baker Street room open.

Nancy's first impression was that the room was jammed with furniture. It wasn't really, but the floral wallpaper, heavy velvet curtains, and patterned brocade covers on the two beds seemed to fill up a lot of space. Two lamps with stained-glass shades cast mysterious pools of light on the oriental carpet. On the wall near the door was the framed cover of an issue of
Strand
magazine, in which the Sherlock Holmes stories had first appeared. A curved meerschaum pipe and a magnifying glass had the place of honor on the marble fireplace mantel.

“Wow,” George said, dropping her bag on one of the beds. “This is amazing.”

Smiling, Kate said, “Well, I have to get back to my duties. I can't believe how many details are involved in putting on a conference like this. Please come downstairs and meet the others when you're ready. We'll be in the living room.”

“Thanks,” Nancy said.

Once Kate was gone, George opened her bag and shook the wrinkles out of a sweater dress. “I think I'm going to like it here,” she said.

Raising an eyebrow, Nancy said, “I know Patrick Burden likes having you here.”

A slight blush rose to George's cheeks. “He
is
cute, but I'm not interested in dating a guy who doesn't live in River Heights.”

George had recently ended a relationship with sportscaster Kevin Davis because it was hard for them to spend much time together. Nancy could understand why George wanted to avoid that situation again.

Crossing to the window, Nancy pulled back the curtains. Their room faced the front of the house. On the far side of the lawn by the wing under repair was a lacy white summerhouse surrounded by flower beds.

“Nan!”

At the strangled cry, Nancy spun around. The closet door stood open. George's jacket and sweater dress lay in an untidy heap on the floor. They were the only signs of her, though.

George had vanished!

N
ANCY RUSHED OVER
to the closet. The interior was spacious, about four feet wide by six feet deep, with shelves and a clothes rod along the right-hand side. She didn't see anyplace someone could hide.

“George!” Nancy called, trying not to panic.

“Mmmpf.” The faint sound was followed by a tapping noise that seemed to be coming from
behind
the left-hand wall.

Studying the wall, Nancy saw that it was paneled with cedar boards. A row of brass coat hooks were set into the paneling. Around one of the hooks, a semicircular mark was gouged into the wood, as if the hook had scraped against the wall while being turned.

“Hmm,” Nancy murmured to herself. Grabbing the coat hook, she twisted it. It resisted for a moment, but then there was a small click. A section of wall moved inward.

“Nancy! Thank goodness!” George exclaimed, rushing out of the darkness and grabbing her friend's arm. Her face was pale, and there was terror in her eyes. “I thought I was going to be stuck in there for good!”

“What happened?” Nancy asked.

“Let me get out of here first,” George said. She hurried past Nancy to sit on one of the beds. “That secret panel closes by itself. That's how I got trapped.”

Nancy released the coat hook, and sure enough, the panel instantly swung closed.

“I started to hang up my jacket,” George went on breathlessly. “I
would
have to pick that hook. Anyway, the wall suddenly moved back. I took a step forward to check it out without even thinking. Before I knew it, the panel closed again, and I was trapped in the dark. I felt around for a way to open the panel from that side, but I couldn't find anything.”

She paused to sneeze. “I don't think anyone's dusted back there since this place was built.”

“Secret panels, hidden passages—it's like something from a book,” Nancy mused.

George stared at her. “It
is
from a book!” she declared. “One of Dorothea Burden's books! I
don't remember the name of it, but a scene from it really stuck in my mind. This girl is chased through a maze of secret passages by a madman. Just when she thinks she's safe, her flashlight goes out.”

“Hey, look,” Nancy said, pointing. A flashlight rested on one of the closet shelves.

“I bet someone put it there on purpose,” George said. Flopping back on her bed, she reached over and picked up a printed sheet from the bedside table. “Here's a schedule for the conference,” she said.

Nancy began to take clothes out of her bag and put them in the dresser. “I practically have the whole thing memorized from the material they sent—mystery competitions, a mystery masquerade party, a tour of Dorothea Burden's collection of mystery paraphernalia—”

“Not to mention a talk given by famed teen detective Nancy Drew,” George added, grinning at Nancy.

Nancy felt her cheeks grow hot. “After witnessing your disappearance just now, I bet this weekend is going to be mysterious in ways we never thought of!”

• • •

“Aunt Dotty loved to build things into this house that were mentioned in her books,” Patrick told Nancy and George half an hour later. The girls had run into him on the stairs, where
George told him about the hidden door in the closet. “The secret compartment in the Baker Street room is just one example. I don't think any single person knows all the secrets of this house. My aunt probably didn't remember all of them herself.”

Downstairs, Patrick led the girls across the entrance hall and through a set of doors to the wood-paneled living room. It was furnished with oversized, comfortable sofas and chairs. On the far side of the room, half a dozen people were clustered near an enormous carved-stone fireplace next to a second set of double doors. A cheery blaze crackled on the grate, filling the air with the scent of burning firewood.

Once Nancy, George, and Patrick had joined the group, Kate Jefferson introduced everyone. Nancy had already met Maxine Treitler and Bill Denton, so she made a special effort to remember who the others were.

A bald, portly, middle-aged man in a tweed suit turned out to be Professor Marsden Coining, a leading expert on popular crime fiction. He was chatting with an attractive young woman with pixie-cut blond hair, who was wearing a blue suit with a brightly colored silk square knotted loosely at her neck. Kate introduced her as Erika Olsen, a new senior editor at the publishing house of Cameron & Sweazy.

