Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  Blond wigs—or, on some, I supposed, real blond hair—scarves and pearls and twin-set cashmere sweaters, stockings, and sensible shoes. Plaid skirts. Some women carried magnifying glasses, and some, like me, wore little vintage hats tilted rakishly over one eye.

  A fluttering canvas banner suspended from the erector-set ceiling announced why we were all dressed that way, and why we were here—not exactly why I’m here, of course, but why the rest of them were here. NANCY DREW CONVENTION, it trumpeted. They’d included a huge graphic portrayal of the iconic silhouette of the 1930s girl sleuth, all waved hair and cloche hat and pearls and cardigan. Just like me.

  Just like all the attendees, because all were requested to dress as Nancy Drew. Clearly, these women followed directions. The organizers had promised a big-time surprise guest speaker, and as of now, word hadn’t leaked about who that would be. Not even to me, which was somewhat unnerving. I don’t like surprises.

  I touched a newly pink-polished finger to my Cutex Nearly Pink lips—might as well be era-authentic. My mission was first to find booth 2583, home base of the up-and-coming Costigan Publishing Company. And make sure its new up-and-coming CEO was not— Well, no one told me exactly what they were worried might happen to this woman. Complicating things, the CEO wasn’t even supposed to know I was there. Apparently she’d laid down the law about security. “We’re Nancy Drew aficionados,” the file Thomas gave me quoted her as saying. “Nothing is going to happen at the Nancy Drew Convention.”

  Famous last words. In this case, I needed to make sure she was correct. And even though the guy who came to our office had insisted to Thomas that I didn’t need to know anything, well, that truly was ridiculous. Go to an assignment without some reconnoitering? Or contingency planning?

  What would Nancy do?

  So, doing some sleuthing of my own, I’d discovered that the fifty-something Ms. S—you might recognize the name, but I’m not allowed to reveal it—was in possession of a new Nancy Drew manuscript. Old-new, I mean. Not one of those contemporary Nancys who uses a cell phone, drives an electric car, and listens to Pandora.

  Try as I had, though—and I have pretty fabulous sources—I could not uncover the title of this purported new manuscript. Obviously the teams of original Drew authors had already used diaries, clocks, staircases, mansions, dude ranches, bungalows, hollow oaks, brass-bound trunks, hidden letters, and twisted candles; and when the local dangers ran out, they sent our girl to exotic locations like Hong Kong and India and Crocodile Island.

  But no matter the title, scuttlebutt predicted Ms. S would lead her company (and stockholders) to glory because she’d unearthed this truly long-lost Nancy—“Book 61” by the real Carolyn Keene, who, like me, was invisible, but who everyone at least understood did not actually exist. Carolyn Keene was a pseudonym for all the writers-for-hire who’d banged out Nancy after Nancy for ten cents a word. Or however much. Rumor had it Ms. S planned to show this Book 61 to a few selected visitors at this convention. And then sell it to the highest bidder. That had to be why I was hired, not just to protect Ms. S, but also to make sure nobody swiped the new Nancy.

  Why wasn’t Costigan publishing the book itself? I wasn’t too up on the publishing biz, but I figured maybe there was something more to the potential deal. Possibly it wasn’t so much the story as the value of the actual manuscript. Perhaps they’d decided it’d be more lucrative to sell the precious pieces of paper—it had to be paper, I figured—than to publish a certainly outdated and possibly politically incorrect book, no matter how hot the buzz or how strong the market. Maybe they thought the original Nancy publishers would pay big time for it. Maybe.

  Standing in the increasingly bustling registration area, watching the lines of arriving Nancys, I wondered if everyone’s name tag said Nancy Drew. I tried not to laugh about that as I adjusted the little camera I had hidden in my handbag—very Nancy, right? I made sure the camera was recording and the lens was peeking through the hole I’d cut in the side of the leather. I fussed a minute with the silk scarf I’d tied over the bag’s shoulder strap, its fluttering flowered ends covering the camera lens. When I moved the scarf away, the lens was unobstructed and I was rolling on reality. If I let the scarf cover the hole, I’d only have pictures of the scarf. I was pretty good at it, though. If something happened, I would get it on tape and cross fingers the pictures were in focus. I cleared my throat, ready for action.

