Famous Mistakes Read online

  “Make sure you look under things. Even the smallest clue could help us find the person who did this,” I reminded everyone as I focused my eyes intently down, looking for anything that seemed like it didn’t belong to a middle-aged stand-up comic. I carefully shook out the pants that were strewn across my way. I was completely focused on the two square feet of carpet in front of me.

  After a moment, Ned spoke up. “You know, these notebook pages aren’t torn that small. I think we could put them back together.”

  “Don’t tease me, Ned,” Brady answered. “I can’t take another disappointment right now.”

  “No, I’m serious,” Ned said. “I’m pretty good at puzzles.”

  “He’s being modest,” I added. “He’s really good at puzzles. It’s a tradition in his family that they do a giant jigsaw puzzle every year over the holidays. And by ‘giant’ I mean like over five thousand pieces.”

  “Yeah, and we do the expert-level ones,” Ned continued. “The ones that are approximately ninety percent sky or ocean, so each piece is blue with very little distinguishing it from the others.”

  I picked up a scrap of the notebook paper and examined it. It was about half an inch in size, but you could clearly make out the letters st on it. It wouldn’t be easy to put it back together, but it was possible.

  “I think he could do it,” I said.

  “Here,” Ned said, taking the recording equipment out of its box. “Put all the notebook pieces you find in this box, and I will work on putting the pages back together after we finishing searching the room.”

  We got back to scouring our quadrants for clues, stopping only to put notebook scraps in the box. After a while my arms began to ache and my eyes started swimming from staying focused on a small spot for so long.

  “There’s nothing in my quadrant,” Joe said, standing up and stretching his back.

  “Mine either,” said Brady.

  “Sorry, Nancy,” Ned chimed in. “I don’t see anything either.”

  I hadn’t had any luck either, and I was going to give up when suddenly my own words echoed in my head: Look under things.

  “The bed,” I said.

  “Brady and Joe searched the bed,” Ned said, confused.

  “But they didn’t search under it,” I said. “Come on!” I lifted up the bed skirt, but it was too dark to see anything. I pulled out my phone, turned on its flashlight function, and shined it under the bed. I swept it from left to right, like I had seen the spotlights on police helicopters do on the news when they were searching for escaped suspects. The light caught something that flashed, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

  “There’s something under there!” I exclaimed.

  “What? What is it?” Brady asked, rushing to my side.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, stretching my arm underneath the bed. I reached as far as I could, but I still couldn’t grasp it.

  “Let me try,” said Brady, shoving his arm under the bed. I watched him flail his arm, his face puckered in concentration, and I realized he was holding his breath.

  “Got it!” he exclaimed, exhaling with a loud gasp.

  He pulled his hand out, his fist clenched around the mystery object. Slowly he opened his fingers, revealing a large gold button about the size of a nickel with an anchor embossed on it, so it stood out from the button three-dimensionally.

  “That looks like a button from a blazer,” I said.

  “Is it one of yours?” Ned asked Brady.

  Brady laughed. “Did any of the clothes you saw strewn all over this room look like I would (a) wear a blazer or (b) wear anything that had an anchor on it?” He didn’t wait for any of us to respond. “No, I am strictly a jeans and black T-shirt kind of guy. If it gets chilly, then perhaps I will don a black sweater.”

  “Then this is a clue!” Ned exclaimed. “Our culprit wore a blazer and lost a button!” I gave him a look, and Ned knew me well enough to know exactly what it meant.

  “What?” Ned asked. “Why isn’t this a clue?”

  It was one of the things I liked best about my relationship with Ned—how well we could communicate without speaking.

  “Well,” I explained, “it’s more that we don’t know that it’s a clue. This is a hotel room. For all we know, it belongs to a previous occupant.”

  “Then what was the point of spending half an hour crawling around on my hands and knees?” Joe asked huffily.

  “It’s still good,” I said. “If we find someone in the course of our investigation who is missing an anchor button, we know that they’re probably involved. We just can’t rule anyone out because they don’t have a blazer with a missing button.”

  Joe sighed. “I have to get back to my office. Brady, if you change your mind about the extra security, let me know. Nancy Drew, you have until six o’clock to convince me you have the suspect.” He left the hotel room.

  I felt bad that I hadn’t convinced him that it wasn’t a waste of time to search the room. Detective work isn’t glamorous; there are a lot of dead ends and wrong theories before you solve the case, but each dead end is important, because it eliminates one possibility of what happened. It’s just like taking a multiple-choice test: every answer that you know is wrong gets you closer to the right answer. I wish I had been able to explain better that just because we didn’t know the button definitely was important, that didn’t mean it definitely wasn’t.

  I turned to Ned. “I think it’s time we go interview some of these members of RHVRA and see if they know anything.”

  Ned looked down at the box of notebook scraps we’d collected. “Do you mind seeing if George and Bess can go with you?” he asked. “It’s just that I think putting this notebook back together could take a really long time, and I’d like to get started on it. Brady’s going to help me.”

  “Sure,” I replied. “That makes sense. But what about your interview for NED Talks?”

