“You mean Tyrone’s good luck charm?” Eddie said with a laugh. “Sure. Everybody knows Bess.”
Nancy and George grinned at each other. Obviously Bess had made a big impression her first day on the job.
“She and Tyrone just stepped out for some lunch, though,” Eddie continued. “They should be back in a little while. Why don’t you wait out here in the audience? Melanie’s going to be rehearsing one of her tunes.”
“But I thought this was a technical rehearsal,” Nancy said. “Doesn’t that mean it’s just for adjusting the lights and stuff like that?”
“That’s usually true,” Eddie explained, “but Melanie’s a little nervous about performing for a large crowd. She wants the extra rehearsal.”
Onstage the lighting technicians were folding up their ladders as another crew ambled on to set up instruments.
From an unseen microphone Nancy and George heard a firm female voice boom through the concert hall: “I’m going to run a test on those lights while Melanie’s people set up.
“Who’s that?” George asked, looking around for the disembodied voice.
Eddie took George by the shoulders and spun her around so she was facing the back of the concert hall. “See that little window up there?” he said, pointing to it. “My boss, Marjorie Cooper, is up there. She’s the director of the gala.”
Looking toward the stage, Nancy saw the lights begin to change from a yellowish-white glow to a rosy color, then to deep purple.
“Beautiful effect,” said Marjorie Cooper. “Nice work, guys. Since Melanie isn’t here yet, could we have a look at Tyrone’s neon guitar? Is Eddie there?”
With a quick wink for George, Eddie rushed up the aisle and onto the stage. “Here I am, Marge,” he said, waving toward the little window he’d shown George.
“Eddie, would you stand in for Tyrone while we run a lighting test on that neon instrument?” Marjorie asked.
“We might as well have a seat until Bess and Tyrone get back,” Nancy said as Eddie disappeared backstage. She walked up the aisle and plopped down in a plush deep red velvet seat.
Soon Eddie appeared onstage holding a multicolored guitar, and the director’s amplified voice said, “Okay, let’s see what it looks like.”
Suddenly the stage and the hall were plunged into darkness. “What’s going on?” George murmured. An instant later there was a burst of color onstage, all coming from the neon guitar and reflected in the onstage mirrors. “That’s intense,” George said.
“Nice effect,” the director said as the lights came up. “Thank you, Eddie.”
Just then Melanie appeared from the side of the stage, followed by several musicians. She was shading her eyes from the brilliant lights above her. “Marge?” she called, peering up at the back of the immense hall. “Are you ready for me?”
“Sure, Melanie,” the director answered.
Melanie stepped over to where her band had assembled and shared a few words with the keyboard player. Then she walked forward on the stage.
“You’re on right after the Blue Mountain Boys finish,” Marjorie said.
“We’ll start with ‘Losing My Heart,’ ” Melanie said.
“Right,” the director said.
Leaning toward Nancy, George whispered, “Melanie looks so small on that big stage, doesn’t she?”
Nancy’s answer was cut off by Melanie’s band, which began a loud, driving beat that dropped quickly to an urgent hush. Melanie stood center stage, her arms at her sides.
“I didn’t mean to lose my heart,” she began, half singing and half speaking in a quiet whisper. “It just happened that way. . . .” Then her voice swelled to a note that sent goose bumps all up and down Nancy’s arms. “But now I’m lost in the feeling, and it won’t go away!”
“Wow,” Nancy murmured.
Melanie’s voice seemed to sweep over the hall like liquid velvet. “Oh, darlin’, oh, darlin’, let’s make this moment stay . . .’ cause I’m losing my heart to you—ooo!”
For the rest of the song Nancy, George, and everyone else in the hall were absolutely transfixed by the beautiful singer. When Melanie was done, no one applauded. If the others were affected the way I was, Nancy thought, they’re too paralyzed to clap.
“Was that okay, Marge?” Melanie asked when she was finished.
From the booth came a little chuckle. “Not half bad. You’ll do,” the director said.