  I heard the nonstop whiffle of the three revolving doors behind me as the time drew near for the convention floor to open. Most attendees carried empty canvas bags over one shoulder, appropriate for conveying new Nancy-loot and convention treasures. I scanned for suspicious lumps and unlikely heaviness—not every empty-looking bag was actually empty, and if someone had a concealed weapon, I needed to know that. The real Nancy had carried a little pistol in the earliest version of her adventures, until the publisher decided gun-toting girl sleuths weren’t appropriate for preteens. But a dressed-up Nancy-in-disguise might still have a gun. Part of the costume, she’d explain. Until it wasn’t.

  But so far, no revolver-shaped bulges.

  Even in my I’m-a-team-player Nancy getup, not one person had met my eyes. To be fair, maybe they were too busy checking out everyone else. The registration line was a sight—a quickly lengthening cordon of plaid skirts and Mary Jane pumps and ladylike pocketbooks. Made me wonder, briefly, if anyone else here, like me, was using her disguise for more than harmless fun and conviviality.

  Because underneath the banter and costumes, I knew this was a hard-core crowd. Nancy Drew-abilia could go for big bucks. With the baby-boomer women who’d read the books as little girls now scions of industry and law and medicine and publishing, there was lots of discretionary income left after college tuitions, Botox, and splurgy shoes. How many said to one another at Pilates or in the boardroom, “Oh, I started on Nancy Drew! I love Nancy Drew!” Apparently the passion of Nancy Nuts (don’t blame me, that’s what Thomas said the guy who hired us had called them) was relentless. And the competition for collectible good stuff was fierce. “Golly,” as Nancy might say.

  Nancy was cool and ahead of her time, of course, with her roadster and self-confidence and self-sufficient lawyer aunt and handsome father. And Hannah Gruen, her housekeeper. I’d devoured all the original Nancys when I was twelve. I’d even caught up a bit before today, rereading online. Okay, sure, all these years later, Nancy can be a little precious. The books are all about her, her, her. And how she always had to make everything perfect. (And didn’t Nancy describe her pal Bess as “plump”? Some pal you were, Nanc.) Don’t even get me started on Ned, who was henpecked from page one. Still, you’ve gotta love Nancy. She changed our lives, and we are grateful.

  Anyway, point is, I’m Nancy-savvy. And kind of Nancy-ish myself. So, perfect for this job.

  They’d already sent me my convention pass, which read simply “Guest.” I slid the stiff white cardboard into the pink plastic name tag holder, draped the pink strap around my neck. Scarf, pearls, hat, name tag. And hidden camera. And my own gun, of course, which was hidden in an outside pocket of my patent leather handbag. Er, camera bag. The gun couldn’t be packed inside with the camera, because it had to be more accessible. Even though nothing was going to happen.

  Showtime. With camera rolling and my brain on high alert, I snapped up a glossy program from a stack in a metal wire container, stashed it in the other outside pocket of my bag, and began the long walk across the marble expanse of lobby toward the convention floor, ready to join the other Nancys.

  It required all my willpower to resist the impulse to make sure my camera really was rolling. I’d checked it in the car, and out of the car, and before I arrived at the sidewalk outside. My batteries would last an hour or so, then I’d have to do a switcheroo in a bathroom stall. With all the technology we have today, we still rely on batteries. Did Nancy ever run out of batteries? Was there a Clue in the Dimming Flashlight? I
prided myself on my hypervigilance, but it was time to let it be. The game was afoot.

  I know, that’s from another detective altogether.

  * * * *

  The Clue in the Convention Center? I contemplated title possibilities for the new Nancy as I strode along a strip of bright green industrial carpeting crisscrossed in a geometrically perfect grid. At the intersection of each green street and avenue—for want of a better description—a signpost displayed the booth numbers. Left, 1000 to 2000. Right, 2001 to 3000. The Secret of the Old Signpost? That could work. I turned right, heading to 2583 where the mysterious (of course) Ms. S was supposedly holding court.

