Bess gave Nancy a quizzical look. “Where are you going?”
“There are a few things I want to find out. I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?” Before they could answer, Nancy was halfway across the floor and then out the door. She stopped in the lobby just long enough to look up the address of the Maywood police department and buy a local map from the convenience store in the lobby.
Twenty minutes later Nancy was standing in the coroner’s office, talking to a woman behind the front desk.
“Hi, I’m from the River Heights Morning Enquirer,” Nancy fibbed. “We’re doing a report on Curtis Taylor’s death, and I was wondering if I could take a peek at the report that was filed when he died.”
The secretary looked at Nancy, then shook her head and mumbled under her breath, “I wish I had a dollar for every person who’s asked to see that report this week. Wait here and I’ll get it.”
The woman ambled through a door at the rear of the reception area, then returned a few minutes later with a one-page report, which she handed to Nancy. “Here it is, for what it’s worth.”
Nancy’s practiced eyes went right to the crucial section: “Subject died as a result of head and chest injuries sustained in a one-vehicle accident, around 8:45 P.M. Blood alcohol content insignificant at .03 percent, equivalent to one drink. Subject’s wife confirms he had one drink, his habitual nightly bourbon, at 8:00 P.M. This information conforms to our office’s findings. We conclude blood alcohol content did not contribute to subject’s death. Car was found to be without defect. Brakes were in working order. Conclusion: Death was accidental and instantaneous.”
The report was signed by someone named Dexter Mobley. “Is Mr. Mobley in?” Nancy asked after she’d handed the paper back to the secretary.
“Oh, no. He retired. Soon after Curtis Taylor died, in fact,” the receptionist told Nancy.
Nancy frowned. “Does he live in town?”
The other woman shook her head. “He’s in a nursing home called Windemere House. It’s up on Overview Terrace.”
“Thanks,” Nancy told her with a smile. “You’ve been very helpful.”
With a shrug the secretary returned to her desk. “I don’t know why you newspeople can’t leave well enough alone,” she muttered.
Nancy went back outside and got in her car. It was growing dark, and in the deepening shadows she mulled over the report she’d just read. It had left her disturbed and confused. It was incredibly short and uninformative, especially considering the fame of its subject.
What now? Curtis’s accident had taken place on Route 459, Nancy remembered from her conversation with Louisa. Near some stream—Maywood Creek, that was it. Flicking on the overhead light, Nancy consulted her map, then drove to the site.
As cars whizzed by, she pulled over next to the guardrail and parked, putting on her emergency flashers. There, off to the right, the gully where Curtis Taylor had met his untimely death was a pitch-black wedge between the grayer shadows of the surrounding slopes. At the gully’s edge, lit up by Nancy’s car headlights, was a plaque. Getting out of her car, Nancy walked over to the sign and read:
At this spot Curtis Taylor, the greatest country-western entertainer in music history, met his tragic death. His fans will never forget him. He will live eternally in our hearts.
Nancy looked down the steep slope into the gully, then back at the road where her car waited, its flashers winking. A chill went through her.
How could a sober man possibly drive off that highway? Nancy wondered. It was fairly straight along the stretch. And why was the coroner’s report so scanty? For five years those questions had been buried along with Curtis. Now Nancy was determined to find the answers. But the biggest question of all was, Who wanted Curtis Taylor dead?
Chapter
Four
THANK GOODNESS you’re back!” Louisa called from her dining room when Nancy walked in the front door. “We were worried about you.”
Going back to the dining room, Nancy found George, Bess, and Louisa putting plates of pork chops, beans, and salad on the table.
“Where were you, Nan?” George asked. “One minute you were at the party, and the next you were gone.”
“I checked out the coroner’s report on Curtis,” Nancy said, taking her place at the table. “Also, I took a ride up Route four-fifty-nine.”
A dark cloud passed over Louisa’s face when she heard where Nancy had been, and she asked, “Where Curtis died? Did you learn anything?”
