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

Damien paused and pointed to the nine columns around the room. Each had a woman carved into the marble.

“These represent the nine muses: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. You’ll notice the four central ones are bigger. That’s because respectively, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Euterpe, and Thalia represent tragedy, dance, music, and comedy. Together, they make a Broadway show. Now, the mosaic above our heads …”

Joe nudged me and rolled his eyes. “Boring!” he mouthed.

For once, I had to agree. I’m all for learning anything, anywhere, because you never know what might come in handy. But Damien lectured like a half-asleep kindergarten teacher.

Slowly, he led us through the lobby, up into the mezzanine, back down into the orchestra, and all through the “front of the house.” That was how he referred to all of the areas that theatergoers were generally allowed into. Then, he took us backstage. It was surprising to learn how much had to happen to make a show run. There were as many people backstage as there were onstage, maybe even more. There were tiny rooms and hidden staircases, two levels of basement storage, and “the grid”—a giant set of walkways above the entire stage and audience. The grid was where things like the lights and planes hung from. I made a mental note to check it out later.

Damien’s knowledge of the theater bordered on obsessive, but I guess that’s what made him good at his job. When we reached the stage, I had to interrupt his monologue.

“Where’s the hole that Madonna fell through?”

“The
trap
,” Damien corrected me, “is over there.” He pointed to center of the stage. “I checked it myself. It’s fine. Someone must have left it unlatched. In the second
act, Claire is supposed to rise up from it when she escapes from her secret hiding hole in Nazi-occupied Paris.”

“Who would touch this?” I asked.

“Myself, the technical director, any number of production assistants … really, it could have been anyone. But no one should have opened it that early. It might have just given way under Madonna’s weight. She has seven pounds on Claire.”

I shot Joe a look. That was an odd fact to know, and it seemed unlikely that seven pounds would be enough to break the trap door. I filed it away for later. Nothing seemed wrong with the trap, at least not at first glance.

“I fixed the latch this morning,” Damien said proudly.

No wonder there’s no evidence,
I thought.

A laugh rang out on the other side of the theater.

“I love this girl,” yelled Claire. She flounced out of the rehearsal room dragging Nancy behind her. They were wearing matching WWII uniforms. Nancy looked a little embarrassed, but she was smiling. It was obvious things were going well between them.

“Joe! Frank! Come here,” yelled Claire. “You have to hear what Nancy just told me.”

Claire threw one arm over my shoulders and another over Joe’s. In general, girls make me kind of nervous. But Claire was the kind of person who made everyone feel like her best friend. I glanced over my shoulder as
Nancy told us a story about her last case. Damien was staring at us with unconcealed jealousy.

“Where’s Linden?” I asked. “Wasn’t he with you?”

“Yeah,” said Claire. “But he and Laurel are having their daily fight now.”

She shrugged, making it clear it was nothing she cared about.

“So Joe, you wanted to talk to me?” Claire grinned, kissed me on the cheek, and pulled Joe aside, leaving Nancy and me alone.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Good. Learning a show is a crazy workout!” she said. “But what are you doing with that creepy kid Damien?”

My ears perked up. If Nancy thought he was creepy, that meant it wasn’t just my imagination.

“He’s Linden’s assistant, I guess, though he seems a little young.”

“A little young and a little stalker-y! Remember I told you about that guy who rescued me from the crowd yesterday, and how he knew all these odd facts about Claire?”

“Uh-huh,” I nodded. I was pretty sure I knew where this was going.

“That’s him!”

“I’ll keep an eye on him today,” I promised. “He’s got my danger-senses tingling too.”

But when I turned around, Damien had disappeared. Nancy rejoined Claire and Joe, and I was left alone onstage.

“So much for the rest of that tour,” I mumbled. Not that I minded, really. But I did want to keep Damien close. I had other concerns this morning, though. Since Claire seemed safe with Joe and Nancy, I headed down to the subbasement. There was a small room of broken props down there: things from old shows that might be reusable, as well as pieces from this show in need of repair. Laurel had moved the burned plane down there to see what could be rescued, but she’d promised me first crack at it.