  I arrived at 2583, the Costigan Publishing Company cubicle, and saw it was different from the others. First, most of the booths were overflowing with stuff, tabled and chaired within an inch of fire safety, plastered with posters and graphics, stacked with pamphlets and catalogs, and crowded with clear acrylic cylinders of give-away merchandise. Nancy lapel pins enameled with her silhouette, and jewelry with rectangular charms depicting each book cover, and endless, endless T-shirts.

  I will admit to being tempted by one of the tees. “Everything is Evidence,” it said on the front. I loved that. But for me this was no time for shopping. For everyone else, though, it was. While organizers had scheduled seminars and panels, and announced a couple of new research papers being presented, “stuff” was what the Nancy Drew Convention was all about. Selling Nancy, the myth—and the merchandise.

  And, of course, the long-lost manuscript. Maybe.

  But the Costigan booth, 2583, didn’t have any froofy decorations or commercialized Nancy-ness. Its blue drape only displayed the Costigan logo (a magnifying glass—aha), and the open space had a spotlessly clean (and empty) glass table and two curvy red leather chairs. No loot, no tchotchkes, no memorabilia. Costigan had snagged a high-visibility spot on the convention floor. It was at an intersection most conventioneers would have to pass to get to where they were going. Weird, considering there was nothing to see and no one in the booth.

  Not now, at least.

  But who knew what Costigan and Ms. S had planned for later? Standing to one side of the booth, like I wasn’t really interested in it, I sighed, yet again, in frustration. Would have been so much simpler if they had filled me in on their plans, not to mention their concerns. But the customer is always right. (Although I must say, not in my business. It’s one of those universal truths that’s sometimes not true.)

  The other thing that set 2583 apart—it was double wide and double deep. I’d scrutinized the convention floor map in my program as I made my way toward it, and saw from the blue-printy sketches that the Costigan booth took up twice as much space as most. You couldn’t tell from the convention floor, but the curtain backing the Costigan seating area concealed another whole cubicle. What—or who—was behind that curtain?

  Clearly it was the perfect spot for private showings of the million-dollar Nancy, Book 61.

  I fake-sauntered around the corner, trying to assess whether there was an opening in the curtain somewhere. Hard to tell. I fake-paused along the side of the hidden booth—The Clue in the Hidden Booth? The Secret of the Sapphire Curtain?—and listened, hard as I could, for voices coming from behind the heavy blue fabric. My sixth sense told me the booth wasn’t empty. The way you know a house isn’t empty when you open the front door, it just felt occupied. In this case, there was no real way to confirm that, except to listen.

  But every time I thought I heard something, the blaring voice of an announcer blasted over the convention’s public address system. This time, her plummy voice was making sure conventioneers knew the Hannah Gruen cooking class was commencing on the pop-up stage, and the panel debating Nancy—Role Model or Retro? would begin in fifteen minutes. “And don’t forget our surprise guest speaker,” the voice boomed provocatively. “On the main stage at eleven!” I checked my watch. Ten a.m.

  Whoa. I took a step forward, spooked. Someone behind me—behind the blue curtain—had coughed. I heard it, no question. And then something had moved inside that cubicle. Maybe backed up against the curtain, forgetting there was a corridor behind the cloth. So, I was right. Someone—or someones—was inside. What were they doing in there? Who was it? And how could I find out?

  Had Ms. S even arrived? I’d checked her out on Google and the Costigan website and every other research resource on the Internet, but all the photos of her were blurry or bad or clearly outdated—and the Costigan site didn’t have one at all. So I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me, and I didn’t know if anything was supposed to happen. Or was going to happen. But in the spirit of Nancy herself, I would be persistent. Determined. I would stake out this booth until the convention day was over. Just me and a thousand other Nancys, waiting to see what adventure lay ahead.

  * * * *

  “Nice hat.”

  I turned, surprised. A man. That alone was remarkable. I hadn’t seen another man since I pushed through the revolving doors. He wore an official pink-strapped name tag.

  “Too funny,” I said, after reading it. “Ned Nickerson.”

