Perfect Plot

by Carolyn Keene

  Chapter

  One

  HELP!” George Fayne exclaimed. “I’m being attacked by a road map!”

  Nancy Drew laughed and brought her blue Mustang to a halt on the shoulder of a narrow country road.

  She tucked a strand of reddish blond hair back behind one ear and glanced over at her friend. George’s short, curly, brown hair was tousled and poked up over the road map that lay plastered to her body and face. “Maybe we should roll the windows up,” Nancy suggested.

  “And miss all this wonderful fall air?” George protested, peeling the map off herself. Her brown eyes sparkled as she took in the colorful foliage on either side of the road. “No way! Anyway, we must be nearly at Mystery Mansion—unless I’ve gotten us completely lost.”

  Nancy pulled out an envelope and checked a page of directions. “No, this is right. We follow Farm Road Eight-Nineteen to the crossroads, then go left for two miles to the gates of the estate.”

  While George tried to figure out how to fold the road map back to a manageable size, Nancy turned on her blinker and put the car in gear. She was about to pull out onto the road when a horn blared from behind. A low, silver sports car roared past at high speed, missing them by inches. Nancy glimpsed the man at the wheel long enough to register his dark mustache and the pipe clenched in his teeth.

  “What a menace,” George said, shaking her head in disgust.

  Nancy nodded. “I’m glad he’s ahead of us now and not behind us.” She checked the side mirror carefully before pulling onto the road. A few minutes later she spotted a sign.

  MYSTERY MANSION

  Museum & Conference Center

  Underneath the words was the hand of a skeleton pointing to the left.

  George grinned at Nancy. “I’m totally psyched. I mean, Dorothea Burden was my absolute favorite mystery writer. I can’t believe we’re actually going to a mystery conference at her mansion! Not to mention the fact that we’ll get to rub elbows with mystery experts from around the country.”

  “I can’t wait to see the exhibits,” Nancy said, turning onto the side road. “They say Dorothea spent a fortune building Mystery Mansion. It’s filled with rare books and an awesome collection of paraphernalia related to mysteries and real-life crimes.”

  “She could afford to spend a fortune,” George commented. “Her mysteries were all best-sellers. It’s hard to believe she won’t ever write another one.”

  Nancy nodded her agreement. Even though she preferred dealing with real mysteries to reading them, she had been sad to learn of the mystery author’s death the previous spring. “Still, it’s great that she left her house and collection as a museum and library devoted to mysteries and crime detection,” she said. “And to think that we’ve been invited for the first official function.”

  Nancy’s invitation to the conference was the result of her growing fame as a detective. When she had called the Burden Foundation’s secretary to accept, Nancy had managed to get invitations for her friends George Fayne and Bess Marvin, too. Unfortunately, Bess hadn’t been able to come because of a cousin’s wedding. George, though, had jumped at the chance. “I have a tennis match coming up,” she’d said, “but I’ll just bring my rackets with me since Mystery Mansion has a court.”

  “This must be it,” George announced.

  Nancy slowed down and looked to the right. A stone wall, topped with shards of broken glass set in cement, now bordered the road. Up ahead was the entrance with tall stone pillars flanking it on either side. On top of each pillar sat a brooding, winged monster, its chin resting on clawed hands. A bronze sign on one of the pillars proclaimed that this was Mystery Mansion, but the spike-topped iron gates were shut.

  Pulling her Mustang close to an intercom box, Nancy pressed the button at the bottom. A tinny voice said, “Mystery Mansion—may I help you?”

  “Hi, it’s Nancy Drew and George Fayne,” Nancy replied. “We’re here for the conference.”

  “Okay. It’s straight ahead,” the voice said. There was a loud buzz, and the gates were swung back to allow them to enter.

  As they followed the drive around a little clump of trees, George suddenly let out a low whistle. “Check it out!” she exclaimed.

  An enormous stone mansion had just come into view. Nancy counted three floors of tall windows, as well as a row of dormers set into the gray slate roof. At the far end of the mansion, a circular tower rose two more stories, ending in a cone-shaped roof. Apparently the east wing, which the tower was attached to, was under repair. Scaffolding covered it almost to the top.

