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  Just as the girls were finishing the dishes the phone rang. “Want me to get it?” Bess asked. When Louisa nodded, Bess went over to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. “It’s for you, Nancy,” she said a moment later.

  It’s probably Dad, Nancy thought, calling to find out how I am. But she was wrong.

  “Nancy Drew?” came a tense masculine voice that sounded as if it belonged to an older person.

  “Yes,” Nancy said expectantly. “This is Nancy.”

  “Dexter Mobley here,” the voice said.

  The former coroner! Nancy thought, growing excited. He was calling her after all.

  “I, er, reconsidered about calling you. Luckily, the paper with your number was still on the floor here. I, er . . . I would like to speak with you about Curtis Taylor, if you’re still interested.”

  “Yes, I am,” Nancy said, trying to stay calm. “Go ahead.”

  “No, no, not . . . over the . . . phone,” the feeble man insisted, coughing between words. “Come out to the home. It’s after visiting hours, but I’m sure I can get the staff to let you in.”

  “I’ll be there right away.” Nancy hung up and looked at the clock on the wall. It was nine o’clock. “Dexter Mobley wants me to go talk to him about Curtis’s death!” she exclaimed. “Anybody want to go with me?”

  “You mean the coroner?” George asked, her brown eyes widening in surprise. “Let’s go!” She put away a plate and reached for her handbag.

  “I’m coming, too,” Bess put in.

  “Here’s a house key,” Louisa said, reaching for a key from a hook by the back door. “See you in the morning, I guess.”

  Nancy took the key. Then she, Bess, and George grabbed their coats and ran out the door.

  “I have a feeling this is going to be big,” Nancy told her friends as they piled into the car.

  Windemere House was quiet and dark when the girls got there fifteen minutes later. They hurried up to the desk in the dimly lit reception area. “Hello,” Nancy told a young man who was behind the counter. “We’re here to see Mr. Dexter Mobley. It’s urgent.”

  “Visiting hours are over,” the nurse said dryly.

  Nancy smiled patiently. “Yes, I know that, but he called me especially. He needs to see me now.”

  The man gave her a long look before saying, “I’ll check.” Then he dialed a number on the phone in front of him. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mobley,” he said into the receiver, “but—” Apparently, Dexter Mobley interrupted the receptionist. After a moment the young man turned to Nancy and asked, “Are you Nancy Drew?”

  “Yes,” Nancy told him.

  “You can go in,” he told Nancy. “But you’ll have to go alone. And please don’t stay longer than five minutes. I’m really not supposed to let anyone in at this hour, even if a resident requests a visitor.”

  “We’ll wait for you here,” George said. “And good luck, Nan.”

  With a wave Nancy went down the hall and knocked on Mobley’s door. “Come in,” said a shaky voice. Nancy pushed the door open and went inside.

  Maybe it was the dim light, Nancy thought, but Dexter Mobley looked a lot worse than he had earlier. His hands were shaking visibly, and his face was pale and haggard. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he told Nancy in a weak voice. “What makes you think Curtis Taylor was murdered?”

  When Nancy told him about the cassette and music Tyrone had found in Curtis’s costume, the old man sank back into his pillows. His eyes darted back and forth across the ceiling, and his breathing grew more labored.

  “Take it easy, okay?” Nancy told him, putting a hand on his arm. It was ice cold.

  “There’s something I never told anybody. But now that I’m . . . so sick . . .” His chest heaved, and tears formed in his eyes. “It’s a terrible burden. I want to be rid of it.”

  Nancy nodded. This definitely sounded big.

  The old coroner’s lip trembled. “I changed . . . changed my report,” he said softly.

  Nancy stood very still, holding her breath.

  “I never thought—nobody thought Curtis could have been murdered.” Dexter Mobley tried to raise himself on his elbows. Nancy helped him, putting a pillow behind his head. “You see, there were barbiturates in his blood. A very high level. But I naturally assumed he’d taken them knowingly.”

  “You mean, you thought he killed himself with barbiturates?” Nancy asked, stunned.

