“Oh, I see the tombstone,” George said, looking out her side of the car. “I recognize it from a million pictures.”
Craning her neck, Nancy took a look. The tombstone, on the part of the estate open to the public, was an ornately carved block of granite next to a stone sculpture in the shape of a guitar. “So many people,” she murmured. “And look at all those buildings the fans are going in and out of. Millions of fans must pour through here every year.”
As Nancy followed Tyrone’s limo past a small stand of pine trees, the mansion came into view. It was an immense, stately stone structure, with pillars and a slate roof.
“Whoa,” George murmured. “Talk about awesome.”
“How’d you like to come home to this every day?” Nancy joked. She pulled to a stop next to Tyrone’s limousine, and she and George got out of the car.
“Welcome to my home sweet home,” Tyrone said. “This way in.” He gallantly held his arm out, motioning for them to walk ahead.
“Oh, Nancy,” Bess whispered as they walked toward the entrance. “Isn’t this the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to you? Tyrone is so sweet. I mean, he’s an entertainer, but he’s so down to earth and funny.”
Nancy arched a brow at George, who grinned and said, “Sounds like she’s got a crush, Nan.”
“You guys!” Bess protested, blushing.
Just then the door swung open in front of them, held by a butler with slicked-back gray hair, wearing a dark green uniform with polished brass buttons. “Hi there, Vickers!” Tyrone called out.
“Good day, sir,” the butler said levelly.
“Vickers runs this place practically single-handed,” Tyrone explained. “He’s been here forever.”
From behind the servant a tall, thin man with long, straight brown hair, brown eyes, and a small silver earring stepped out.
“Hi, Spike,” Tyrone said, smiling.
Spike nodded briefly at Tyrone but ignored Nancy, Bess, George, and Louisa as he walked off across the lawn, toward a nearby gazebo.
“That’s Spike Wilson,” Louisa murmured.
“You mean Curtis’s drummer?” George inquired.
Tyrone nodded. “He doesn’t play anymore, not since he smashed his wrist in that car accident. Now he works here helping to manage Greenwood—you know, calling the plumber, filling in when the gardener goes on vacation, stuff like that. Melanie felt sorry for him, I guess, so she gave him a job. She’s got a warm heart, my aunt does.” Nancy thought she detected a note of sarcasm in Tyrone’s voice, but she wasn’t sure.
“Oh, Nancy!” Bess gasped as they stepped inside. “Isn’t this fabulous?”
Nancy had to agree. And from the wonder in George’s and Louisa’s eyes, Nancy could tell they were awestruck, too. The front hall had a black-and-white checkered marble floor, a huge bouquet of fresh flowers on a carved pedestal, a crystal chandelier, and beautiful pale pink silk covering the walls. The wide hallway seemed to stretch almost endlessly to the sweeping marble staircase that curved toward the second level.
“I must have been to Greenwood a thousand times, but I never thought I’d get to see the private part of the estate,” Louisa gushed. “I’ve seen it in so many photos. There’s a famous picture of Curtis and Melanie standing on these steps the day they were married.”
“Speaking of the lovely Melanie . . .” Tyrone said, his eyes glancing up the stairs. This time there was no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice.
Nancy followed his gaze and saw a beautiful blond woman descending the stairs. She was informally dressed in a pair of white leggings and an oversize T-shirt with padded shoulders and a beaded design on the front. Nonetheless, Melanie Taylor carried herself with dignity and grace. The only thing out of place in her picture-perfect looks was the angry scowl on her face.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing guests into my home,” Melanie snapped at Tyrone. “It’s bad enough I have to put up with thousands of strangers on the grounds every day. I refuse to turn my house into a museum for the morbidly curious, too. I need my privacy.” With that she stormed back up the stairs.
Tyrone turned to the girls with an uncomfortable smile. “Please don’t take what she said personally. Aunt Melanie is a little tense about the upcoming concert, that’s all.” Clapping his hands together, he said, “Now, why don’t I give you a quick tour before lunch?”