  “It’s pretty impressive,” Nancy agreed. She followed the drive around a circular fountain filled only with dead leaves to a flight of wide stone steps leading up to the main doorway. As she pulled to a halt at the foot of the steps, the dark wooden door swung open.

  Nancy half-expected to see an ancient and sinister-looking butler. Instead, a tall guy in his early twenties came out. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his polo shirt matched the blue of his eyes. As he came down the steps toward them, he smiled, and two incredibly cute dimples appeared in his cheeks.

  “Talk about gorgeous!” George said under her breath.

  “Hi,” the young man said, bending to look in the passenger door. “I just buzzed you in, so I know you must be Nancy and George. But which is which?”

  He gave each girl a warm smile as they introduced themselves. “I’m Patrick Burden. Let me give you a hand with your bags, then I’ll show you where to put the car.”

  George handed him the two nylon bags from the backseat. “Patrick Burden—Are you—”

  “Dorothea was my aunt,” he explained. “She and Uncle Harrison helped bring me up after my parents died. I’ve always thought of this place as home, so I’ve stayed on to help sort things out and get the museum off and running. Hang on a sec—I’ll just set your bags inside the door.”

  A moment later he returned, and George opened her door so he could climb into the backseat. Nancy didn’t miss the smile he gave George before instructing, “Go to the corner of the house and turn right. The old stable yard is just at the back.”

  Nancy followed his directions and parked at the end of a row of half a dozen cars. As she was getting out, she noticed that the silver sports car that had almost sideswiped them earlier was parked two cars down.

  “We’re expecting a good crowd this weekend,” Patrick commented after he and George got out on the passenger side. “But most people will have to stay at a hotel in town. We only have room for ten or so people here so far. We’ve got a lot of work left to do on the house.”

  Nancy and George followed Patrick past some construction equipment and a rose garden that needed tending to a set of french doors at the back of the house. Inside, they found themselves in a narrow room with floor-to-ceiling windows along one long side. White wicker furniture with bright yellow cushions was scattered throughout. The late-afternoon sun was just beginning to fade, and a chill had crept into the room.

  “This is the sun room,” Patrick announced.

  Nancy noticed a woman with shoulder-length gray hair and glasses sitting in one of the wicker chairs. She was reading from a pile of papers. As she finished a page, she’d drop it onto an untidy pile on the floor.

  “That’s Maxine Treitler,” said Patrick. “She was my aunt’s editor for years and one of her best friends. Aunt Dotty always said that Maxine deserved most of the credit for her success.”

  At the sound of their voices, Maxine took off her glasses and glanced up at Nancy, George, and Patrick. From the way she was squinting, Nancy guessed that the editor’s eyesight wasn’t very good.

  “I’m so glad to meet you,” Maxine said when Patrick introduced Nancy and George. “It’s a pleasure to know young peop
le who are interested in Dorothea’s work.”

  “I’ve been a fan of hers for years,” George said.

  Maxine gave George a pleased smile. “You must tell me which of her books are your favorites. I must know every one of them by heart.”

  Before George could reply, Patrick cut in. “Maybe you two can talk later. George and Nancy just arrived, and I want to find Kate and ask her to show them to their room.”

  “Of course,” Maxine said graciously. “It’s getting a bit chilly in here, anyway. I think I’ll move inside.” She felt around in her lap, found her glasses, and began picking up the manuscript pages from the floor.

  “Who’s Kate?” Nancy asked Patrick as they walked toward a wide doorway edged with beaded curtains.

  “Kate Jefferson, the executive secretary of the Burden Foundation,” he replied. “She used to be my aunt’s secretary and companion. She really runs this whole show. Mystery Mansion would fall apart without her.”

  He led Nancy and George down a hallway and into a square entrance hall that stretched up more than three floors to a stained-glass skylight in the roof. The broad front door was directly in front of them. Sets of double doors led off to other parts of the house. At one side of the hall, a wide flight of carpeted stairs with a carved wooden banister led upward.