“Frankly, not much,” Nancy answered with a weary sigh as she unfolded her napkin. “The report was really brief, but I wasn’t able to talk to the coroner to find out why. How was the party?”
“Wild!” Bess answered, passing Nancy a large wooden salad bowl. “Tyrone gave us passes to Friday’s dress rehearsal. Isn’t that fantastic? And he asked me to be his personal assistant tomorrow.”
George gave her cousin a teasing look, saying, “The emphasis of the job is definitely on the personal part.”
Nancy grinned at Bess. “Great! What are you going to do for him?”
“Well, I’m going to keep track of his schedule. And if he wants a glass of water or something during a rehearsal, I’ll get it. He said when I’m around he feels really good about himself. He even offered to pay me, but I said no. Can you believe it?
“Also, Tyrone sang today,” Bess went on excitedly. “And he’s even better in person than on tape.”
“He sang ‘Heartthrob,’ ” Louisa added, reaching for another pork chop, “and another one, called, ‘Everything I Learned from You.’ It’s about Curtis, you can just tell.”
“He was great,” George agreed.
“Oh, and we talked to Malcolm Coleman and Billy Rutteridge,” Bess said. “They both said they were at home with their wives the night Curtis died.”
Nothing very interesting there, Nancy thought. She finished cutting herself a piece of bread, then looked at her friends, a serious expression in her blue eyes. “Well, I decided one thing today,” she said. “I’m going to find out exactly what happened to Curtis Taylor five years ago.”
Glancing at her cousin, George said, “But you’re going to let us help you, aren’t you?”
“Don’t I always?” Nancy said with a grin.
• • •
“Come on, George,” Nancy said the next morning after breakfast as she flipped through the pages of the Maywood phone book. “We’ve got a lawyer and a coroner to see.”
“Have a great day, you two,” Bess said, finishing her English muffin. “I know I will. Do I look okay?”
“Definitely,” George said, glancing at the oversize pink sweater Bess was wearing over a short black skirt, with black and white striped tights and black ankle boots. Turning to Nancy, George asked, “Which lawyer are we going to see again?”
“Philip Hayward. The lawyer Curtis wrote that note to,” Nancy answered. “When Louisa wakes up, tell her where we went, okay, Bess? Is she going with you to the Civic Center today?”
Bess shook her head. “She said something about getting her hair done and buying an outfit for Saturday’s concert. She’ll meet us back here tonight for dinner.”
After saying goodbye, Nancy and George went out to Nancy’s car and drove downtown. They parked in front of a building a dozen stories high, checked the directory in the lobby, then rode the elevator to Philip Hayward’s law office on the tenth floor.
At first Hayward’s secretary told the girls he wouldn’t be able to see them. But when Nancy produced the note Curtis Taylor had written the night before his death, an empty space appeared in the lawyer’s schedule. Soon Nancy and George were being ushered into an office with an Oriental rug and shiny brass lamps.
Mr. Hayward, a rotund man of about fifty, with silvery white hair and intense dark eyes; sat behind his wide desk, holding the note in his hands.
“Who are you, and where did you get this?” he asked gruffly, frowning at them over his reading glasses as he held Curtis’s no
te.
Nancy introduced herself and George. Then they sat down and told him about how they’d found the tape and the letter.
“Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew,” the attorney repeated, as if he might have heard her name before. “Are you any relation to—”
“Carson Drew? He’s my father,” Nancy replied.
Hayward smiled for the first time since the girls had entered his office. “How is Carson?” he exclaimed heartily. “I haven’t seen him since the last Bar Association convention.”
After telling him that her father was fine, Nancy said, “Mr. Hayward, we’re concerned about this note, and about Curtis Taylor’s death.”
The lawyer’s expression grew serious again. “I knew something was troubling Curtis before he died. We had an appointment for the morning after his death, in fact. I guess he was going to give me these things then.” Shaking his head in amazement, he added, “I never would have guessed that someone was trying to kill him, though.”
“Is there anyone you know of who might have wanted to do him harm?” Nancy added.
