False Notes Read online

  Finally, just as I checked my watch for the millionth time and saw that it was a little after seven thirty, I caught a flash of movement in the dim interior of the parking garage. A moment later a late-model blue sedan pulled up to the ticket window, and its driver leaned out to hand a pass to the attendant.

  I gasped, sitting bolt upright. “That’s him!” I said, recognizing the driver immediately. “It’s Morris Granger!”

  “It’s about time,” George muttered sourly.

  The three of us crouched down in our seats, hiding our faces as the blue sedan pulled out. Granger didn’t even glance our way as he drove off down the nearly deserted street.

  I threw my car into gear so fast that the engine stalled. “Rats!” I muttered, turning the key to try again.

  “Nice driving,” Bess commented with a giggle.

  Ignoring her, I pulled out and followed Granger’s car. There wasn’t much traffic for the first couple of blocks and I hung back as far as I dared, not wanting him to notice that he was being tailed. Soon he turned onto busy State Avenue, and I was able to stay a car or two behind him without fear of being sighted.

  “What’s the point in this, anyway?” George complained. “He’s probably just going to drive home, eat dinner, and go to bed. Or something equally thrilling.”

  I clutched the wheel tighter, knowing that she was probably right. Still, I kept my gaze trained on the taillights of the blue sedan. If he was heading home, he would be making a left soon onto Jackson Street.

  And if he did, I was thinking maybe I should just admit that my friends were right and take them home. Driving out to Granger’s place again wasn’t going to help Leslie any.

  My left pinkie finger hovered just over my turn signal, ready to hit it for the turn onto Jackson—but to my surprise, Granger drove right through the intersection without pausing.

  “Hey,” Bess said. “Shouldn’t he have turned back there?”

  My heart leaped with sudden hope. Maybe we hadn’t wasted the last two and a half hours after all.…

  “Yep,” I said. “If he was going home. Which he’s obviously not.”

  George still didn’t seem convinced. “All right, so he’s going out to eat before he heads home. Big deal.”

  But instead of turning right to head over to River Street with its bustling shops and lively restaurants, he turned left onto Union Street. I followed.

  “Ugh,” Bess complained. “Why did he go this way? Everyone knows it’s a mess because of the hospital construction work.”

  Sure enough, the street narrowed quickly into one lane. The construction workers had gone home for the day, but their orange road cones and signs remained.

  I slowed the car to a crawl. There was no other traffic in sight, and I didn’t want Granger to spot my car and get suspicious. He pulled past the cones and stopped at the curb, then climbed out without glancing around.

  “Check it out,” I whispered, my heart pounding with excitement. “He’s going into the hospital construction site!”

  The future site of the Granger Children’s Hospital was little more than a maze of support beams with a few temporary plywood walls here and there. Piles of concrete, lumber, and stone sat everywhere, and pale gray plaster dust coated everything, giving the area the look of a moon colony beneath the dim gleam of the setting sun. As we watched, Granger walked right into the heart of the construction site, carefully stepping around the worst of the debris in his business suit and expensive leather shoes.

  “What in the world is he doing here at this hour?” George asked in confusion.

  I parked haphazardly in the nearest available spot at the curb, almost flattening a road cone in the process. “Don’t you get it?” I whispered. “This must be where he’s keeping Leslie! It’s the perfect place to hide someone!”

  Unfortunately it wasn’t the perfect place to follow someone, as I soon discovered. My friends and I scurried after our quarry, but it wasn’t easy keeping him in sight without being spotted. The support beams weren’t large enough to provide much cover, and the debris littering the ground at every step made it difficult to move quietly.

  I winced as Bess tripped over a pile of boards, and they fell with a loud clatter. “Ow!” she whispered, grabbing her foot.

  “Get down,” I hissed, yanking her behind a stack of cement blocks.

  George crouched next to us. “Do you think he heard?” she breathed in my ear.