“That Melanie’s a real witch,” Louisa whispered to Nancy as Bess and George walked ahead with Tyrone down a long hallway lined with gold and platinum records in frames. “She just can’t stand it that Curtis left half his estate to Tyrone. But Tyrone can bring in anyone he wants to. The biggest mistake of Curtis’s life was marrying Melanie.”
Melanie hadn’t exactly been welcoming, but in Nancy’s book that didn’t make her a witch. Nancy couldn’t help wondering if Louisa’s remarks were prompted by jealousy. She would probably disapprove of any woman Curtis Taylor married.
Tyrone showed them the formal living room first. “Please be careful not to disturb anything here,” he told the girls, gesturing to the room’s beautiful furniture, marble fireplace, and elegant wooden bar. “Everything’s been left exactly as it was the night Uncle Curtis passed on.” He shrugged, explaining, “That’s for the benefit of some historical group that’s allowed in for a tour once every year.”
Then Tyrone led them down another hallway, where he stopped in front of a set of double doors. “This was Uncle Curtis’s studio suite,” Tyrone said, throwing open the doors. “He created all his music here. At Melanie’s request, everything has been left exactly as it was the night he passed on. Please be careful not to disturb anything.”
The girls and Louisa went through the doors. Inside was a large study, with a desk, some shelves, and leather sofas and recliners. A movie screen, a large shelf of cataloged records, and more framed awards hung from the walls. Through an interior window they saw the studio itself.
“What’s behind that door?” Nancy asked, pointing to a door next to the movie screen.
“That was Uncle Curtis’s closet,” Tyrone explained. “He kept his costumes there.”
Bess spun around, taking it all in. “Here we are in Curtis Taylor’s private studio,” she said. “Unbelievable!”
Walking over to the costume closet, Tyrone said, “As long as we’re here, maybe you ladies could help me out with something. I have a costume check back at the Civic Center this afternoon, and I haven’t even decided what to wear yet.”
Tyrone pulled out a key, then unlocked the door and led them inside.
“Uncle Curtis left me all of his costumes,” the young singer explained as he fingered one and then another. With all their sequins and spangles, the different-colored outfits made a dazzling display. “His dream was that I’d follow in his footsteps as a performer.”
Bess looked around in awe. “Wow,” she said. “This closet is bigger than my whole bedroom.”
Smiling at Bess, Tyrone said, “Uncle Curtis did have a lot of costumes. This will be the first time I’ve worn one, though. I guess I feel a little funny wearing his clothes. He was like a father to me,” he added, his voice growing husky.
He shook his head in amazement. “I guess that’s one reason I’m not sure about those impersonators. They give me the creeps.”
“You mean, you haven’t hired them yet?” George asked.
“Not yet,” Tyrone said, looking concerned. “There’s another reason, too. This concert could be my big break, but if everybody’s talking about the Curtis look-alikes . . .”
Nancy nodded. “I see what you mean,” she said. “Then you wouldn’t get much exposure.”
“Hey,” said Bess, who’d been looking through the clothes. “This would look dynamite on you.” She held up a gold lamé cowboy suit. “It would set off your black hair and green eyes just great,” she added, her cheeks turning red.
Taking the suit from her, Tyrone held it up to a mirror to look at it. “I wonder how the jacket will fit,” he s
aid, frowning at his reflection. “Uncle Curtis was a little more muscular than I am.”
Tyrone put on the jacket and faced the mirror again. “Fits perfectly. Good choice, Bess,” he said. “Except . . .” He frowned, patting a thick lump in the jacket’s right pocket.
“Hey, what’s this?” he murmured, pulling a thick envelope from the pocket. “It’s addressed to Philip Hayward. That’s my uncle’s lawyer,” he explained. “And it’s in Uncle Curtis’s handwriting. Maybe I should take a peek.”
He opened the envelope and took out a cassette tape, a folded-over piece of paper with musical notations on it, and a note written in script.
“ ‘Dear Philip,’ ” Tyrone read, “ ‘in the event of anything happening to me suddenly and unexpectedly, please give the contents of this envelope to my nephew, Tyrone.’ ”
Sighing, Tyrone said, “It’s signed ‘Curtis.’ ”
Nancy looked over Tyrone’s shoulder as he unfolded the second sheet, which consisted of musical notations and a lyric written out in block print.
