Stage Fright (Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Book 6) (5 page)

“I’ll keep an eye on things here,” I said, throwing one leg up on his chair. I was definitely enjoying this mission.

A young girl raced by wearing Claire’s costume. As the orchestra played the opening notes, Damien handed the girl a wig and she took her place in the wings. I recognized her from our ATAC briefing. She was Madonna de la Varga, Claire’s understudy.

“This is unheard of,” whispered Damien under his breath. “Wow!”

“What is?” said Frank, sliding back into his chair. To me, he whispered “Stomach bug. She seems fine.”

“Claire has only missed one show in her entire life, an afternoon matinee when she was nine. She broke
her arm, but she was back in time for the evening show. There’s a mini-documentary about it on YouTube.” Damien paused for a second. “I made it,” he whispered with pride.

The tone in Damien’s voice indicated an emotion I’d witnessed on a dozen cases before: obsession. The hair on the back of my neck rose. I looked at Frank, and he nodded. He’d noticed it too. We’d definitely be keeping an eye on this guy.

Madonna stepped out onto the stage, and the applause began. Damien scurried off to work on something, and Frank and I sat back to enjoy the show.

Or I should say, endure the show. Without Claire, the performance had as much sparkle and fun as a chunk of concrete. The dancers limped around the stage. Madonna forgot her lines twice. Whatever they’d done to get the burned plane down had disabled the other two, leaving them hanging motionless over the audience for the entire show.

It was so painful that it was a relief when Madonna readied for the last number before the intermission. This was her big emotional ballad, and as she stepped into the spotlight she raised her hands up in the air and prepared to make the most of it.

Then she opened her mouth, stepped forward—and fell right through a hole in the stage!

CHAPTER
5

NANCY

MOBBED!

“Okay, tell me what they told you again?” Bess asked.

She popped her gum and slumped back in her seat, a jittery expression on her face. Next to her, George tapped away on her phone. We’d been stuck in traffic for forty minutes now, and if we didn’t get off the West Side Highway soon, one of us was going to lose it.

“Apparently, they’re working on a new case that involves this show on Broadway called
Wake
. The lead actress, Claire Cleveland, has been receiving death threats. Two days ago her understudy broke her leg in an accident that Joe says was almost certainly meant for Claire.”

“Claire Cleveland,” said Bess, her voice dreamy. “I love her TV show!” She launched into the chorus of the
theme song, and the man in the car next to us made a big show of rolling up his windows. Bess had many talents, but singing wasn’t one of them.

“So they want you to be her understudy?” said George loudly, trying to talk over Bess.

“Yes. But they’ve promised me I won’t have to go onstage. Apparently, Claire is known for never missing a show.”

“Except for the other night,” George teased.

I was trying not to think about that. I could imagine a few things worse than having to sing on a Broadway stage—but they all involved tarring and feathering.

“They think she was poisoned! It wasn’t her fault. And with me as her understudy, nothing is going to pass through her lips unless I’ve checked it first.”

“I told you that you looked like Claire Cleveland!” said Bess, hitting the steering wheel with her hand. “See, it would have been the perfect Halloween outfit last year. All you needed was a wig.”

As suddenly as it had stopped, traffic started moving again. We were over on the west side of Manhattan, making our way down along the Hudson River. To the right, the view of the parks and the river was so pretty that you’d never know you were in New York City—until you turned your head in the other direction, and saw the dozens upon dozens of skyscrapers clawing up at the sky. There were a lot of people in this city, and at
least one of them wanted to hurt, or possibly kill, a girl who looked like my twin.

Just great
, I thought. Still, I had to admit I was excited. I guess that was why I became a private detective in the first place.

Finally, Forty-third Street appeared on our left. I looked at my watch. I was only … twenty minutes late.

“That’s it up ahead,” said George, pointing to an elegant marble façade. The words “Wake—Starring Claire Cleveland!” were picked out in neon across the marquee. A large crowd of people had gathered in front of the theater. They had to be waiting for tonight’s show.

“Nancy, why don’t you get out here and we’ll find somewhere to park?” Bess offered, and I agreed, eager to hit the ground running on this case. Besides, I couldn’t think of anything less fun than circling Manhattan looking for a parking space.

