The Red Slippers (6 page)

“That's incredible,” Bess said.

“Hey,” Maggie said to Sebastian. “Have you heard from Veronica recently?”

Sebastian shrugged. “I guess.”

“I've been e-mailing, calling, texting. She never answers. What's up with that?”

Sebastian fidgeted with his napkin and took a big sip of his water. “Well, you know, she's a pro now. She's busy.”

“Too busy to text her old friend?”

Sebastian shrugged again. “I don't know.”

“Or does she not want to slum it with her amateur friends anymore?” Maggie said, visibly irritated.

“I thought we agreed not to discuss Veronica,” Sebastian said quietly.

“So,” Bess said, desperate to change the subject before it got any more tense, “how did you two get together?”

Sebastian and Maggie whipped their heads toward Bess in shock. Then they started laughing.

“No, no, no, no,” Maggie said. “Sebastian's like my brother. I spent almost as much time at his house practicing with him and Veronica as I did my own.”

“Yeah, we're just really good friends,” Sebastian confirmed.

Bess blushed bright red. “Oh, I'm sorry! It's just that with the way you interact, I thought you were a couple.”

“It's okay,” Maggie said. “It happens all the time. We were even called into Jamison's office about it once.”

“What do you mean?” George asked.

“The school doesn't allow students to be in relationships,” Maggie said.

“They kick out dancers if they're caught breaking the rule,” Sebastian explained.

“Seriously?” George asked.

Maggie shrugged. “Relationships are a distraction, and if you want to be a professional dancer, you can't afford any distractions.”

I wasn't sure I agreed with that. Ned had helped me solve many mysteries. Sometimes if I was at a dead end and convinced that I wouldn't be able to solve a case, it was Ned who gave me the confidence to keep going. He never asked me to choose between him and sleuthing, and I had never considered him a distraction. If anything, he was an asset to helping me achieve my dreams.

“It takes so much discipline to be a professional dancer,” George observed. “No ice cream, no boyfriends, and I bet you don't have a lot of time to play video games.”

“Nope, none,” Maggie confirmed with a smile.

“Yep, there's no way I could ever do that,” George said, pulling her portable game system from her pocket and kissing it.

“It's definitely hard,” Maggie agreed. “You sacrifice a lot, but when I'm on that stage, it's an amazing feeling. Last year in a recital I danced a pas de deux—that means dance of two—from
Swan Lake
. Colin danced the part of prince and I was Odile, the evil swan, distracting him from Odette, the swan princess. And as I danced, nothing else existed; nothing else mattered. When the music stopped and the audience clapped, I literally jumped. I had forgotten they were there! For the five minutes of my solo, I was completely transported to a snowy kingdom. It's a feeling I've never had doing anything else, and when I have it I know I've danced to the peak of my abilities.”

“I can get like that when I'm writing a computer program,” George said. “I just get so lost in the code that I lose complete track of time.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I feel that when I'm on a case and all the pieces start fitting together.”

“It happens to me when I play piano,” Sebastian concurred. “I think it's something you feel when you're doing something you're meant to do.”

“I don't think I've ever felt that,” Bess said sadly.

“You will,” I said.

The server brought over our bill. “Whenever you're ready,” he said, placing it on the table.

Maggie reached for it first. As she lifted the check off the tray, her face turned white.

“Nancy . . . ,” she said.

I leaned over. On the tray under the bill was a note.

FOR YOUR OWN SAKE, DON'T

DANCE TOMORROW!

I SCANNED THE RESTAURANT AND
spotted our waiter, Chuck, in the back corner at the register.

“I'll be right back,” I said, quickly pushing out of my chair and hurrying toward him.

“Excuse me,” I said. “We found—”

Chuck didn't let me finish. “If there's something wrong with your food, you have to complain
before
you get your bill. We can't give discounts after we deliver the check,” he said without looking up.

I shook my head. “Our food was fine,” I corrected him. “We found a rude note under our bill.”

“It wasn't from me,” he said.

“I didn't think it was from you,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “But did you see anyone handle our bill before you delivered it to us?”

“Nope,” Chuck said, still not looking up from the register. I wasn't even sure he knew what I was asking. He was just trying to get me to leave him alone as soon as possible.

I put my hand on his shoulder, shaking it gently. He looked up at me, clearly annoyed. “Can you please just think about it for two seconds?” I asked firmly.

“Look, I'm sorry someone left you a mean note and hurt your feelings,” he said, irritated, “but I need to put in this order for that big group over there.” He pointed to a large party in the middle of the room. “They order a lot more food and give me a much bigger tip than you dancers with your kale salads and waters.”

“No one at our table ordered a kale salad,” I said.

“Sorry, I must have mixed up the tables of ballet dancers,” Chuck said sarcastically.

“There was another table with a dancer?” I asked.

“Well, she was wearing the same sweatshirt as your friend that said ‘Sleeping Beauty Ballet Regional Tour' on it, so I assume so. She was at a table with her father,” Chuck said.

Adrenaline surged through my body as I quickly scanned the restaurant for another dancer. It was a cavernous space, with high-backed booths, which made it impossible to see who was sitting at half the tables.

“Where are they?” I asked Chuck urgently.

“At this point, I'm pretty sure I've gone above and beyond good customer service,” Chuck said, his eyebrows arching pointedly.

“We'll tip twenty-five percent,” I said. “That's well above the standard.”

“Thirty percent,” Chuck countered.