  All I could do was shrug. I leaned forward, listening closely for any hint of footsteps moving in our direction. When there was no sound from ahead, I let out a sigh of relief. “I think we’re okay,” I whispered.

  When I peered out from our hiding place, Granger was nowhere to be seen. “Uh-oh,” George whispered in my ear. “Looks like we lost him.”

  “Maybe we should go back,” Bess whispered. “He has to come back to his car. Maybe we could just wait, and follow him then.”

  I glanced at her in disbelief. “Are you kidding?” I whispered. “This could be our big chance to find Leslie! We’ve got to keep moving.”

  “I don’t know,” George put in. “This is getting a little freaky. Maybe one of us should go back to the car and call for help or something, while the others wait here to keep an eye on Granger.”

  “How can we keep an eye on him when we don’t know where he went?” I argued. “Come on, we’re wasting time!”

  Bess looked skeptical. “I don’t know, Nancy,” she said. “I think maybe we should—”

  She never got to finish her sentence. “Hey!” Morris Granger exclaimed, staring down at us from the top of the cement pile. “What are you doing here?”

  A New Direction

  I gulped as Granger clambered down toward us. We were busted!

  Bess and George started whispering wildly, desperately concocting any sort of cover story they could come up with. Bess seemed determined to convince Granger that we were just going for a nice evening stroll, while George was attempting some sort of tale about getting a flat tire because of all the construction out on the street. Neither one of them was making much sense.

  Granger just gazed at them, looking confused. I decided it was time to try a more direct approach.

  “We were following you,” I told him boldly. Things had gone far enough. We were out of time—now we needed some real answers. “We know that Leslie Simmons is missing, and we think you might know where she is.”

  He stared at me. My friends fixed their eyes on me as well, silenced by my audacity. I held my breath, realizing belatedly that my accusation might not have been the wisest move in the world. After all, we were just three ordinary girls, unarmed in a deserted construction site with a man who might possibly be a ruthless kidnapper.…

  But instead of looking angry, Granger seemed more perplexed than ever. “Leslie Simmons?” he repeated blankly. “Are you telling me that lovely, talented girl who plays the piano so beautifully is… missing? As in, gone?”

  I hesitated, taken by surprise. “Of course she is,” I said. “Um…”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, young lady,” Granger exclaimed. “Tell me everything!”

  Startled by his unexpected reply, I blurted out the few details I knew—seeing the Simmonses arguing on the street, Leslie’s odd absence from the recital, and the rest of it.

  Granger listened intently, seeming shocked by each part of the story. “Hmm,” he said at last. “But what makes you think she’s truly missing, and not just off practicing, as her teacher said?”

  I shrugged. “I guess we won’t know for sure until that audition tomorrow morning,” I admitted, quickly explaining about the conservatory’s scholarship. Again, the man seemed honestly surprised. But was he just a good actor?

  Granger grabbed me by the arm. I squeaked, startled by the sudden movement. Beside me, I heard Bess gasp.

  “Come on,” Granger said urgently, turning and dragging me back in the direction of the street. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this right now.
I think it’s time to talk to the Simmonses.”

  Soon my friends and I were standing on the Simmonses’ front porch as Granger rapped briskly at their door. I snuck a peek at my watch—it was almost nine o’clock.

  A moment later the door opened and Clay Simmons stood before us, looking startled.

  “Hello,” he said, peering at us uncertainly. “Um, can I help you?”

  Granger jabbed a thumb in my general direction. “This young lady just informed me that your daughter seems to be missing,” he said without preamble. “Is that true?”

  Clay gaped at him for a moment, then turned and stared at me. I saw recognition dawn in his eyes. He glanced behind him into the house. “Heather!” he called. “I think you’d better come out here.”

  Seconds later Heather Simmons appeared at her husband’s side. “Why, hello there, Morris, girls,” she said uncertainly. “What can I do for you this evening?”