  Patrick smiled at the awe on George’s and Nancy’s faces. “My aunt really liked the spectacular. That’s probably one reason her books are so popular.”

  He had just retrieved the girls’ bags from beside the front door when Nancy heard raised voices from an adjoining room. Two people came through a doorway to the right, talking heatedly. One was a woman in her midtwenties with a long oval face, dark eyebrows, and a black ponytail. The severe effect of her ankle-length black skirt and scoop-neck black silk blouse was lightened a little by an antique gold necklace she wore.

  Nancy frowned when she saw the woman’s companion. It was the guy with the dark mustache who had sped past the Mustang earlier. He was wearing black corduroy slacks and a white fisherman’s knit sweater.

  “My job’s a lot harder now,” the man said, gesturing with his pipe. “With Dorothea gone, it’s more difficult to sell the rights to her existing books. I can’t use the possibility of a new book as a lure. I deserve to be compensated for the extra work.”

  “I’ll take it up with Armand, first chance I get,” the young woman replied wearily. “But I can tell you what he’ll say. If ten percent was enough before, it should be enough now.”

  She glanced around. “Oh, hello, Patrick,” she said, turning her back on the man. “I’m Kate Jefferson.” She held out a hand to Nancy and George.

  Patrick introduced the girls, then said to Kate, “I thought you might show them where they’re staying.”

  Just then the man with the mustache strolled over to them. “Bill Denton,” he said, nodding a greeting.

  “We almost met a little while ago,” Nancy said coolly. “We had pulled off to the side of the road, and you zipped past us at about seventy-five miles an hour.”

  “That’s Bill,” Patrick put in lightly. “Always in a hurry, even when he doesn’t have any good reason to get where he’s going.”

  “My get-up-and-go did a lot of good for your aunt, Patrick, and don’t you forget it,” Bill said emphatically. “She didn’t forget—except when she was making her will.”

  “That’s a discussion we can leave for later, Bill,” Kate said smoothly. “In the meantime, I’m sure George and Nancy want to freshen up after their trip.”

  “That would be nice,” George said. She took her bag from Patrick and slung it over her shoulder. Nancy did the same. Leaving Patrick and Bill Denton in the foyer, they started up the stairs with Kate.

  “We’ve put you and most of the other guests on the second floor. I think you’ll be comfortable,” Kate told them.

  As they walked down a long second-floor hallway, Nancy asked Kate, “Who is that man we were just talking to?”

  “Bill? He was Dorothea’s literary agent.” Kate produced a large, old-fashioned brass key and unlocked a door on the left side of the hallway. “Here we are. You’re in the Baker Street room.”

  “Isn’t that where Sherlock Holmes lived?” asked George.

  Kate nodded. “Exactly. Dorothea liked to give her guest rooms the flavor of different classic mystery stories. We have Honolulu in the 1920s, an English vicarage, the Maltese Falcon room . . . there’s even one done up like a room in Paris a hundred fifty years ago. It’s called the Rue Morgue.”

  George shuddered. “What a creepy name!”

  “It’s in honor of the classic story by Edgar Allan Poe,” Kate explained. She pushed the door to the Baker Street room open.

  Nancy’s first impression was that the room was jammed with furniture. It wasn’t really, but the floral wallpaper, heavy velvet curtains, and patterned brocade covers on the two beds seemed to fill up a lot of space. Two lamps with stained-glass shades cast mysterious pools of light on the oriental carpet. On the wall near the door was the framed cover of an issue of Strand magazine, in which the Sherlock Holmes stories had first appeared. A curved meerschaum pipe and a magnifying glass had the place of honor on the marble fireplace mantel.

  “Wow,” George said, dropping her bag on one of the beds. “This is amazing.”

  Smiling, Kate said, “Well, I have to get back to my duties. I can’t believe how many details are involved in putting on a conference like this. Please come downstairs and meet the others when you’re ready. We’ll be in the living room.”