The first basement level was where the wardrobe people worked. They made the costumes, fixed any damage that happened during the performances, and helped the actors get into and out of their clothes between scenes. Three or four people were gathered around sewing machines and bins of period hats and shoes. Jason, Claire’s dresser, waved to me. He had bright pink hair and a quick smile. Claire said that without him, she’d lose her head—literally.

Past the wardrobe area was an old metal staircase that led to the lowest level of the theater. I stepped onto the stair and closed the heavy fire door behind me, instantly cutting off any noise from above. Because there were so many people working backstage, all of
the different areas were as soundproof as possible. This kept the audience from hearing strange noises during the show. I tried not to worry about what else we might not be able to hear.

Props were laid out on long rows of shelves. The biggest pieces, like a giant clown head with bright pink eyes, leaned against the back wall. It was a quiet, creepy place. I didn’t want to spend any more time here than I had to.

“Anyone in here?” I called out as I entered the repair shop. Something skittered behind me, but unless Claire was being stalked by a mouse, I didn’t think it was anything to worry about.

The room was filled to the brim with tools, art supplies, and broken props. The plane was laid out in the center of the room on a heavy wooden table. Most of the paint had burned off, and what remained was flaky and discolored. It really did look as if it had been through a war. Maybe they could find a use for it if they ever did a sequel to this show, but its life as a working airplane seemed over to me.

I pulled a small kit from my pocket. A casual observer would think it was a glasses case, but it was actually a mini-forensics kit that Vijay had invented. With this, I could dust for fingerprints, check for bloodstains, and send chemical samples back to ATAC wirelessly.

“Darn,” I said, as I put fingerprint powder all over the
plane. As I’d suspected, nothing useful had survived the fire. As gently as I could, I opened the panel to reveal the engine. The hinges groaned and then snapped.

“Oops,” I muttered, as I was left holding the panel in my hands. I tried to put it aside, but one of my fingers was stuck to the inside.

“Eww!”

Whatever the stuff was, it was so sticky it nearly pulled my skin off! Intrigued, I removed what looked like a plastic Q-tip from my kit. Vijay had built it to analyze the chemical structure of any compound. It sent the information back to him in his lab, where he could synthesize it and figure out what it was. I dabbed the plastic head in the sticky resin, pulling back almost as soon as I touched the stuff. I didn’t want to end up with my sensor permanently stuck to the engine block.

I peered inside the engine compartment. The worst of the damage was in here. All I saw was dust, scorch marks, and blackened metal. After a minute of poking, I knew I’d learn nothing. If this was sabotage, the person had done a good job of covering their tracks.

A booming sound came from outside the repair room.

“Hello?” I yelled. My voice echoed back at me. “Is anyone out there?”

No one responded. I grabbed a wrench from among the tools on the table, and slowly crept back out into the
main room. Everything looked exactly as it had a few minutes before.

A shiver shot down my spine. This place was creeping me out, and I’d learned what I could from the plane. It was time to get out of here.

“I could have sworn this door opened out,” I said, as I pushed against the heavy fire door. I tried pulling on it, but to no avail. I grabbed the handle and rattled it as hard as I could, but the door stayed stubbornly in place.

I ducked my head down and prepared to give the door a good shoulder slam, but something caught my eye: a plain white sheet of paper on the ground. In big penciled letters, someone had written “LEAVE!”

Just in case I didn’t get the message, they’d underlined it. Twice.

Too bad for them I wasn’t good at taking hints.

“Hey!” I yelled, as I pounded on the door. “Let me out!”

The heavy metal door absorbed the sound, and all I got for the effort was a sore hand.
This could take a while,
I realized.

After fifteen minutes of calling for help, my throat started to get sore. After thirty, I could feel a bruise forming on my right hand, so I switched to hitting the door with my left.

Finally, after nearly an hour, the door cracked open to reveal Bess, George, and Claire’s dresser, Jason.

“Woohoo!” I whooped. “I’ve been pounding on that door forever.”

“What are you doing down here?” George asked. “Jason was showing us around. If he hadn’t opened the door, we’d have never heard you on the other side.”