  Ned glanced at Brady, who was on the other side of the room, gathering some of his belongings from the floor. “I think he might be open to answering some questions as we’re working.”

  “Sure,” I replied. “That makes sense.”

  “Thanks, Nancy,” Ned said. “Let me know what you guys find.”

  “You got it. Good luck with your hardest puzzle yet,” I told him before turning toward Brady. “Bye,” I said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something to report.”

  “Thanks. Talk soon.”

  I stepped into the hall, pulled out my phone, and dialed George’s number. She answered before the end of the first ring.

  “Nancy!” she yelled so loudly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “I just finished my shift. How’d it go? Did my microphones work? Wait. Don’t answer that. Bess is right here. I’m going to put you on speaker.” After a moment, she said, “Okay, go ahead, you’re on speaker.”

  “Well, the interview didn’t happen yet, so I don’t know how the mics worked.”

  “Oh no,” Bess said. “Poor Ned. I know how much he was looking forward to this. Is he okay?” That was typical Bess. She is the kindest person I know and is always aware of other people’s feelings and how events impact them.

  “Yeah, he’s okay, but we’re on a case.”

  “What?!” Bess and George said in unison. Even though I wasn’t with them, I knew they were both leaning into the phone excitedly. I may have the reputation for being a detective, but my friends have helped me on almost every case; they like solving mysteries about as much as I do.

  “What do you need us to do?” George asked. A feeling of warmth spread through my body. It was such a relief to know that my friends always had my back. I knew that police officers and other detectives always worked with partners. I was lucky enough to have two partners. Three, if you counted Ned, but he was usually too busy with school stuff. I quickly explained what had happened and told them about the vandalized poster. I could hear George typing frantically in the background.

  “I found the RHVRA websi
te,” George said. “It says here they’re holding a sit-in at Joe Archer’s office at the Arts Complex.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s where I’m headed.”

  “We’ll meet you there,” Bess said. “Don’t go in without us.” They hung up without saying goodbye, but I knew it was because they wanted to get there as fast as possible.

  GEORGE AND BESS ARE IN, I texted to Ned as I walked back toward the elevators. Ned texted back a smiley face and wrote, WE GOT A PAGE PUT BACK TOGETHER IN THE NOTEBOOK.

  As I rounded the corner, I spotted a housekeeper’s cart outside a room. I took the button out of my pocket. I had an idea.

  I approached the cart. I could hear the housekeeper working inside the room. I took a deep breath and knocked on the open door.

  “Hello,” I called out in a higher-pitched voice than I usually spoke in.

  A gruff-looking middle-aged woman sporting a name tag that said PENELOPE came to the door, a cleaning rag in her hand. “I do the rooms in order,” she said. “I’ll get to your room when I get to it, so save your breath.”

  “Oh, no,” I said cheerfully, “it’s not about that. Well, it’s kind of about that. My dad is staying in room 823, and he found this button on the floor.” I held out my hand, showing her the button. “And it’s such a nice button that we thought whoever the guest was who stayed in there before us might want it back. I was wondering if there was any way I could help get this button back to its owner?” I noticed that Penelope was staring at me with a suspicious look.

  It felt a little ridiculous to make up an elaborate lie, but I wasn’t ready to tell Penelope that the room had been destroyed. I wanted to preserve the crime scene as long as possible before involving the police. If she knew there’d been a break-in, she’d have to report it. I had hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door handle for just that reason. At the same time, I did need to confirm whether this button was a real clue or a red herring.

  “That room was perfectly clean. There was no button. What kind of scam is this?” she asked me harshly.

  “I’m sorry?” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.” My mind raced. This was not the reaction I’d been expecting. My story had seemed pretty innocent to me and not something easy to refute. How did she know I was making this up?

  “If you think you’re going to get a free room by claiming the room wasn’t cleaned properly, you have another think coming. Because I know that’s a load of baloney.”

  “No, no. I really just want to return it to its owner, and I know that the people who clean the rooms know everything, so I thought I’d ask you. I can take it down to the front desk, of course.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Penelope said. “I’ve read about people like you. You come into expensive hotels and find ways to get free rooms. I’m not falling for it.”

  I needed to change tactics. Penelope was wrong about the reason I was lying, but she definitely had cottoned to the fact that I wasn’t telling the whole truth. I dropped my voice back down to its natural pitch. “I promise you I’m not trying to get a free room and I’m definitely not trying to get you in trouble, but I really did find this button in room 823. Why do you say that’s impossible?”

  “Because this floor was one of the last floors renovated. The guests staying in these rooms are the first guests to stay in them since the renovation. These rooms were spotless. Therefore you are lying, but I can take that button, if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay. I think I’ll hang on to it.”