Instead of exiting backstage, Melanie waved to someone behind where Nancy and George were sitting. Turning around, Nancy noticed a tall, heavyset man with blow-dried blond hair about twenty rows back. He waved to Melanie, and the singer hurried offstage and down the aisle, not noticing Nancy or George. When Nancy turned around again, she saw Melanie falling into the man’s arms. They were sharing a passionate kiss.
George lifted an eyebrow and shot Nancy a look. “Check that out,” she murmured. “I wonder who he is?”
“Nancy! George!” came Bess’s bubbling voice from the stage. “Hi.”
The two girls turned to see Bess and Tyrone waving to them from the stairs leading up to the stage. “Want to come back to Greenwood?” he called out.
“Don’t you have work to do here?” Nancy inquired, getting up and walking toward the huge stage with George.
“My assistant here has arranged for a stand-in to handle it,” Tyrone replied, grinning down at Bess and putting an arm around her. “It’s just a matter of adjusting the lights. Besides . . .” Tyrone’s voice dropped as Nancy and George came closer. “I want to check out that other song, remember? The one we found in my uncle’s closet?”
Bess’s blue eyes were shining as she asked Nancy, “Did you guys find anything out from the coroner or that lawyer?”
After Nancy and George explained what they had found out that day, Tyrone let out a low whistle. “You mean to say it could have been Melanie, J. J. Rahmer, or Spike Wilson who murdered Uncle Curtis? They also happen to be the three people who are at Greenwood all the time. I’m surrounded by potential murderers.”
“J.J.’s staying there, too?” George inquired.
Tyrone nodded. “He’s from Nashville, but he’s going to be staying at the house while Melanie records an album at the studio there, once this gala’s over.”
Nancy looked quickly around the auditorium. “I don’t see Melanie anywhere now. If she’s gone back to Greenwood, maybe I can ask all three of our suspects some questions while we’re there.”
“Let’s get a move on, then,” Tyrone said.
When the group arrived at Greenwood, Vickers hurried out of the mansion to greet them. “Did you forget your photo session, sir?” the butler asked hurriedly. “The photographer’s been here quite some time. He’s waiting in the formal living room. I tried to reach you—”
Bess gasped, saying, “You never mentioned any photo session, Tyrone.”
“I guess I forgot,” he said sheepishly. “Well, it shouldn’t take long, anyway. They’re just going to take a few shots for a magazine article. You girls can come with me, if you like.”
“Sure,” Bess said. “Come on, guys.”
Just then Nancy caught sight of Spike Wilson in jeans and a heavy sweater, reading a newspaper in the small gazebo near the mansion.
“You go ahead,” she told her friends as Tyrone strode toward the mansion’s front entrance. “I want to talk to Spike.”
“You’re sure you don’t want us to come with you?” George asked. When Nancy shook her head, George and Bess followed Tyrone inside.
Nancy sauntered over to the gazebo, taking a few breaths of the crisp fall air. “This is really lovely,” she commented lightly, gesturing toward the deep red asters planted around the gazebo.
“Are you talking to me?” Spike said gruffly, looking up from his copy of the Scoop. Nancy’s quick eyes went to the page he’d been reading. “Curtis will be there!” the headlines screamed. “Psychics predict star’s return at anniversary gala.”
“Aren’t you Spike Wilso
n, the drummer?” Nancy asked with a smile. When he nodded, she added, “I saw you in the studio suite yesterday, but I wasn’t sure if it was really you.”
“Oh, it was me all right,” Spike said, sounding a little bored. “I kind of do a little of everything around here.” Then he turned back to his paper.
Looking at the ex-drummer, Nancy tried to think of a way to get him to open up to her. “I think your solo on ‘Loose as a Goose’ was really great,” she finally said, trying to sound very impressed. “Do you give autographs?”
Spike snorted bitterly. “Oh, I gave plenty in my time.”
“Then please give me one,” Nancy said, smiling brightly. “It would be a real honor.” She reached in her handbag and quickly pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.
Looking embarrassed, Spike scrawled his name and handed it back to her.
“Will you be playing at the concert, too?” Nancy asked, trying to sound hopeful.