Hayward blew out his breath. “Well, I certainly don’t want to accuse anyone of a crime he or she may not have committed.” He gave Nancy and George a long look, then said, “This is strictly off the record, you understand. One person that comes to my mind is J. J. Rahmer.”
Nancy tried to remember who J. J. Rahmer was. “Curtis’s manager? Why him?”
“J.J. was Curtis’s first manager,” the lawyer explained. “Before I became Curtis’s lawyer, he’d signed a terrible contract with J.J. A full forty percent of every dollar that Curtis earned went to Rahmer.”
“Wow!” George interjected. “That’s a lot.”
“It’s highway robbery, that’s what it is,” Hayward insisted. “I tried everything I could to get Curtis out of the contract, but it was ironclad. Curtis told me they had some pretty heavy fights about it, too.”
“Wouldn’t J.J. want his client alive and well, though?” Nancy asked, frowning.
The lawyer snorted, shaking his head in disgust. “I know this sounds crazy, but believe it or not, Curtis Taylor is worth as much to J.J. dead as he was alive. Even today, five years after his death, Curtis is a top-selling artist. And with Curtis gone, J.J. doesn’t need his approval for any deals he might want to make, either.”
Finally this case was going somewhere, Nancy thought. “Is there anyone else Curtis had problems with?” she asked.
Philip Hayward leaned back in his swivel chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Well, I wouldn’t say that Spike Wilson was very fond of Curtis, not at the end, anyway. You see, Spike would miss rehearsals and show up late for recording sessions. Finally it got so bad that Curtis had to fire him and get another drummer. On the other hand, I’m fairly sure Spike was in the hospital the night Curtis died.”
“What about Melanie Taylor?” Nancy asked. “Did she and Curtis have any problems that you know of?”
“Ah, the lovely Melanie,” Hayward murmured. “A complex woman. Some people say she’d kill her own mother if it would help her career. Well, I know Curtis’s fans were disappointed when he married her, because she comes off a little cold. But Curtis loved her—he told me so many times.”
“But did she love him?” George wondered.
“That I can’t rightly say,” the lawyer answered. Glancing at his watch, he added, “I have a case to prepare, so if you’ll excuse me now . . .”
Nancy and George quickly got to their feet. “You’ve been great, Mr. Hayward,” Nancy said. “Thanks for talking to us.”
“Let me offer you a little free advice,” Hayward said, coming around his desk to walk the girls to the door. “As far as the law is concerned, Curtis Taylor’s death was a certified accident. And maybe they’re right. So don’t go stepping on anybody’s toes. Lawsuits are no fun at all.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Nancy assured him. “Thanks again.”
With that the girls left the office and headed back to Nancy’s car.
“Well, Nan. You’ve definitely got a few suspects to check out,” George said. “Where to now? Do you still want to talk to the coroner?”
Nancy nodded. “There’s a map of Maywood in the glove compartment, George. Could you get it out and look up Overview Terrace? That’s where Dexter Mobley lives, in a place called Windemere House.”
When they got to Mobley’s home, George shook her head in confusion. “I don’t get it, Nancy,” she said. “Coroners don’t make that much money, do they? So how can this guy be spending his retirement years in a place for the ultrarich?”
Nancy looked up at the huge flagstone building on its beautifully landscaped grounds. “Maybe he comes from a rich family.”
Parking in the visitors’ lot, the two girls got out and headed for the building. Inside the reception area Nancy asked to see Dexter Mobley, telling the nurse that she was Mobley’s grandniece. The girls followed the nurse down a hall.
“Here he is,” the nurse announced cheerfully a few minutes later as she opened the door of a sun-filled room. “Your grandniece and her friend have come to see you, Mr. Mobley.”
“Well, now,” the old man said from his bed, eyeing the girls once the nurse had left. He was bald, with a sallow, unhealthy pallor and pale gray eyes. When he talked, Nancy could detect a slight wheeze.
“I didn’t think I had a grandniece. Who, may I ask, are you?”
