The Bluebeard Room (3 page)

“I think Bess must be snoozing in the tub,” complained George. She rapped sharply on the bathroom door. “For heaven’s sake, Bess, please hurry up. You’ve been soaking for ages!”

“Look who’s talking!” Bess’s voice echoed off the
tiled walls. “At least I don’t spend hours admiring myself in the bathroom mirror!”

“Naturally,” George retorted, “since you have so little to admire!”

Nancy giggled, knowing their insults were all in fun.

Later, Nancy had just finished putting on her earrings and touching up her lip gloss when she remembered about Mrs. Harwood. “Oh dear, I must call Mrs. Harwood before we go!”

Bess glanced fretfully at her watch. “Must you, Nancy? We haven’t much time if we want to be on time for the concert!”

“It’ll be too late to phone by the time we get back. Don’t worry, I’ll make it brief. Only I must call Daddy, too.”

“Why?” asked George.

“To let him know I may be going to England.”

There were gasps of surprise.

“And that’s another reason why you two should try to get along,” Nancy added with a teasing grin. “You may have only each other’s company on the plane home tomorrow!”

Turning to her aunt, the teenager asked, “Okay if I use the phone, Aunt Eloise?”

“Of course, my dear. So this was your excuse for all the clothes-shopping this afternoon?”

“You’ve guessed it,” Nancy twinkled.

The Drews’ housekeeper answered Nancy’s call
to River Heights. “Oh, Nancy, how good to hear from you! Are you having fun in New York?”

“Loads, Hannah! And I found one of those woks in the size you wanted, in Chinatown. It’s being shipped out right from the store.”

After a further fond exchange between the two, Nancy’s father, the distinguished attorney Carson Drew, came on the line.

“How was the law seminar, Dad?” Nancy asked.

“Stuffy, but I dare say we all learned a few things. What’s going on in Manhattan?”

“A rock concert tonight, as a matter of fact, so I must make this quick. You may not be seeing me at dinner tomorrow, Daddy.” Nancy told him about Mrs. Harwood’s unusual request. “I wasn’t keen on going at first, but now I think I will.”

“By all means do, honey. It should be a real summer treat. I know how much you like London, and Cornwall’s the loveliest corner of England.”

“What bothers me is not telling Lisa my real reason for coming. I hate the thought of snooping on her and her husband.”

“If she herself invites you to Cornwall for a visit, I think your conscience can be clear.”

“I hope so. Daddy, you’ve known Mrs. Harwood for years. What’s your opinion of her?”

“Very level-headed, or so she always seemed to me. Takes after her father, old Sam Austin. He was a banker here in River Heights, you know. As a
matter of fact, I helped draw up the terms of the trust fund when he left most of his fortune to Lisa.”

“Really? Mrs. Harwood says if anything happened to Lisa, all her money would go to Hugh Penvellyn. Is that right?”

“Yes, I assume so, now that she’s twenty-one, unless—Hmm . . .” Mr. Drew’s voice trailed off.

“Are you there, Dad?”

“Yes, I was just racking my memory . . . Seems to me there might be some special clause in the terms of the trust that could prevent it, but I’m hanged if I can remember what it was, at the moment.”

“Never mind, you can let me know later, Daddy. Thanks for the information. We’re in kind of a hurry, so I’d better sign off now. Lots of love!”

Next, Nancy called Olive Harwood and told her she was prepared to go to England.

“Oh Nancy, I’m so glad to hear that! How soon?”

“Whenever you like. Tomorrow even, if it’s possible to get a flight on such short notice.”

“I’m sure it is. My travel agent’s marvelous,” Mrs. Harwood replied. “She seems to have a sixth sense for ferreting out cancellations.”

“Great! I’ll be standing by.”

“I’ll have her book you a room at Claridge’s in London, so Lisa will know where to reach you. Incidentally, I called her yesterday, right after we talked. I wanted to let her know as soon as possible that you might be coming.”

“How did she react?”

“She was delighted! She’s just dying to see someone from back home, especially an old friend like you. She thinks so much of you, Nancy!”

“Well, I feel the same way about Lisa, so I’ll look forward to seeing her again, Mrs. Harwood.”