  I thanked Penelope for her help and kept going toward the elevator. Bess and George would probably be at the Arts Complex by now. I needed to hurry to meet them. I could feel Penelope’s eyes still on me as I made my way down the hall. Otherwise, I would have added a little skip to my step: the button could only have been left behind by the perpetrator. It was officially a clue!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sitting In

  I HURRIED DOWN THE STREET to the Arts Complex. Fortunately, it was only a few blocks from the hotel. As I got closer, I could see George and Bess standing outside. Waiting to cross the street, I took in the building itself. It had only been completed last month, but it was already one of my favorite buildings in River Heights. The city council had chosen an architect who specialized in modern and futuristic designs, and some people in River Heights had been skeptical. Everyone agreed that the final building was breathtaking, though. It was silver metal, seemingly composed of different-shaped buildings all stuck together. The largest piece jutted high into the sky. On a clear day, the sight of the silver against the bright blue sky was beautiful. The building did reflect the idea of the grandeur of the art.

  “Nancy, come on,” I heard George yell from across the street. I realized that I had gotten so lost in admiring the Arts Complex that I hadn’t noticed the sign turn to WALK.

  I crossed the street to join George and Bess.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was just taking in the building.”

  “It really is great,” George agreed.

  “Yeah,” Bess said. “I didn’t think I would like it, but I really do.” She’s a traditionalist, and she had been dubious of the modern approach to the building.

  “So, what’s our mission, Nancy?” George asked.

  I showed them the button. “We need to mingle among the protesters and see if one of them is missing a button that looks like this.” I turned toward Bess. “I think George and I should be on distraction duty while you check out the clothes.”

  Bess nodded in agreement. Of the three of us, Bess knows the most about clothes. George is known for simplicity. Unless she’s absolutely forced to dress up, she’s never seen in anything other than jeans and a T-shirt. I have a slightly more varied wardrobe, and I don’t hate clothes shopping the way George does, but fashion is not something I’m passionate about. Bess, on the other hand, loves clothes. She reads all the big style blogs and can tell you all about what was big at the fashion shows in Paris or New York. She always has the perfect outfit for any occasion.

  Bess took the button from me and studied it scrupulously. “Anchors are a staple of preppy attire,” she said. “We’re probably going to be looking for someone who dresses in that style. Keep a particular eye out for people in boat shoes—those canvas loafers with leather laces—bright-colored pants, and collared shirts.”

  George and I nodded. “So what’s our play going to be, Nancy?” George asked.

  I grinned. “We’re producers for NED Talks,” I said.

  Bess and George laughed. “If only Ned knew he had three producers working on his podcast,” George joked.

  I opened the door to the complex and we stepped inside. It was just as beautiful as the outside. The walls were made of light-colored woods and a thin red carpet covered the floors. Wire sculptures of artists at work decorated the lobby: a ballet dancer in arabesque, a painter mid-brushstroke, a violinist strumming her instrument, an actor delivering a monologue. “Does anyone see a directory where we can find Joe Archer’s office?” Bess asked.

  “When I looked online, it said Joe’s office was upstairs,” George said, “but I don’t see where the stairs are.”

  Two women holding signs that said VICTIMS’ RIGHTS ARE NOT FUNNY passed us.

  “I think we should follow them,” I said.

  “That’s why you’re the detective,” George joked. We followed the women through the lobby to a door in the back right corner leading to a set of stairs. They turned as we went through the door behind them.

  “Are you here for the sit-in?” one with curly hair and glasses asked.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “That’s great,” her friend said. “Are you in one of Erica Vega’s classes too?” she asked as we started up the stairs.

  I looked between George and Bess. They looked as clueless as I did.

  “Um, no,” I said. “Who is Erica Vega?”

  “Oh, she’s amazing!” the curly-haired one enthused. “She’s teaching this Politics of Art c
lass here at the complex. It’s incredible. She changed the whole way I think about art. She’s the one who suggested we have this sit-in. I didn’t know other people knew about it.”

  “Oh, I saw the group online,” George jumped in. “I suggested that my friends come with me.”

  The women broke into excited grins. “That’s great!” the one with curly hair said. “We didn’t think anyone was paying attention. So far everyone who’s shown up to sit in has been in Erica’s class.”

  “Well, I was paying attention!” George said.

  “Cool, I’m glad our cause is spreading,” the woman said. We had reached the top of the stairs, and they led us through another door, which deposited us in a typical office-building hallway. It was much different from the downstairs area. The only thing that distinguished it from being a building that housed accountants or lawyers was that the hallways were adorned with stenciled paintings of musical notes, ballet shoes, the tragedy and comedy masks, and paintbrushes.

  We were standing directly in front of an office door with a nameplate that said JOE ARCHER in big letters. We could hear the murmur of a group of people inside but couldn’t make out any of the words.

  We followed the women into the waiting area of Joe’s office. The small space was packed with at least fifty people. Almost all of them were women. Many of them were holding signs. The door shut behind us, and we were squeezed up against the wall with barely any room to maneuver. Sweat had already started beading on my forehead from all the body heat in the room. At a desk in the corner, a woman who I assumed was Joe’s assistant tried to work in the chaos. Behind her was the door to Joe’s office. Through the din, I could hear a rhythmic clacking sound coming from inside.

  “What is that noise?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a typewriter! I read an interview with him, and he mentioned that he can’t get used to a computer keyboard,” Bess exclaimed after a moment.

  “That’s crazy!” George exclaimed. “I thought nobody had used a typewriter in decades.”