“No,” Spike told her. “I don’t play anymore. My wrist was injured a few years back.” As he spoke, Spike’s eyes turned toward a sleek gray limo that was pulling up to the mansion. When it stopped, Melanie and the tall, heavyset man she’d kissed at the Civic Center got out.
“Who’s that?” Nancy asked.
She noticed that Spike’s brown eyes softened as he told her, “That’s Melanie Taylor.”
“I mean the man,” Nancy pressed.
“Oh, him. J. J. Rahmer,” Spike answered. His eyes followed J.J. and Melanie as they made their way to the mansion, and Nancy noticed the muscles in his jaw tightening.
Perfect! Nancy thought. Her three main suspects were all in the same place. And two of them had a romance going. Spike didn’t seem very happy about seeing J.J., she noticed. Nancy wasn’t sure what it all meant, or if it even had anything to do with Curtis’s death, but she was determined to find out.
Turning back to Spike, Nancy asked, “Is J.J. a musician, too?”
“Are you kidding?” Spike answered contemptuously. “The only talent he has is for taking advantage of people. He’s what you call a manager.”
“You don’t think much of him, do you?” Nancy observed.
Spike cast a sharp look her way but didn’t answer.
“Melanie seems awfully fond of him,” Nancy pressed.
Closing his paper in disgust, Spike said, “Yeah, well, snakes have their charms, I guess. Excuse me.” With that he strode toward the mansion.
As Nancy watched him go, she realized that she hadn’t even been able to ask Spike about Curtis Taylor’s death. After going to the front door, she rang the bell, and Vickers led her to the studio, where the others were waiting.
“The photo shoot’s over so soon?” she asked Tyrone.
He looked up from where he was showing Bess the sound studio’s audio controls and smiled. “I told you it’d be fast.”
Then, walking over to Nancy, Tyrone fished a set of keys and a business card from his jeans pockets and handed them to her. “I want you to have these. This key will get you into the mansion, and this one’s for the studio closet,” he said, his voice filled with somber determination. “I’ve been thinking. With this concert and all, I’m going to be pretty busy. I told Vickers and the other security guys that you’re to have the run of the house. The telephone number here is on that card. I want to make sure nothing gets in the way of your finding the scoundrel.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said. “I’m hoping we’ll have enough evidence to convince the police to reopen this case soon.”
Going back into the sound studio, Tyrone flipped on the switch of the electronic keyboard and pressed the cassette deck to the record position. Then he took the music for “Melanie” from his pocket. “Maybe this song will help us,” he said.
Just as he was about to start playing the song, Nancy heard a thumping noise outside the door, followed by the sound of receding footsteps.
Tyrone straightened up, looking at Nancy in alarm. “Did you hear what I heard?” he whispered.
“I sure did,” Nancy said, striding toward the door. “Somebody’s been spying on us!”
Chapter
Six
NANCY HURRIED to the door of the studio suite and yanked it open with a swift tug, then stepped into the hallway. It was empty.
“Bess, George, go left!” she called back to her friends. Turning right, Nancy followed the corridor to where it turned again. Still no one. She raced to the end of the hall and turned right again. Suddenly she bumped smack into someone coming the other way—J. J. Rahmer.
“Whoa, miss!” the heavyset man said, grabbing hold of her elbow to help her recover her balance. “Where are you running to so fast?”
Nancy scrutinized him carefully, but the cool smile on Rahmer’s face gave away nothing. If he had scuttled off, then turned around and come back toward the studio suite, he was sure covering up well. “I’m, uh, just looking for someone,” Nancy hedged.
“Oh? Who’s that? Maybe I can help you.”
Just then Bess and George rounded the corridor. “Nancy!” Bess cried.
“There you are,” Nancy said, pretending Bess and George were the ones she’d been looking for all along. Flashing Rahmer a smile, she took her friends by the arm and walked back toward the studio.
“Did you two see anyone?” Nancy whispered when they were a safe distance from J. J. Rahmer.
“We heard someone running, but we didn’t see who it was,” George answered.
“Well, whoever was listening definitely heard us talking about the case,” Nancy said.
“We’d better watch our backs,” Bess said, shivering.