“It’s a song called ‘Melanie,’ ” Tyrone announced, after looking quickly at it. “I’ll bet this is what’s on the cassette. Let’s have a listen.”
Tyrone led them back into the studio, where he popped the tape into a cassette player that sat on top of a large control board.
But as the sound came on, it quickly became clear that the tape wasn’t a recording of a song at all. Instead, Curtis Taylor’s unmistakably rough voice filled the room, speaking in a hushed, worried tone: “Tyrone, somebody’s out to kill me. Please believe me, because I’m as certain of this as I am of anything. In case anything happens to me, I want you to know who the person is. It’s—”
On the tape there came the sudden sound of someone knocking, as a clock struck eight. “Coming,” said Curtis’s voice.
And that was all. They let the tape run, but there was nothing else. Nancy felt an ominous sensation in the pit of her stomach, and she exchanged an uncomfortable look with her friends.
“I guess he never got to finish it,” Louisa said hesitantly.
“Unless . . .” Tyrone’s face went white, and his hand flew to his cheek. “Does this mean the car crash wasn’t an accident? Could it be that Uncle Curtis was murdered?”
Chapter
Three
I’VE GOT TO HEAR that tape again,” Tyrone said, quickly pressing the rewind button. The dead man’s message came on, and Nancy and her friends all listened to it intently once more.
Curtis spoke in the same hushed, desperate tone. “. . . who the person is. It’s—” As the clock on the tape struck eight, Nancy glanced around the studio and looked through the interior window to the study. Spotting an antique wooden clock on the wall, she walked over to it and advanced the hands to the next hour—noon. The chime was identical to the one on the tape. After resetting the clock, Nancy rejoined the others.
“That cassette was recorded right here in this studio,” Nancy said. “When the knock came, Curtis must have gone into his dressing closet and hidden the tape, along with the other stuff you found.”
Tyrone gave Nancy a quizzical look. “Why wouldn’t he just put it in whatever he was wearing?”
Nancy shrugged. “You saw what a big bulge the envelope made in his pocket. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to find it, including the person who knocked on the door. So he put it where he could find it later.”
“Except he never got to it,” George finished with a shiver.
Nancy gave Tyrone and her friends a meaningful look. “My guess would be that he died before he had a chance to. Tyrone, I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything about this to anyone yet. The person who wanted to kill Curtis could be someone you know.”
Tyrone nodded soberly.
Louisa, who had been standing rigid and silent for all of this, suddenly began shaking. “According to all the articles, Curtis died not long after eight, the time in the tape,” she whispered. “Maybe someone killed him right after he taped that. Oh, this is too horrible.”
“Tyrone, could you play the song for us?” Nancy suggested. “Since it was with the letter, it could be a clue. Maybe it’ll tell us something.”
He quickly moved to the electronic keyboard next to the tape deck. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Nancy’s a detective, Tyrone,” Bess told him. “A really good one.”
Giving Nancy a shaky smile, Tyrone said, “Well, isn’t that lucky for me. Maybe you’ll be able to help me figure all this out.”
“I’d be happy to,” Nancy said. “Mind if I hold on to that note for a little while?”
“Just take good care of it,” Tyrone said, handing her the letter his uncle had written to the lawyer and the envelope it had come in.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Nancy said.
Spreading the music sheet out flat in front of him, Tyrone poised his fingers on the keys, ready to play. But before he could begin, there was a knock at the door.
Louisa went over and opened it. Spike Wilson stood in the doorway with a cordless telephone in his hand. “Ty, Platinum Entertainment is on the phone,” he said. “They say it’s urgent.” Giving Nancy and her friends a curious look, Spike handed the phone to the young singer, then walked out of the studio.
Tyrone put his ear to the phone and said hello, then listened with a look of annoyance on his face. “Okay, I’ll be there,” he said into the receiver. “I said I’ll be there!” Then he put down the phone and turned to the girls.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to cancel lunch. I’ve got to get to the Civic Center right away,” he told them all. “They’ve moved up the time of the costume check, and then there’s going to be a party for the bands and the press.”