“Long story,” I said, hiding the piece of paper behind my back so Jason wouldn’t see it. You could never be too careful.

CHAPTER
7

JOE

MY CUP RUNNETH OVER … WITH POISON!

I can’t lie: I was excited to get off of Damien’s magical memorization tour. That guy knew more useless facts than Frank, and Frank studied trivia like it was his job! (And, okay, sometimes it comes in handy on a case, so I guess it
is
his job.) When Claire pulled me aside, I jumped on the chance to escape. We walked over to a quiet corner behind a giant piece of scenery meant to evoke Paris during the war.

“So what’s up?” Claire asked, twirling her hair around her finger and leaning against a painted lamp post. “Nancy says you have a few questions for me?”

I smiled big at Claire and got ready to work my patented “mo-Joe” on her.

“I wanted to ask you about the other night. What happened that made you miss the show?”

“You were there,” she said with a smirk. “You know what happened.”

My mo-Joe must have been off. I tried again.

“Yeah, but … what happened? Tell me like I wasn’t there.”

“I got sick, okay?” Claire huffed. This was clearly a subject that made her irritated. “It sucks. I’m
never
sick. I can’t let down my fans like that.”

I was pretty sure the juice box was our culprit, but I needed to make sure she hadn’t eaten anything else.

“When did you start feeling sick?”

“Right before we went on. I was talking to you, and I had my juice, and then my stomach started to cramp real bad. The next thing I knew, I was saying hi to my lunch.”

“Where do the juice boxes come from?”

“They’re in my rider. I require them on every set. Meredith used to stock them for me, but since she quit … I don’t know who’s been doing it.

“Meredith?”

“My personal assistant. She quit two weeks ago.”

A recently departed employee? Someone who must have been super close to Claire? I smelled a suspect! Maybe the poisoned juice box was some sort of twisted good-bye present.

“Really? How did you two get along? Where did she go?”

“She was the worst!” said Claire with an exaggerated sigh. “She didn’t cut me any slack. Once, she dragged me out of bed for a meeting. I mean, literally dragged me. I’m a star! I don’t take that.”

This was sounding better and better. The case was going to be wrapped up by lunch.

“Of course, that’s why I loved her. I can’t have a bunch of yes-men around letting me do whatever I want, or I’d never do anything. Meredith was perfect. Too bad she moved to Russia.”

Aaaaand
there went that suspect. My disappointment must have shown on my face, because Claire reached out and brushed the hair back from my forehead.

“Poor bodyguard!” she said. “I can promise you, Meredith would never do anything like that. I mean, she left me for the prima ballerina at the Bolshoi Ballet—she’s not that kind of girl.”

“Thanks.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Can I get the key to your dressing room? I want to check out the remaining juices.”

“Claire! Nancy!” Linden yelled from the other room. “Break’s over.”

“No rest for the weary,” Claire says. “Though, since we open tomorrow, I
guess
it makes sense.”

Claire handed me the key and flounced off, with Nancy trailing behind her. Frank looked at me and tossed his head in the direction of the heavy iron door that led to the basement levels. He must have been going to investigate the plane. I headed over to Claire’s dressing room. We’d already sent the used juice box container to Vijay to analyze its contents, but I was hoping our poisoner might have left something behind.

The dressing rooms were all upstairs from the stage, sort of like where the mezzanine was in the audience. As the star, Claire had her own. It was easy to find. It was the only door with a giant cutout of Claire on it.

Inside, the room was actually rather simple. There were a few flowers, a
New York Times
article praising Claire’s performance on
Joy!
, a wooden dressing table, a few chairs, and a small fridge. Everything—including the fridge—was pink. Claire promised that no one had touched the fridge since Frank got her juice box, but just to be sure, I’d placed a tiny piece of clear tape on the bottom of the door, right after she’d gotten sick.

“Yes!” I said, as I ran my hand underneath the fridge. The tape was still there in one piece. The evidence was undisturbed.

The fridge was filled with lots of bright green coconut water juice boxes—and nothing else. There must have been thirty identical containers. This was going to take a while.