  “Y-yes. But I never mentioned them in my report. He persuaded me not to, said it would ruin Curtis’s reputa—” The old man broke off in a fit of coughing.

  Nancy’s heart was racing. “You didn’t want to ruin Curtis’s reputation,” she finished for him. “Somebody persuaded you to leave the barbiturates out of your report. Who?”

  “He told me Curtis’s fans—Curtis was their hero, and if they knew he was a drug addict . . .” Mobley struggled to sit up straight. His face was darkening. “But you’ve got to believe me. I never thought it could be murder! I’ll give back the money. All of it. I’ll be gone soon, anyway.” He grabbed her arm. “I swear I didn’t think it was murder. Please believe me,” he pleaded.

  As she tried to get the former coroner to lie back down, Nancy said, “I believe you, Mr. Mobley.” A glance at the clock told her her five minutes were just about up. “I need to know one other thing,” she said quickly. “I need to know who persuaded you to change your report. Who was it, sir?”

  Just then the door opened, and the nurse came in, gesturing for her to leave.

  “I have to know, Mr. Mobley. It’s very important,” Nancy said urgently.

  “Sorry, Ms. Drew,” said the nurse. “You’ll have to go now. You can see that whatever this is about, it’s upsetting the patient.”

  The next thing Nancy knew, the young man was guiding her forcefully toward the door.

  As Nancy was being herded out of the room, she heard Dexter Mobley say the name:

  “Rahmer. J. J. Rahmer.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  J. J. RAHMER! For a brief second Nancy locked eyes with the former coroner. “Thank you so much,” she said gratefully.

  As the nurse stepped behind her to force her from the room, Nancy saw the old man nod, and she thought she detected a hint of relief in his eyes.

  After leaving the room, she hurried down the corridor to where George and Bess were waiting.

  “Any luck?” Bess asked Nancy anxiously.

  Without slowing down, Nancy gestured to her friends to follow her out the door. Once outside she told them about the barbiturates found in Curtis Taylor’s blood and about Rahmer’s role in the cover-up.

  “Very interesting,” George murmured from the passenger seat as Nancy drove back toward Louisa’s.

  Shaking her head, Bess added thoughtfully, “Suicide, huh? But that doesn’t make sense. I still can remember those antidrug ads Curtis Taylor made. They were great. I really hate to think he didn’t practice what he preached.”

  Shooting Bess a significant look, Nancy cautioned, “We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Just because there were barbiturates in his blood doesn’t mean that Curtis put them there. A killer could have found a way to slip them to him, maybe in the drink Curtis had before he left the house that night.”

  “Of course,” George murmured. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Nancy said. “Neither did the coroner. Neither did anyone else, till Tyrone found that packet.”

  When they pulled into Louisa’s driveway, the girls saw that the house was dark, except for the yellow glare of the front porch light. Once inside they tiptoed over to the small stairway that led to the upper level.

  “Good night, Nan. I guess we have a lot to sleep on tonight,” George whispered, her hand on the doorknob of the room she and Bess were staying in.

  Nancy opened the door of her room, taking care to be quiet. “I’ll say,” she whispered before she went inside. “Good night, you guys. Get a good rest, be
cause tomorrow’s going to be a very big day.”

  “See you in the morning,” Bess added.

  • • •

  “Well, I can tell you one thing, absolutely for sure—Curtis Taylor never in his life abused drugs, never!” Louisa insisted the next morning at breakfast after Nancy, Bess, and George had filled Louisa in on their visit to the former coroner.

  “How can you know that, Aunt Louisa?” Bess asked. “He was under a lot of pressure, being a star and all.”

  Louisa put down her fork and shook her head in disgust. “Curtis was a clean-living man. Anybody who listens to his music knows that. Living right was his whole message.”

  Nancy’s gut feeling was to agree with Louisa, but she still needed proof. “Well, maybe J. J. Rahmer will be able to enlighten us about what happened five years ago. Tyrone said he was staying at Greenwood, right? But I’m not sure if I should try to find him there or at the Civic Center.”