  He shrugged, actually quite un-Ned in a not-very-1930s Oxford shirt and expensive jeans. Dark sweater tied preppily around his shoulders. Reporter, was my first thought. Except for the sweater. And he didn’t have a notebook. Maybe a spy from a rival publishing company? An emissary from a potential manuscript buyer? Probably not some attending-Nancy’s husband because he wasn’t wearing a ring.

  “Ned.” I pointed to the name tag. “Really?” I was thinking two things: one, he was kind of cute. And two, he’d noticed me. In a Nancy Drew novel, Ned was a good guy, and if this were a meet-cute moment that “Ned” and I would recall years from now for our children, it’d be nicely symmetrical. But I knew life wasn’t often like that.

  He pulled out a little spiral notebook. “You got me,” he said. His eyes were chocolate brown behind tortoise-shell glasses. “Not really Ned. But I am really—”

  He stopped. A woman and another man had approached the Costigan booth and paused just outside the blue curtain. Each carried a pink-printed foam cup of coffee. “Ned” and I took a step or two away from them on the green walkway, his expression as surprised as mine must have been, and then, instantly, his reaction turned to bland disinterest. That meant he was pretending not to notice the two people who had arrived, and that was interesting. Because a person who didn’t care would at least be curious. And so would a reporter.

  “So what brings you here?” Ned asked me. His voice seemed a little louder than necessary. Exactly what I’d do if I were feigning disinterest in the arriving couple. Which I was. And I bet he was, too. Why?

  I claimed the facing-the-booth position in Ned’s and my continuing phony conversation as I focused on the woman’s name tag. Ms. S. And proving her exalted station, she was not dressed as Nancy Drew. Nor was the slim, youngish man in a navy blazer who accompanied her. He wore a name tag, too, but his I couldn’t read. The two were now deep in conversation outside the booth, heads almost touching, and he seemed to be texting as they talked. Neither was holding a manuscript box or envelope or briefcase, nothing that might contain Book 61. Their postures didn’t seem intimate, as much as . . . conspiratorial. But that may be just my suspicious nature.

  “Oh, I adore Nancy Drew,” I chirped in response to Ned’s question. “Always have.”

  “Oh, my phone,” Ned lied. He pulled a cell from his jeans pocket. Smiled, apologizing. “One moment.”

  Ms. S did not acknowledge me, or Ned, who was now fake-talking on his cell phone. Duh, because his phone had not rung. However, it was a good ploy, so I pulled out my cell, too, from where it was safely tucked in the pocket of my plaid skirt. I was proud of myself, how I’d casually managed to keep the hidden camera pointed right at my unknowing subject. Now, queen of multitasking, I kept an eye on Ned, pretended to talk on the phone, and kept my camera foc
used on Ms. S while I did my best detective body-recon scan, committing her face and figure to memory.

  Fifty-something, gray hair bobbed in a sleek pageboy. Chunky gold earrings, chic and subtle makeup. Black dress, pearls. Name tag, not on a pink lanyard but a black one. I recognized the designer logo on her black pumps. That pair of shoes alone could pay my salary for the day. Clearly she’d ignored the dress-like-Nancy-Drew edict.

  “Funny,” I said into the phone. And I was thinking—funny. Because we don’t actually know how Nancy Drew dresses. Sure, we have her style down pat for her teenage years. But Nancy Drew at fifty? Maybe Ms. S was going for that.

  A few more packs of bag-toting Nancys bustled by. It was still pretty amusing to see them—The Case of the Duplicate, what, Dames? The opening panels were about to start, so any time now, the crowded convention corridors would clear. Would any Book 61 customers show up at the Costigan booth while the attention of most convention-goers was focused elsewhere?

  Or maybe a customer was waiting inside. Right now. And maybe, instead of sending him—or her—away while they conferred, the CEO and her colleague had gone for coffee, and then were taking a moment in the corridor to decide whatever they were deciding.

  It was all speculation, but that’s my specialty, because speculation leads to problem-solving. Everyone is always trying to hide something from someone else, and everyone needs protection from those someones. And that was me, and the background was where I liked to be. It was my favorite setting, in fact. So here I was, hiding in plain sight. Just another Nancy.