“Oh, Patrick,” Erika said, taking his arm. “There's something I wanted to ask you.” Glaring at Nancy and George, she walked him out of earshot.

George bent close to Nancy and whispered, “Look's like I've got competition—and I'm not even competing!”

Next, Kate introduced the girls to Julian Romarain.

“Hi, all.” Julian appeared to be in his late twenties, with dark hair and a well-trimmed beard. He was wearing faded designer jeans, a tooled belt with a silver buckle, and a polo shirt with a little skull and the words
Murder to Go
embroidered on it.

“What's Murder to Go?” George wanted to know.

“That's my company,” Julian replied. “We stage mystery weekends at romantic resorts. The guests try to solve mock crimes. We bring in experts, too. You know—detectives, mystery writers. It's a lot of fun.”

“It certainly is,” the woman next to Julian said. She was tall and slim with light brown hair. She had an ageless face—Nancy couldn't tell whether she was closer to thirty-five or fifty. “I've taken part in two or three of Julian's weekends, so I know.”

“Thanks, Vanessa,” Julian murmured.

George's eyes widened. “You're not Vanessa Van Ness, the novelist, are you?” she asked breathlessly.

The woman smiled. “Why, yes. Why do you sound so surprised?”

Nancy noticed George start to blush. “I love your books, but somehow I expected you to be—different.”

Vanessa Van Ness raised one eyebrow. “You mean short and tubby, with white hair, a black dress, and a shawl around my shoulders?”

“Don't forget the high black shoes that button up the side,” Professor Coining said.

“And the bag of knitting to hide a revolver in,” Erika added as she and Patrick rejoined the group.

“No, no—the bottle of poison,” Julian put in. “Revolvers are much too noisy and make a mess.”

George's face had turned bright red, Nancy saw. She looked as if she wished she could sink right through the floor.

“Never mind, dear,” Vanessa said, putting an arm around George's shoulders. “We're just teasing you a little. People so often expect me to be like the characters in my books. But as you can see, I'm not.”

Turning to Kate, Vanessa asked, “When are we finally going to see the famous figurines?”

The change of subject was so abrupt that Nancy was sure Vanessa had done it to spare George any further embarrassment.

“We've been keeping them in the safe while we've had a special display case made for them,” Kate replied. “But I'm glad to say the case is finished at last. We'll have a formal installation right after dinner.”

Nancy remembered reading about the figurines in the conference pamphlet. “You're talking about the jeweled gold figures of the characters from Dorothea's novels, right?” she said.

Kate nodded. “Her publisher had them made for her, as a sign of appreciation for her wonderful books.”

“Her very profitable books,” Bill added.

“I can't wait to see them,” Erika said excitedly. “They're legend in the publishing world.”

While the others continued talking about the jeweled figures, Patrick said to George, “I hope you're enjoying yourself so far.”

George returned his broad, warm smile. “We're having a terrific time.”

“A lot of Aunt Dotty's collection is across the hall, in what used to be another sitting room,” he continued. “How would you like a private tour later?”

“I'd love that,” George replied. “I mean,
we'd
love it,” she added quickly, glancing at Nancy.

Nancy was starting to feel like a fifth wheel. Saying she wanted to get some punch, she left George and Patrick.

She noticed that Vanessa was gazing at a painting of a man with a white beard. Nancy looked at the painting and was surprised by the way the man's eyes seemed to bore directly into hers. “Do you know who that is?” she asked Vanessa.

“Sure. That's Harrison Polk.”

Nancy's face must have reflected the confusion she felt.

“Dorothea's late husband,” Vanessa explained. “She used her maiden name for her books, you know.”

“I didn't even know until today that Dorothea had been married,” Nancy admitted.

Vanessa nodded sadly. “It was a great shock to Dorothea when Harrison died,” she said. “He seemed to be in such splendid condition. He was still running marathons at the age of fifty-four. But one day a couple of years ago, he came in from playing tennis, stepped into the shower, and fell dead of a massive heart attack.”

“How awful!” Nancy said.

“Yes. Dorothea changed after that. She became more—I don't know—more inward.” Vanessa patted her light brown hair distractedly. “It was as if she was constantly wrestling with some deep
problem. Questions about life and death, I suppose.”

Nancy turned as Maxine joined her and Vanessa. “Vanessa, you really have to read Dorothea's last book,” Maxine said. “Kate gave me the manuscript today, and I read it all afternoon. It's very different from anything Dorothea ever did before.”

“Last book?” Vanessa raised a questioning eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“It's called
Crooked Heart.
It's the story of a perfect murder, told from the point of view of the murderer,” Maxine explained. “I must say, it's very convincing. I'm sure it will cause a huge stir. It's a guaranteed best-seller.”

Nancy noticed that some of the others had overheard and were moving closer.

“Hold on,” Erika Olsen put in. There was an interested gleam in her blue eyes. “Are you talking about an unpublished manuscript by Dorothea? A completed work? That's mine!”

Bill Denton pushed into the group. “You're both out of line,” he said. “I'm still the agent for Dorothea's works. Anything she wrote has to come through me.”

“I'm sorry, Bill,” Maxine said firmly. “I wasn't planning to mention this to anyone, but you've forced my hand. Shortly before she died, Dorothea told me she was planning to look for a
new agent. She wasn't entirely happy with your handling of her royalty payments.”