  Bess looked up suddenly and said, “Oh—I forgot to tell you guys. The Blue Mountain Boys are hosting a pre-gala party at their hotel today, complete with bluegrass music and tons of food. We’re all invited, thanks to Tyrone. He said he’d come pick us up. What do you guys say—do you want to go?”

  “What a great way to pass the time before tonight’s dress rehearsal,” said Louisa, getting up to boil water for another cup of tea.

  “Tyrone said the same thing,” Bess said. “The day before a concert most singers like to relax and give their ‘pipes’ a rest. Anyway,” she added, turning to Nancy, “if J.J.’s not at Greenwood, I’ll bet he’ll be at the party. You can join us there.”

  “Good idea,” George put in. “I’ll go with you to Greenwood if you want, Nan.”

  With a sheepish smile Louisa said, “If you don’t mind, Nancy, I’d like to go to this party with Bess. It sounds too good to pass up.”

  “No problem,” Nancy told her, laughing. “But do me a favor, okay, Bess? Tell Tyrone what the coroner said about J.J. He should know about it.”

  Bess nodded. She got up from the table and hurried out of the room, then returned a moment later with two tickets. “Here are the passes to the party. It’s at the Imperial Hotel, right next to the Civic Center.”

  Taking the passes from Bess, Nancy said, “Thanks, Bess. I just hope we can find J.J. and get to the bottom of this mystery soon.”

  • • •

  “This is unbelievable,” George murmured as Nancy inched her car through the heavy traffic on her way to Greenwood. Passing the entrance to the visitors’ parking lot, Nancy glimpsed a sign that read Full. A uniformed worker was pointing to the sign and waving cars past. Still, a lot of cars crawled as slowly as they could in front of the grounds. Nancy guessed they were trying to get a peek at the estate through the bushes lining the property.

  Finally Nancy managed to get to the estate’s private security gate. There, she gave her name, and the guard motioned her through. After parking, Nancy and George walked up to the mansion and rang the bell.

  “Good morning, Ms. Drew,” Vickers said when he opened the door a moment later. “I’m afraid Mr. Taylor has already left for the Imperial Hotel. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s J. J. Rahmer we’ve come to see. Is he here?” Nancy asked.

  The butler nodded. “I’ll inform Mr. Rahmer that you’re here, ladies,” he said, bowing his head. “Although I must warn you, he is not in the best of spirits this morning. He and Mrs. Taylor seem to be experiencing some, er, personal conflicts.”

  Nancy frowned, trying to think of a way to make sure the manager would speak with her and George. Suddenly an idea struck her.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Vickers, maybe you can tell Mr. Rahmer that in addition to being friends of Tyrone’s, my friend and I are journalists from, uh, Melody Monthly,” she said, citing the name of a popular music magazine.

  For a moment George looked at Nancy as if she’d lost her mind. Then George recovered her composure, adding, “Yes, we’re sure our readers will be interested in learning about Melanie Taylor’s accomplished manager. But if we don’t get our story in today, he’ll miss being featured in next month’s edition.”

  Vickers raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he said calmly, but Nancy thought she detected a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ll inform Mr. Rahmer right away.”

  The butler disappeared down the hall. A few minutes later, J. J. Rahmer strode into the entry hall to greet them, a pleasant smile on his face.

  “I wish I had known about this earlier,” he said. “But I’ll be happy to accommodate you however I can. Shall we go upstairs to my suite? It’s quieter there.”

  Following Rahmer up the wide marble staircase, Nancy crossed her fingers. She hoped she and George could pull off the interview.

  “Now, how can I help you?” Rahmer asked, motioning for them to sit down at a small mahogany table in the outer room of his guest suite.

  Starting amiably, Nancy and George asked Rahmer how he had first met Curtis Taylor, and what Rahmer’s strategy had been in those early days. Nancy wrote down what he told her in a small notepad she always carried in her purse. She couldn’t help being amazed at the easy way J.J. seemed to take credit for everything Curtis Taylor had ever accomplished.

  When the manager seemed relaxed and comfortable, Nancy decided to make her move. “Mr. Rahmer, we all know that Curtis Taylor was a notable antidrug spokesperson. But what can you tell us about the persistent rumors that he actually abused barbiturates?”