In the studio suite Tyrone looked worried when the girls relayed the warning to him. But all he said was, “Well, let’s record this tune, anyhow.”
“Good idea,” Nancy agreed with a smile.
After locking the suite’s outer door, the girls joined Tyrone in the soundproof recording room. First Tyrone picked out the melody of the song on the keyboard. Then he hit a button on the audio panel, and the recorder started rolling. “ ‘Melanie,’ take one,” he said into the microphone, then picked up his acoustic guitar.
“Oh, Melanie, Melanie, Melanie,” Tyrone crooned, reading from the music as he strummed the guitar. “You are the only one for me. . . .”
Nancy didn’t know what she had expected. Having heard other Curtis Taylor songs, she thought “Melanie” would have a richer melody line and more interesting lyrics.
“You left me, and now you’re with him. Someday he’ll be gone, though, And your heart I’ll win. . . .”
Nancy shook her head in dismay. Maybe Curtis had written the song in a hurry, or maybe it was just an unsuccessful attempt. “You left me, and now you’re with him. . . .” Who did Curtis mean?
When the music died down into silence and Tyrone shut off the tape recorder, Nancy cleared her throat. “Well,” she said. “That was . . . enlightening.”
“Bad, you mean,” Tyrone said matter-of-factly. “Worst song Uncle Curtis ever wrote, if you ask me. Still,” he added as he set up the machine to make a cassette copy for Nancy, “maybe there’s a clue in it for us.”
There had to be one, Nancy thought. But after listening to the song she still had no idea what it was. Melanie, J.J., Spike—they were all suspects. But which one was implicated in the song? Or was it someone they hadn’t even considered?
“Did Melanie ever leave Curtis?” Nancy asked Tyrone as she paced back and forth in front of the tape deck. “Did they ever have any sort of separation?”
Tyrone shook his head. “Not that I know of. And I think I would know about it if they had.”
“Maybe the song isn’t supposed to be autobiographical,” Bess pointed out.
“Then why call it ‘Melanie’?” George asked.
“And why did Uncle Curtis want me to hear it?” Tyrone added, looking stumped.
When the cassette copy was made, Nancy took it from Tyrone. “I want to study this song,” she said. “Maybe Louisa
will be able to help. After all, she’s a Curtis Taylor expert. Could I have the music sheet, too? You never know.”
“Here you go,” Tyrone replied, handing it to her. “And good luck.”
• • •
“Hi, girls,” Louisa called from the kitchen when Nancy, Bess, and George arrived back at her house.
Walking into the kitchen, they discovered Louisa tossing a salad. A pan of steaming lasagna was resting on the stove.
“You look great, Aunt Louisa,” George said, picking out a piece of lettuce and munching on it.
Looking pleased, Louisa patted her hair, which had been curled and highlighted. “I bought a great dress, too,” she said. “Wait until you girls see it. How was your day?”
The girls got to work setting the kitchen table while they told Louisa all that had happened.
“I bet it was Melanie,” Louisa insisted as they all sat down at the table and served themselves.
“We don’t have proof of that yet, Aunt Louisa,” Nancy cautioned. “There is something you could do to help me out, though. Would you go over this song of Curtis’s with me? There’s got to be a clue in it somewhere, and you know his music so well.”
“Of course,” Louisa agreed at once. “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. But I’ll tell you what I think right now. The clue’s in the title. Curtis knew Melanie wanted to kill him so she could inherit his money.”
Nancy stared hard at Louisa. “I know you don’t like Melanie, but why would she have wanted to kill Curtis? She already had his name and all the money she wanted. She even had his help in establishing her own career.”
“Hah!” Louisa snorted. “You don’t know her, Nancy. I read in the Scoop that she was a madwoman about having to share the estate with Tyrone. And you saw how she was with us.”
“Well, maybe we should try to figure out the lyrics,” George said. “How does it start again? ‘You left me, and now you’re with him.
Nancy nodded. “What do you make of that, Louisa?”
Shaking her head, Louisa insisted, “It’s the title that tells everything. That was Curtis’s way of naming his future murderer.”