I took a deep breath. A large part of me wanted to tell this guy to kiss off into the sunset, but I couldn't afford to lose a case because I was too proud to negotiate with an annoying waiter.

“Fine,” I said.

“They're right over there,” he said, pointing to an empty table.

“Where?” I asked, louder than I meant to. A few of the tables closest to us turned to look at me, but I didn't care.

“Oh,” Chuck said with a shrug. “I guess they left.”

I pushed past him to the back door.

“Don't forget,” Chuck called after me. “Thirty percent!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped into the parking lot. I wasn't wearing my coat, and the icy air hit me like a brick wall, cutting straight through my sweater. I wrapped my arms around myself in a vain attempt to stay warm as I surveyed the parking lot.

A family—mom, dad, a girl, and a boy—was walking into the restaurant and an elderly couple was walking to their car, but I didn't see anyone from the ballet company.

“Where's your coat, dear?” the mom asked me. “You're going to get sick.”

“It's inside,” I said, thinking quickly. “The girl at the table next to me forgot her cell phone”—I held up my own phone—“so I ran out here to see if I could catch her, but I don't see her.”

“Was the girl about your age?” the mom asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And she was with her dad.”

“Oh!” the mom said. “I think we parked right next to them. Last row, on the right. It's a black SUV.”

“It's a Honda CR-V,” the boy said. “That's barely an SUV. An SUV is more like a Land Rover or a Lexus LX.”

The mom smiled at me apologetically. “Brad's obsessed with cars.”

“Thanks for the info, Brad,” I said with a smile. “I'm going to see if I can catch her. I know what it's like to lose a cell phone: it's no fun!”

I hurried deeper into the parking lot, weaving my way through rows of cars. My teeth chattered and my breath fogged up the air every time I exhaled. Just as I rounded the last row, a car headed toward the exit. It was a black Honda CR-V, just as Brad had described, but it was going away from me, so I couldn't see who was driving it, let alone the passenger.

The parking lot exit was far away from where I stood, but if I cut through the landscaping I could get there quickly. Maybe even quick enough to see who was in the car before it turned onto the street. The only obstacle was the pile of snow that had been plowed and pushed to the side, creating an eighteen-inch layer of the white stuff.

I took a deep breath and plunged my feet into the snow with a satisfying crunch. That satisfaction was short-lived as I felt the freezing water work its way into my shoes and drench my pants all the way to my knees. It took effort to lift each foot out and step again; it reminded me of running through tires in gym class, but much, much colder.

I continued on as fast as I could. Ahead of me, I saw the Honda at the exit, its left turn signal on. I could see the silhouette of what looked like a girl in the passenger seat, but because of the tinted window, I couldn't make out her face. I checked the street. The traffic was heavy at the moment, but a few hundred feet away the light was about to change to red, which would allow the driver to turn. I didn't have much time.

I pushed myself to move faster. In my head I could hear Ms. Brown, our PE teacher, yelling, “High knees, high knees” as I made my way through the snow. My toes were numb, and muscles I didn't even know existed burned in my legs.

Just a few more feet and I'd be close enough to see inside. My lungs screamed in pain. Tears ran down my face from the wind. I got there right as the car turned, and managed to make out the driver's face. It was Mike Carter! I still couldn't see who the passenger was, though.

When I walked back into the restaurant, I must have looked like a mess. I was shivering, my cheeks were bright red and tear-streaked, and I was drenched from the knees down.

“Nancy!” Bess shrieked, running over to me. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said. “I actually got a lead, but I'm not sure it makes sense.”

“What is it?” George asked.

“No,” Bess said. “Before we do any more investigating, we need to get you into dry clothes. You could get hypothermia!”

“We're close to the hotel. Sebastian and I need to get back for curfew, and I could lend you some dry clothes,” Maggie said.

“The hotel is a lot closer than your house,” George confirmed.

“Sounds good,” I agreed.

Bess held out her hand.

“What?” I asked.

“You're not driving,” she said. I wavered for a second, about to protest, but the look on Bess's face told me arguing would be pointless. I handed her the key.

Once we were in the car, Bess turned up the heat full blast. I could see sweat beading on everyone else's foreheads, but I was grateful for the warmth. In a few minutes, I had stopped shivering and feeling had returned to my toes.

“The waiter said he saw another dancer and her father in the restaurant,” I told them. “I followed the car and it was Mike Carter with a girl, but I couldn't see her face.”

“I knew that guy was up to no good,” George said.

“Yeah, but who was he with?” I asked. “Does Colin have a sister?”

“No,” Maggie answered. “Colin's an only child. And why would Mike care if I dance tomorrow? He just doesn't want Colin to dance.”

“Maybe he thinks that Jamison will cancel the show if you're not dancing, rather than let Oscar see an inferior performance.”

Maggie shook her head. “There's no way. Jamison would never, ever cancel a performance.”

“She's right,” Sebastian added. “The phrase ‘the show must go on' is just as important in ballet as it is in theater. Jamison would never work again if he canceled a performance for anything short of a major catastrophe, like an earthquake.”

Sebastian leaned forward so he was speaking directly to me. “Look, Nancy,” he said, “don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure you have the knowledge to solve this case.”

“Nancy's solved cases that are loads harder than this,” George said angrily.

“That's not what I meant,” Sebastian said. “I'm sure you're a great detective, but ballet is a unique and insular world. I don't think anyone who isn't a part of it can solve a mystery about it.”