“You’re the best!” I yelled, as I hopped out of the car. The delicious smell of roasted nuts wafted from a vendor’s cart, and for a second, I was tempted to be even later than I was. But my need for clues was stronger than my need for sweets.

As Bess and George drove away, I crossed the street toward the crowd waiting for the show. They were mostly people around my own age, although I saw some kids who barely came up to my waist, and a few older folks as well. As I got closer, I could see that many
of them were holding pictures of Claire, or
Playbill
s from the show. I guess they were waiting to see it for a second time. As I pushed through the back edge of the crowd, I stared at one of the photos. Bess was right. Claire and I looked a lot alike.

“Excuse me!” I said, worming my way through a moving wall of arms and legs and backpacks. “I’m late, please let me through.”

“Oh, wow!” A girl about my age grabbed my hand as I tried to move past her. She was taller than I was, and surprisingly strong. “It’s her! I’m touching her.”

Clearly, she had mistaken me for Claire. I was about to explain, when she turned to the rest of the crowd and screamed.

“She’s here! Claire Cleveland is here, and I’m holding her hand!”

The entire crowd turned to face us. People started whispering and pointing, then screaming and shoving. Suddenly, I realized I was alone and completely cut off from any escape route.

“No, no!” I said, trying to shake the girl off. If I could just get loose, I might make a run for the theater. But she had me in a death grip. “I’m sorry, there’s been some confusion. I’m not Claire Cleveland. My name is Nancy. Nancy Drew!”

No one listened. People were pushing in, crowding around us, grabbing at me. Some were thrusting pens and
pictures in my face, while others were taking photos with their cell phones. The space around me was getting smaller and smaller, until people were pressed up against me on every side! I could barely breathe. The excited shrieks of the crowd were like the hungry cries of a flock of birds, and I was beginning to understand how worms felt.

“Ow!” I screamed. Someone had yanked a piece of my hair out! This had gone too far. I pushed—and the crowd pushed back! I fell to my side, but there was nowhere to go. Someone shoved me from behind, and I stumbled face first into a woman’s giant backpack. The yelling of the crowd had turned from excited and happy to scared and angry.

“Calm down, everyone!” I yelled. “Please, stop this!”

“I can’t breathe!”

“Someone took my wallet!”

“Help!”

Everyone was panicking. In ten seconds, the scene on the sidewalk had turned into a riot—and I was right at the center of it.

Someone new grabbed my hand, hard. I yanked my arm back, but they hung on. I felt myself slowly being dragged out of the crowd. I didn’t know who it was, but if there was a way out, I was going to follow. As gently as I could, I pushed my way forward.

“I’m sorry,” I said over and over again. But everyone was pushing, and there was nothing else I could do.

“Help!” yelled a small voice below me. I looked down and saw a young girl, maybe twelve, lying on the ground. Feet were stomping all around her. It was only a matter of time before she was trampled.

I reached down and pulled her to her feet.

“Amy! Amy, oh God, there you are!” a woman yelled. The girl grabbed her mother’s arm, and my mysterious benefactor pulled us away.

“Mommy! Claire Cleveland saved my life!” I heard, as we swept away through the crowd. I couldn’t help but smile. Even if I did nothing else, I’d at least managed to give Claire a good reputation.

Finally I found myself pulled up against a metal fence. It was nice to only have people pushing at me from one side—and even nicer when part of the fence swung open, and I was yanked into a small alleyway next to the theater. It was blissfully empty and quiet.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t arrived when you did,” I said, getting a close look at my savior for the first time. Up close, he was shorter than I was, and cute, in a leprechaun kind of way. He had curly dark hair and flawless pale skin. He looked like he worked at the theater. At least, he wore a headset and held a clipboard. If he didn’t work at the theater, he had strange fashion sense.

He puffed his hair out of his eyes, causing his curls to flop around.

“Sorry about that,” he said. He seemed genuinely sorry, as though the mob’s panic had been his fault. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He was even blushing a little.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m Nancy.”

“Nancy Drew,” he responded. “I know. You’re on my list.” He pointed to his clipboard. “I’m Damien Alexander. Assistant to Mr. Linden von Louden.”