“Nancy Drew. If you don’t mind, Mr. Mobley, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your report on Curtis Taylor’s death.”
Her statement could not have had a more dramatic effect. Mobley’s face froze, losing what little color it had. “I have nothing to say about that,” he growled. “Who sent you here?”
“Mr. Mobley,” Nancy went on, ignoring the question, “we’ve discovered new information that leads us to believe Curtis Taylor may have been murdered. If we could know a little more about your report, we might—”
Nancy never got the chance to finish. The old man started shaking. With great effort he raised himself up on his elbows and glared at Nancy. “Are you accusing me of a cover-up? Well, you’ll never be able to prove it!”
Nancy shot George a significant look. She hadn’t even mentioned a cover-up. So why was Dexter Mobley getting so worked up—unless there really had been one?
George let out a horrified gasp as the old man began shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Nurse! Nurse! Call the police. These girls are harassing me. They’re trying to give me a heart attack!”
Chapter
Five
AS DEXTER MOBLEY RAGED, Nancy grabbed hold of a notepad near his bed and quickly jotted down Louisa’s number.
“Nurse! Nurse!” Mobley screamed. “I said get them out of here!”
Trying to remain calm, Nancy put the pad back. “If you change your mind about talking,” she told him, “I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator, and my name is Nancy Drew. This is our number.”
“Call the police!” he shouted.
“Come on, Nancy! Let’s get out of here!” George cried, taking hold of her arm and pulling her toward the door.
The two girls fled for the exit, ignoring the calls of the nurse at the reception desk.
Once they were safely in Nancy’s car and driving away from the nursing home, they couldn’t help bursting out in relieved laughter.
“Nancy Drew,” George said in a mock scolding tone, “you get me in more trouble.”
“That was pretty intense,” Nancy said.
“I’ll say,” George added. Growing more serious, she said, “I can’t believe he went bananas like that. Why did he say that about a cover-up? Do you think there could have been a payoff? Maybe that’s how he’s able to live in such a posh place.”
Nancy nodded. “I was thinking the same thing, George.”
After a quick lunch in a fast-food place, Nancy and George drove to the Civic Center to tell Bess and Tyrone what they had found out.
<
br /> They parked in the crowded lot, and Nancy led the way to the huge, arched entrance. After pulling open a wide glass door, the two girls stepped into the Civic Center lobby. The center had a wall of glass that shot up at least three stories, with escalators going to top levels. From the upper tier gigantic crystal chandeliers were suspended in the air. “This place is beautiful,” Nancy said.
“Oh, no,” George said, eyeing the crowds. Security guards were turning everyone away at the entrance to the auditorium. “I hope they’ll let us in.”
“Sorry, folks,” Nancy heard one guard say. “You’ll have to wait for tomorrow to see the show.”
The girls went over to the auditorium door, where they were stopped by a security guard wearing a light gray uniform. “May I help you?” he asked.
“We’re meeting a friend inside,” Nancy said.
A dubious look crossed the man’s face. “You and everybody else,” he said with a sigh. “Sorry, girls. We’re closed to the public today. There’s a technical rehearsal going on in there.”
Nancy was about to explain further when George called, “Eddie!” Turning, Nancy saw the tall, blond guy George had been dancing with at the press party walking through the lobby toward them.
Eddie’s face lit up the minute he saw George. “Hi! Are you here to see me?” he asked, looking flattered. “They’re okay, Jim,” he said to the guard, who stepped aside so they could pass.
The girls exchanged a pleased look as they followed Eddie down the red-carpeted aisle toward the stage. Onstage a crew of about a dozen were setting up a series of huge mirrored balls, with multicolored mirrored backdrops.
“Wow, what a concert this is going to be,” Nancy said, looking around.
With a smile Eddie said, “Pretty nice, huh? So what can I do for you two?”
“Actually, we’re looking for our friend Bess,” George told him. “Do you remember her from the party? She’s short, with straight blond hair?”