“I think you’re in the wrong place,” said Nancy as the girls moved up to the counter to register. “You want the Romance Lovers Convention.”
After checking into their room, Nancy made a quick call to River Heights. She wanted to let the Drews’ housekeeper, Hannah Gruen, know that they had arrived safely in Chicago. Hannah had taken care of Nancy and her father, Carson Drew, for fifteen years, ever since Nancy’s mother had died. Nancy loved Hannah and knew the housekeeper would worry if she didn’t call.
After Nancy got off the phone, the girls took the elevator down to the Grand Ballroom. The elevator doors opened onto a reception area. Beyond it was a huge room divided by rows of booths. The aisles were crowded with people of every age and description, jostling one another for a better view of the exhibits.
At the far end of the room was a stage. A banner hanging over it read “Welcome Mystery Lovers of America.”
“Hey, look,” said George, suddenly pointing to a booth that was several feet away. “Do you know who that is?”
Nancy and Bess stood on tiptoe to see who George was talking about.
A sign above a booth said “Multi Press of New York.” A tall, heavyset middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair sat at the booth. She was wearing bifocal glasses and a red hooded sweatshirt with a logo that said “I’m a Fifi Fan.” In front of her were stacks and stacks of brand-new hardcover books.
Dozens of people were lined up in front of the booth as she signed the inside cover of each book.
“That’s Eileen Braddock, the mystery author,” said George. “I bet she’s autographing The Dark Side of Danger. That’s her latest book.”
“I know you’re a fan of hers,” Nancy remarked.
George nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’ve read every one of her books. All twenty-seven of them. The most famous one was Death by Fear. Bess read it, too.”
“Right,” said Bess, shivering. “It was so scary I would only let myself read it in the mornings so I wouldn’t stay up all night.”
“Why does her sweatshirt say ‘I’m a Fifi Fan’?” Nancy asked.
“That’s for the detective she’s put in her last few novels,” George said. “Fifi Spinelli. She’s really young and beautiful with long blond hair, and when she’s not solving crimes, she’s an aerobics instructor.”
“And she has all these really great clothes,” Bess added. “Designer outfits from Paris.”
“Just what all young detectives are wearing this year,” Nancy joked, striking a model’s pose in her jeans and denim jacket.
The next display they came to was set up to look like an English parlor. Posed around high-backed leather armchairs and a Persian rug were actors dressed as a butler, an English colonel, an elderly aristocratic woman, and a French maid. A man, dressed in a tuxedo, lay facedown on the rug with a knife sticking out of his back. A large freestanding sign at the front of the scene advertised a new board game called “Whodunit?”
“Maybe this time the butler did do it,” whispered George.
Suddenly the girls were pushed roughly from behind. Bright lights started flashing over their heads, and they were forced to move to one side as two people were escorted through the crowd.
“Who is it?” asked Bess. “Can anybody see?”
“It’s two o’clock,” said Nancy, checking her watch. “My guess is that it’s Will Leonard and Sally Belmont. We’d better get over to the stage if you want to get Will Leonard’s autograph.”
Bess groaned. “How will we ever get through all these people? I can’t even breathe.”
Nancy grabbed Bess’s hand. “I’ve got an idea. Follow me.” Nancy pulled Bess into the English parlor. “Excuse us,” she said as she stepped lightly over the dead body and headed for the narrow passageway between the backs of the booths.
“Wait for me,” said George, following.
Threading their way between the booths, the girls made much better time than the other conventioneers stuck in the aisles. They arrived just as a line was beginning to form at the foot of the steps leading up to the stage.
Onstage, the two stars sat down behind a long table. A young woman staggered in under several cardboard boxes. She opened the boxes and pulled out large glossy black-and-white photographs of Will and Sally.
The line started to move forward.
“Oh, no!” Bess said in a panicky voice. “I haven’t figured out yet what I’m going to say to him.”
“How about ‘hello’?” said Nancy. “That ought to work.”
“Or ‘I like your show,’ ” suggested George.
“That’s so boring,” Bess moaned. “This is my big chance to make an impression. I need to sound sophisticated.”
“Guess you’ll have to come up with something off the top of your head,” said Nancy. “And you’d better think fast. It’s your turn.”
Slowly, Bess approached her idol.
Will Leonard was a handsome man in his early thirties, with shaggy blond hair and a few days’ growth of beard. With his black jeans, black sweatshirt, and sunglasses, he looked more like a rock star than a TV detective. He looked exactly as he did on TV—only he wasn’t his usual smiling self.
“Mr. Leonard . . .” Bess began, but the TV star was deep in the middle of an argument with Sally Belmont.
“Don’t tell me you had nothing to do with it,” Will said, scowling. “You had your manager book you into this hotel weeks before I even knew about it, just so you could get the Presidential Suite. How many rooms did you get? Five?”
“Four,” said Sally. “But it’s not my fault if your manager isn’t doing his job. Peter knew about this the same time Denise did, and he didn’t make your reservations till last week.”
“What Peter Thornton does is none of your business,” said Will.
“What happened to the happy-go-lucky newly-weds of ‘Nightside’?” Nancy whispered to Bess and George.
“Sounds like the honeymoon’s over,” George whispered back.