Nancy hung up, excited by the thought of her upcoming trip abroad and hoping she’d made the right decision. George and Bess were waiting to whisk her out the door.

The girls had no trouble flagging a cab and were soon whizzing down Broadway. At Times Square in the glittering heart of the theater district, the taxi turned onto Seventh Avenue. Traffic was already very heavy. By the time their driver turned right toward the round, glowing modernistic bulk of Madison Square Garden, everything had slowed to a crawl.

“Good grief! Is it always like this on a concert night?” Bess gulped as they got out and paid the driver.

“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, Miss,” he said. “Wait’ll you try to get in!”

The streets were flooded with a surging, boisterous sea of humanity. Policemen struggled to keep order, while vendors hawked their wares from the curb or mingled with the crowd, peddling T-shirts, programs, posters, photos, lapel pins, dolls, and a variety of other souvenirs.

Amazingly, everyone was in good humor. Even
back in placid River Heights, Nancy would have expected an occasional outburst of temper from an overflow crowd. But here the rock fans seemed as patient and cheerful as if they were all old friends.

Patience was certainly needed. The lines inched their way into the auditorium as attendants stationed at half a dozen points checked tickets.

For the first time since receiving the complimentary tickets, Nancy had time to think about what they implied. The eager, keyed-up fans all around her showed how much excitement Lance Warrick and his group generated. The rock king was besieged by girls whenever he appeared in public.

Was it really possible that she had attracted the star’s interest just by their brief encounter at the garden party? The thought was certainly flattering!

An Australian backup group, the Didgeridoo, performed first to warm up the audience. Not that any warmup was needed. When the curtains finally rose on the Crowned Heads amid a blaze of psychedelic strobe lights, the whole auditorium seemed to explode!

The storm of applause sank to a pregnant hush as the music came on with a soul-haunted beat. Lance seemed content at first to stand in one spot and pluck his guitar delicately, as though deep in meditation.

But gradually he began to slink back and forth across the stage, twanging more insistently, putting a harder, funkier edge on the music. He was
dressed like a futuristic highwayman, in a cocked hat and glittering blue metallic tights, with pistol bandoliers across his bare chest and his legs encased in silver boots.

Sweat beaded his forehead as the music grew louder and his voice rose to a hoarse shout. At times he seemed to be threatening or sneering at the audience, at others, cajoling or making love to it.

When not playing his guitar or taking a quick turn at the synthesizer, he would clutch a portable mike with manic intensity and yell out fresh choruses, all the while prancing, stomping or pirouetting about the stage, occasionally leaping and twirling high in the air.

Barely ten minutes into the concert, the audience was clapping and stamping its feet. And the Crowned Heads gave them no chance to relax. They segued from number to number with scarcely a pause.

But it was Lance Warrick who held the audience mesmerized. He seemed to play on his fans’ emotions as easily as he twanged out chords on his guitar. At times Nancy felt certain he was playing and singing especially to
her.

From the corner of her eye, she stole a swift glance at her girl friends. Both Bess and George were staring at the rock king entranced, their eyes wide open, lips slightly parted.

With a shock, Nancy realized that she had been doing the same thing herself!

Snap out of it! she chided herself jokingly. The guy’s a mere human. He’s just putting on a show.

But what a show! Dazzling costume changes—highwayman to Indian chief to starship trooper to medieval troubadour—combined with special effects left the audience gasping. Camera crews could be seen taping the show for a rock video.

By the time the curtain descended, Nancy felt exhausted. So, she could see, did Bess and George.

“Well, how did you like it?” she asked.

“I’ll never forget tonight!” Bess confided huskily, reaching over to clutch Nancy’s hand. All George could do was nod in enthusiastic agreement.

A buzz of chatter filled the auditorium as everyone stood or shifted position to ease their cramped muscles. Some were hurrying up the aisles to the restrooms or for refreshment refills, but most remained seated, knowing the group would soon return for their encore numbers.

A uniformed usher was making his way along the front row. Nancy suddenly realized he was approaching
her.

“Miss Nancy Drew?”

“Yes . . .”

“This is for you!” He held out a folded message.