“Good to meet you, Damien,” I shook his hand, then tried to rearrange my hair into something that didn’t look like a bird’s nest. “I think the crowd mistook me for Claire and got … excited.”

Excited was the most charitable way I could put it. Wild might have been more appropriate, or maybe insane.

“I know!” he said, suddenly looking up. His eyes, I noticed, had a bit of a wild flair to them, like a gypsy in a movie. “It’s ridiculous, because you two look nothing alike. Claire is at least three-quarters of an inch taller than you, and her hair is so much darker. I guess there’s a little resemblance in the face, but Claire is the most beautiful woman in showbiz. No offense.”

He snapped his mouth shut. His sudden rant about Claire seemed to have surprised Damien as much as it did me. Okay … there was something a little off about this guy. I’d have to talk to Frank and Joe about him. Which reminded me …

“I, uh, am late for a meeting,” I started, not wanting to seem rude or ungrateful. Damien blushed instantly.

“Right! Yes, sorry. Go through that door there,” he said, pointing to a red fire door farther down the alley. “Take a left when you get inside. They’re waiting for you. I have to go calm that mob scene down and let the people with tickets in. Wish me luck!”

With that, Damien disappeared back out to the sidewalk, quickly closing and locking the gate behind him.

I paused as I stepped through the door into the darkness beyond. This would be my first time backstage at a Broadway musical! Even the crazy crowd couldn’t take away my excitement. How many famous people had stepped through this door before me?

The backstage area was bustling as I walked in. The scenery was laid out in sections for the different acts. It all sat on tracks in the floor, or hung from ropes, so it could be pulled on or off quickly. There were costumes and clothes and props everywhere. A half-dozen people, dressed all in black and wearing headsets, scurried around making sure everything was ready to go.

“Nancy!” Frank Hardy yelled my name from across the way. “There you are.”

CHAPTER
6

FRANK

TRAPPED!

After Nancy arrived, we quickly introduced her to Claire, Linden, and Laurel. While Claire prepared for the night’s show, we brought Nancy up to speed. It was great having her on the case with us. We’d worked together many times in the past, and Nancy Drew was just about the best partner we’d ever found. We’d tried repeatedly to get her to join ATAC, but she’d said it wasn’t her thing.

By the time Bess and George joined us, the show was about to start. Together, we watched from the wings as Claire got ready to perform before a preview audience ten times the size of the one from the night before.

“This is incredible,” said Nancy. “There are so many
people here. Everything I read online said the show wasn’t doing well.”

“It’s not—you’ll see in a second,” I told her. Unless the show had magically improved, this big audience was in for a big disappointment.

“It’s the injury,” said Joe. “Word was all around the Internet before Madonna had even made it to the hospital. Ticket sales spiked immediately. They’re saying the show is haunted!”

“Haunted?” Nancy laughed. “Every haunting I’ve ever dealt with has been decidedly nonsupernatural in origin. Any leads?”

“None yet, but now that you’re here, we’re hoping that’ll change quickly.”

“So what’s the plan?” Nancy asked.

“You’re taking the place of Madonna, Claire’s understudy, so you’ll have a reason to be stuck like glue to her for the next few days. While you’re doing that, we’re going to look into some of the strange things that have happened here in the last week.”

The lights dimmed, and the music rose. Bess grabbed my hand in excitement.

“Let’s all meet here tomorrow at nine,” I whispered, as the show began.

When we arrived the next morning, Claire, Linden, and Nancy were already in one of the rehearsal rooms. It
was a great relief to know that Nancy was looking after Claire. I almost felt bad for whoever was “haunting” the theater. Almost.

Damien was waiting in the lobby to give us a tour, as Linden had promised. We’d hoped to do it yesterday, but before Nancy arrived, we’d been too worried to let Claire out of our sight.

“Good morning boys,” Damien said. Now that he knew we were “high school contest winners,” he talked to us as though we were infants. “Are you ready for your tour?”

I nodded. It was best to get this over with fast. At least it would cement our cover story in everyone’s minds.

“This is the lobby of the Matilda Swearson Theatre, which was originally built in 1908 by the Swearson family. Of particular interest are the columns.”