  Morris Granger repeated his question. Heather Simmons blinked, but she recovered quickly from her own surprise. “Why don’t all of you come inside?”

  She led the way into a cozy den off the front hall. A classical recording was playing softly in the background. I wondered idly if it might be Leslie’s school orchestra. Soon we were all seated—all except for Granger, who paced restlessly in front of the fireplace.

  “Now,” he said briskly, “let’s get down to business. Miss Drew here seems to think your daughter might be in some trouble—perhaps even kidnapped. If that’s true, I want to help however I can. I’d like to put up a ten-thousand-dollar reward for her safe return. Just give me the go-ahead, and I’ll make sure the information is plastered all over town by tomorrow morning.”

  Heather and Clay Simmons appeared a little overwhelmed. “Oh, Morris,” Heather said. “We really appreciate such a wonderful, generous offer. But the truth is, we’re not even certain that anything is wrong.”

  I saw her exchange a glance with her husband. Deep worry lines were etched on both their faces. Whether they were certain anything was wrong or not, I could tell they were fearing the worst.

  “Please, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons,” I spoke up earnestly. “Could you just tell us what’s going on? Maybe we could help somehow.”

  Heather Simmons gave me a slightly suspicious glance. “How did you get involved in this, anyway?” she asked. “Did your father say something to you?”

  “No!” I exclaimed immediately, realizing what she was thinking. “I swear, Dad hasn’t breathed a word to me. I really figured it out.”

  Sort of, anyway, I added in my mind, with a guilty peek at Morris Granger. The more time I spent with him, the more certain I was that he didn’t have anything to do with Leslie’s disappearance.

  Meanwhile Heather Simmons sighed and glanced at her husband. “Well,” she said after a moment, “we’re not even certain that there’s anything to worry about. Leslie simply disappeared over the weekend, leaving only a note.”

  “A note that didn’t look like it was written in her handwriting,” Clay Simmons broke in with a frown.

  His wife nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Sort of scribbled though—like she was in a hurry.”

  “What did the note say?” George asked curiously, beating me to the question.

  “Just three words: ‘I’ll be back,’” Clay replied. “And signed with her name.” He shrugged. “At first we assumed she had just gone somewhere for the afternoon. But when she hadn’t turned up by dinnertime, and then by bedtime, we naturally started to worry.”

  “Naturally,” Morris Granger said, nodding sympathetically.

  Heather smiled at him; then her expression turned anxious again. “We weren’t sure what to do,” she said. “At first we didn’t want to run to the police in case it was just a misunderstanding or something. But when she hadn’t turned up by Sunday night—”

  “That’s when we decided we had to do something,” Clay continued. “But by then, the possibility of foul play had crossed our minds. We feared that Leslie might be in greater peril if we went to the police.”

  “You can say it, Clay,” Heather told him with the hint of a smile. “I was afraid to go to the police.” She glanced around at the rest of us. “My husband wanted to talk to them, especially after we spoke with your father about it, Nancy. He urged us to go straight to Chief McGinnis and tell him everything. But I still thought it was better to wait, in case we heard from the kidnappers, or from Leslie herself. Now I wonder if we’ve waited too long. If it’s too late.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. “Who would want to hurt poor Leslie—or our family? And why?”

  Morris Granger finally stopped his pacing. He sat down on the couch beside Heather. “It’s all right,” he said kindly, patting her on the hand. “Hang in there. I’m sure she’ll turn up. And my offer stands. I’m a big fan of your daughter’s music, and I would be thrilled to play any part in helping you get her back.”

  “Thank you.” This time it was Clay’s voice that cracked with emotion.

  The classical music was still playing in the background as Mr. and Mrs. Simmons showed us to the door a few minutes later. The melancholy notes of a cello solo reflected my discouraged mood as I bid Mr. and Mrs. Simmons good night and followed my friends out to my car, which was parked behind Granger’s sedan at the curb.