  “Thanks,” Nancy said.

  Once Kate was gone, George opened her bag and shook the wrinkles out of a sweater dress. “I think I’m going to like it here,” she said.

  Raising an eyebrow, Nancy said, “I know Patrick Burden likes having you here.”

  A slight blush rose to George’s cheeks. “He is cute, but I’m not interested in dating a guy who doesn’t live in River Heights.”

  George had recently ended a relationship with sportscaster Kevin Davis because it was hard for them to spend much time together. Nancy could understand why George wanted to avoid that situation again.

  Crossing to the window, Nancy pulled back the curtains. Their room faced the front of the house. On the far side of the lawn by the wing under repair was a lacy white summerhouse surrounded by flower beds.

  “Nan!”

  At the strangled cry, Nancy spun around. The closet door stood open. George’s jacket and sweater dress lay in an untidy heap on the floor. They were the only signs of her, though.

  George had vanished!

  Chapter

  Two

  NANCY RUSHED OVER to the closet. The interior was spacious, about four feet wide by six feet deep, with shelves and a clothes rod along the right-hand side. She didn’t see anyplace someone could hide.

  “George!” Nancy called, trying not to panic.

  “Mmmpf.” The faint sound was followed by a tapping noise that seemed to be coming from behind the left-hand wall.

  Studying the wall, Nancy saw that it was paneled with cedar boards. A row of brass coat hooks were set into the paneling. Around one of the hooks, a semicircular mark was gouged into the wood, as if the hook had scraped against the wall while being turned.

  “Hmm,” Nancy murmured to herself. Grabbing the coat hook, she twisted it. It resisted for a moment, but then there was a small click. A section of wall moved inward.

  “Nancy! Thank goodness!” George exclaimed, rushing out of the darkness and grabbing her friend’s arm. Her face was pale, and there was terror in her eyes. “I thought I was going to be stuck in there for good!”

  “What happened?” Nancy asked.

  “Let me get out of here first,” George said. She hurried past Nancy to sit on one of the beds. “That secret panel closes by itself. That’s how I got trapped.”

  Nancy released the coat hook, and sure enough, the panel instantly swung closed.

  “I started to hang up my jacket,” G
eorge went on breathlessly. “I would have to pick that hook. Anyway, the wall suddenly moved back. I took a step forward to check it out without even thinking. Before I knew it, the panel closed again, and I was trapped in the dark. I felt around for a way to open the panel from that side, but I couldn’t find anything.”

  She paused to sneeze. “I don’t think anyone’s dusted back there since this place was built.”

  “Secret panels, hidden passages—it’s like something from a book,” Nancy mused.

  George stared at her. “It is from a book!” she declared. “One of Dorothea Burden’s books! I don’t remember the name of it, but a scene from it really stuck in my mind. This girl is chased through a maze of secret passages by a madman. Just when she thinks she’s safe, her flashlight goes out.”

  “Hey, look,” Nancy said, pointing. A flashlight rested on one of the closet shelves.

  “I bet someone put it there on purpose,” George said. Flopping back on her bed, she reached over and picked up a printed sheet from the bedside table. “Here’s a schedule for the conference,” she said.

  Nancy began to take clothes out of her bag and put them in the dresser. “I practically have the whole thing memorized from the material they sent—mystery competitions, a mystery masquerade party, a tour of Dorothea Burden’s collection of mystery paraphernalia—”

  “Not to mention a talk given by famed teen detective Nancy Drew,” George added, grinning at Nancy.

  Nancy felt her cheeks grow hot. “After witnessing your disappearance just now, I bet this weekend is going to be mysterious in ways we never thought of!”

  • • •

  “Aunt Dotty loved to build things into this house that were mentioned in her books,” Patrick told Nancy and George half an hour later. The girls had run into him on the stairs, where George told him about the hidden door in the closet. “The secret compartment in the Baker Street room is just one example. I don’t think any single person knows all the secrets of this house. My aunt probably didn’t remember all of them herself.”