Even before she opened the note, Nancy guessed whom it was from. The paper bore the Crowned Heads’ insignia, a cartoon of Lance Warrick weighed down by a huge king’s crown sagging at a cockeyed angle, with the other members of the group around him wearing only slightly less imposing coronets.

The message was scrawled in purple ink—royal purple—and signed in his usual joking fashion,
L. R
. Nancy knew this stood for
Lancelot Rex.

Her two friends were staring at her eagerly.

“Tell us!” begged Bess. “Who’s it from?”

“As if we can’t guess!” said George.

“Lance is inviting us to the press party after the show.”

A chorus of awed exclamations made Nancy
aware that her two chums weren’t the only ones around her keenly interested in her message from the rock king.

Presently the curtains rose again to loud stamping, cheering and applause as the Crowned Heads returned for their encore. The rock king and his group wound up their performance at peak power, knowing they had their fans completely enthralled.

Nancy felt sure now that it hadn’t been just her imagination . . . all those times when he’d paused at the edge of the stage and gazed down through the glare of the spotlights, he really
had
been singing to her! And now he was doing it again!

She shivered with suppressed excitement. How in the world had all this come about? In little more than twenty-four hours, she had not only met the hottest star on the international rock scene, but the acquaintance seemed to be taking a romantic turn!

Let’s not get silly now, Nancy cautioned herself. I come from a nice little suburban community called River Heights, and I have a boyfriend back there named Ned Nickerson, who’s much more my type than this British wild man, Lance Warrick!

But it was hard to think sensibly with that pulsating rock beat throbbing through the auditorium.

After numerous curtain calls, the show was finally over. The fans began surging out through the aisles as noisily and good-naturedly as they had entered.

“Where exactly is this press party?” inquired George, her mouth close to Nancy’s ear.

“The note said any guard could direct us!”

From a transverse aisle behind the orchestra seats, steps led down to a corridor. It, too, was filled with a jostling crowd. But after Nancy displayed her invitation from Lance at several checkpoints, the girls succeeded in reaching a pair of double doors, through which at last they gained admission to the press party.

Inside was bedlam. The reception room seemed filled to overflowing. Several TV crews were busy interviewing celebrities and taping the party for the next morning’s news show. The guests were milling about, while waiters circulated with trays of refreshments. And somewhere in the room, Nancy imagined, were Lance and the rest of his group, although she couldn’t glimpse any of them.

The babble and din were deafening.

“We should’ve brought earplugs!” joked Bess.

A television reporter thrust a microphone in Nancy’s face. “Hey! Aren’t you Nancy Drew, the detective?”

She smiled and nodded, slightly embarrassed.

“Have you solved the mystery of why the whole town’s going bananas over Lance Warrick and the Crowned Heads?”

“They’re very talented musicians.”

“Look! There’s Adam Muir!” exclaimed George. He, was one of the two group members who had accompanied Lance to the garden party.

A strikingly attractive young woman of twenty-one
or twenty-two suddenly loomed at Nancy’s shoulder. “Can I help you, luv?” she chirped in a charming British accent. Less charming was her artificial smile.

“I’m Nancy Drew, and these are my two friends, Bess Marvin and George Fayne.”

“Is Lance or one of the group expecting you young ladies?” she asked pointedly.

Her face was beautifully painted, and her taffy-blond hair was in an artfully styled bush. Her sleek figure was sheathed in a silver lamé jumpsuit, and on her feet were raspberry suede boots with stiletto heels.

Nancy displayed the handwritten invitation.

“Oh yes, you’re
that
one.” Her dazzling smile flashed on and off. “Well, Lance may be tied up for a while, but if you’d care to join the other girls . . .”

She fluttered her hand vaguely in the direction of several obvious groupies.

“Thanks, we’ll manage.”

“Yes, do. And enjoy yourselves. I’m Jane Royce, by the way.”

“Do you believe that?” George blurted as the high-styled Miss Royce snaked off through the crowd, hips aswing. She was already beaming her charm at a bald-headed record company executive.

Nancy grinned. “A breath of London in the outposts of empire!”

She had just glimpsed Lance Warrick surrounded
by reporters and hangers-on. Would she even have a chance to talk to him in this madhouse?

Bess wormed her way to a refreshment table and returned clutching three glasses. “Two Cokes and one bitter lemon—best I could do!”