  Now what? It was pretty clear to me that Mr. Granger was innocent—which meant I’d lost my number-one suspect. No, make that my only suspect. We were no closer to finding Leslie than we’d been when this all started. But there had to be a way to solve this.… What was I missing?

  My friends were quiet as we waved good-bye to Mr. Granger and climbed into my car. It took me two tries to start the engine; I was so deep in thought that I forgot to put the car into gear before stepping on the gas.

  “Try to remember how to drive long enough to get us home, okay, Nancy?” George said with a yawn from the backseat. “Oh, and wake me up when we get there.”

  I caught myself humming a simple melody under my breath as I drove through the quiet, darkened residential streets toward George’s house. For a moment I wasn’t sure where the tune had come from. Then I realized it was the cello solo I’d just heard playing at the Simmons house.

  Suddenly I gasped as an image of a cello flashed in my head. I leaped in my seat, jamming my shoulder against the seat belt and accidentally hitting both the gas and the brake at the same time. The engine let out a loud, protesting crunch and cut out, stalling in the middle of the street.

  “That’s it!” I cried out excitedly. “I’ve got it!”

  A New Clue

  What? What’s wrong?” Bess yelped.

  I grinned at them sheepishly, realizing that they had both been dozing off as I drove. “Sorry,” I said, carefully starting the engine again. “Didn’t mean to startle you. But listen—I think I know how to find Leslie.”

  “Really?” George sounded skeptical.

  “We’ve been looking at it all wrong,” I explained, pulling over to the curb and putting the car in park so I could talk to them. “This whole time, I’ve been assuming that someone wanted Leslie to disappear to distract her mother from the mayoral paperwork deadline. But I just realized—it isn’t about politics at all. It’s about music!”

  In the dim glow of the streetlight, Bess looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  I twisted around to look at George. “Remember that woman I was talking to at the recital?” I asked her. “Mrs. Sharon?”

  George shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “We joked around about her name. Why?”

  “Her daughter Diane is a cello player,” I reminded her. “But think about it: There was no cellist playing at the recital, remember?”

  “I remember that,” Bess said, looking confused. “But who is this Sharon person?”

  I quickly explained. “So anyway,” I went on, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, “why wouldn’t Diane Sharon be at the recital? Maybe she was off practicing for the scholarship auditions too.”
/>   “But what does all this mean, Nancy?” George asked with a shrug. “You’re not saying that Diane Sharon kidnapped Leslie, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “But I think we ought to go talk to her parents and see what they know about all this. Do you have your handheld computer with you, George?”

  “Of course.” George reached into her bag.

  George looked up the Sharons’ address on her handheld computer, and I put the car in drive again. Bess still seemed worried.

  “But what are we going to say to them?” she said. “It’s almost ten P.M.—we can’t just go barging in there accusing them of stuff without any proof.”

  I shrugged. “We’ll worry about what to say when we get there,” I told her grimly. “If we want Leslie to make it to that audition tomorrow morning at eight fifteen, we’ve got to act now.”

  Unfortunately it took us quite a while to find the right house. The Sharons lived at 970 Maplewood Street, but the tiny screen on George’s minicomputer had shortened the address, so we spent way too long driving around on Maple Street looking for an address that didn’t exist. By the time we finally realized our mistake and found the right street, it was after ten thirty.

  Maplewood Street was located in a fancy new subdivision on the outskirts of town, and number 970 turned out to be an opulent home set on an acre of lush grass on a corner lot. When we pulled into the driveway, we saw that there were lights on downstairs.

  “At least we won’t be waking them up,” Bess said.

  We climbed out of the car and hurried to the front door. I raised my hand to knock.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” George asked.

  I didn’t bother to answer her. Instead I rapped sharply on the door several times. A moment later a teenage girl opened the door and stared out at us, her jaw moving steadily as she chewed gum.

  “Diane?” I asked.

  “No,” the girl replied, tossing her long, blond ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m Rachel. The baby-sitter.”