  If he was disturbed by what she had said, J. J. Rahmer didn’t let on. “I never heard any such rumors,” he said, dismissing them with a chuckle. “I suppose all famous people are subject to manufactured misinformation about them, however. I guess it’s just the price of fame.”

  “But these rumors are so specific, sir,” Nancy persisted. “It’s even said that his fatal accident may have been caused by them. Some people seem to think that the coroner was actually paid to participate in a cover-up because there were drugs discovered in Mr. Taylor’s blood.”

  At that Rahmer took a sharp intake of breath and glanced at his watch. “Ladies, I hate to end this interview suddenly, but I’ve just realized that I’m late for my next appointment. I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave right away.” The manager stood and indicated the door.

  “Are you saying you don’t know anything about barbiturates in Mr. Taylor’s blood?” George tried one more time.

  “Why, that’s utter nonsense,” Rahmer said with a stiff smile, walking the girls toward the door. “Not worthy of a reply.”

  “And what about the notion that Curtis Taylor was murdered?” Nancy blurted out.

  At that, J.J. stopped in his tracks, his face flushed. “Murdered?” he repeated shakily before the unflappable expression came back over his features. “That, too, is just so much nonsense! You ladies are beginning to sound like you’re from the Weekly Scoop,” he added angrily. “I certainly hope I haven’t been duped into giving that rag an interview. Because if I have, I shall certainly ask my lawyer to sue. Good day!”

  Rahmer opened the door and glared at Nancy and George until they left the suite. Then he unceremoniously slammed the door behind them.

  Out in the hall Nancy and George walked far enough away from his door so that they wouldn’t be heard. “He was stonewalling,” Nancy whispered. “And he did a pretty good job of it, too.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I would have believed him when he said he didn’t know anything about Curtis and the barbiturates,” George said. “What a terrific liar.”

  Just then they heard Rahmer’s suite door open.

  “George, in here,” Nancy whispered, tugging on her friend’s arm. Quickly the two girls stepped through open double French doors into what looked like a library. Flattening themselves against the inside wall next to the doorway, they waited until they heard Rahmer stride quickly and purposefully past them and down the corridor. Nancy heard him stop and open a door not to
o far away.

  “I wish you would knock before you come in here,” came Melanie’s voice, and then the door shut, muffling her next words.

  Taking a careful step forward, with George close behind her, Nancy leaned forward and peered into the empty hallway. “Come on,” she mouthed to George.

  The two girls tiptoed down the corridor, moving closer to the door through which Rahmer and Melanie’s voices could be heard.

  “And I don’t need any more stress, today of all days,” Melanie said, sounding angry. “You’ve already upset me enough by asking me to agree to such terrible terms on my next album.”

  “Well, darling, that’s nothing compared to the problems you have now,” Rahmer told her.

  “What kinds of problems?” came Melanie’s frustrated voice.

  “I’m referring to the small matter of your late husband’s death,” Rahmer told her. Nancy and George exchanged a startled look.

  “Those reporter friends of Tyrone’s told me that there are rumors going around that Curtis was murdered,” Rahmer continued. “Did you know that?”

  “Murdered? That’s a new one,” Melanie scoffed. “But so what? I’ve lived with stupid rumors for years. Besides, these at least don’t have anything to do with me.”

  Nancy’s breath caught in her throat as she listened to Rahmer’s reply.

  “Come now, darling,” he told her. “How do you intend to explain away the three-million-dollar insurance policy you took out on your dear deceased husband?”

  There was a beat of silence before Melanie replied to his question. “I had every right to get that policy, and you know it!” she protested at last. “Wives take out insurance on their husbands’ lives all the time.”

  “Oh?” Rahmer challenged. “But do those other wives buy that insurance the very day before their husbands are found dead? Like you did?”

  Chapter

  Eight

  NANCY RAISED HER EYEBROWS and looked at George as they took in this new information. Three million dollars in insurance money would be considered a motive for murder in any court.