Bess’s blue eyes lit up. “A party? That sounds so exciting.”
Shooting Bess a big smile, Tyrone said, “You’re all invited, of course.”
“Great. Let’s go,” George urged.
“Okay,” Louisa agreed quietly. Her mood had definitely been affected by hearing Curtis Taylor’s voice on the tape, Nancy noticed.
“I’ll check the song out later, when I have time to concentrate on it,” Tyrone said, folding the sheet of music and sticking it in his jeans pocket. Then he took off the gold lamé jacket and put it on the hanger with the rest of the suit. “Come on. We’re out of here.”
• • •
Nancy tapped her foot to the music as a four-piece band played country rock in the second-floor banquet room Tyrone had led the girls to at the Civic Center. Seeing Bess dancing with Tyrone, and George dancing with a tall blond-haired guy, Nancy missed her longtime boyfriend, Ned Nickerson. Louisa seemed subdued, she noticed. Nancy couldn’t get into a party mood, either—she just kept thinking about the tape.
“Louisa, do you know if Curtis Taylor had any enemies?” Nancy asked, pouring a glass of punch.
Louisa bit her lip and shook her head helplessly. “Until this morning I thought I knew everything there was to know about Curtis Taylor. But never in a million years would I have suspected that someone would try to kill him.”
“What happened on the day he died?” Nancy probed. “You must have read all the papers.”
“Oh, I did. Every one of them,” Louisa told her. “The accident happened just before nine o’clock outside Maywood, on Route four-fifty-nine. According to what I read, nobody knew where he was going. He had been home most of the day with Melanie. They had dinner together, and then at around eight-thirty he went out.”
After taking a sip of her punch, Nancy asked, “Did he say why?”
Louisa shrugged. “Melanie said that he told her he had to go meet someone, but he didn’t say who. They found his car the next morning, in a gully near Maywood Creek. It had gone off the road and struck the bank of a ditch. The coroner took Melanie to identify the body. They say Curtis was killed instantly.”
Removing her glasses, Louisa dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and went on. “There was a huge funera
l, attended by thousands of grieving fans, including me, of course. The casket was closed, which is why some people say he never really died, I suppose.” She smiled sheepishly. “Until today, I wasn’t sure he was really gone.”
Nancy quickly went over in her mind what Louisa had just told her. “So according to the articles, nobody saw him dead except for the police, the coroner, and Melanie?”
“I guess,” Louisa said.
The circumstances of Curtis Taylor’s death seemed fairly routine, Nancy thought. On the other hand, the message the singer had left the night he died was anything but routine.
“Why aren’t you two dancing?” Bess asked, coming over to Nancy and Louisa. “There are tons of cute guys here.”
“And they’re all twenty years too young for me,” Louisa put in, chuckling for the first time all afternoon.
Nancy gestured toward where George was still dancing. “Who’s that blond guy with George?” she asked Bess.
“His name is Eddie,” Bess told her. “He’s really sweet. He’s an assistant director here at the Civic Center.”
“Where’s Tyrone?” Louisa asked.
Bess frowned and nodded her head to the left. Without turning to look, she said, “He’s over there giving an interview.” Nancy glanced in the direction Bess indicated and saw Tyrone talking to a pretty, dark-haired girl.
Giving Bess a reassuring pat on the shoulder, Nancy said, “She’s probably just some reporter. He has to talk to those people for publicity.”
“Thanks for saying that, Nan. I hope it’s true,” Bess said, brightening a little. “Oh, look, there’s Malcolm Coleman.” She nodded toward the suite’s door. “He was Curtis’s bass player.”
Louisa whipped her head around, then said, “And that’s Billy Rutteridge walking behind him. He played keyboards for Curtis in the old days, before he became a solo artist.”
Seeing Curtis Taylor’s old band members, Nancy got an idea. “Do me a favor, will you, you two?” Nancy asked Bess and Louisa. “Talk to them. See what you can find out about Curtis and who he might have gone to meet the night he died. I’ll meet you guys at Louisa’s for dinner, okay?”