Nancy looked at her watch. It was eleven o’clock. She checked the bulletin board by the elevators. It said the workshop was being held in the Windsor Salon, on the second floor.
The double doors to the Windsor Salon were open. Nancy could see Eileen Braddock at the far end of the room standing behind a podium. As usual, the author was running her fingers through her hair, causing it to stand up on end. She wore a blue pullover sweater and blue slacks.
“You see?” Ellingsen said. “She’s not wearing that tacky red sweatshirt. That proves she’s the kidnapper.”
“Not necessarily,” Nancy said. “She just might have decided not to wear it—and she’s not the only person on earth with that sweatshirt. They’re being sold here at the convention.”
The Windsor Salon was packed with people. A few of them were wearing red Fifi sweatshirts.
“Writing a mystery is like baking a cake,” Eileen Braddock was saying into the microphone. “You’ve got to add the clues one layer at a time.”
“What are you waiting for?” Ellingsen whispered in Nancy’s ear. “Go ask her about the photograph!”
“Not so fast,” Nancy said. “Before we break this up, I want to find out a couple of things.”
Nancy slipped into the Windsor Salon and stood in the crowd near the back.
“Excuse me,” she said to an elderly man on her right. On the jacket of his blazer he wore a button that said “I’m a Fifi fan.”
“Have you been at this workshop all morning?” Nancy asked.
“I’ve been here since eight-thirty,” he answered. “But it’s been worth every minute. This woman really knows her stuff.”
“Did Ms. Braddock leave the room at any point?” Nancy asked.
“Nope,” the man answered. “She’s been here the whole time. I didn’t take my eyes off her for a second. Are you a mystery writer too?” the old man asked.
“No,” Nancy answered.
“I am,” he said. “I’ve never been published, but I’ve written thirty-six mystery novels. That’s nine more than Eileen Braddock!”
Nancy smiled at him. “Good luck!” she said, slipping out to the hallway where Ellingsen and her friends waited.
“Well?” Ellingsen asked. “Are you going to call the police and have her arrested?”
“It would be a false arrest,” Nancy said. “She’s not the one who sent the photograph.”
“How do you know?” Ellingsen asked.
“Because she’s been here since nine o’clock this morning. The clock in the picture said nine twenty-seven. So she couldn’t have been there when the picture was taken and she couldn’t have sent it. If you don’t believe me, ask the several hundred eyewitnesses who’ve been with her all morning.”
“But what about the book and the sweatshirt?” Ellingsen asked.
“Think about it,” Nancy replied. “If Braddock were the kidnapper, why would she go out of her way to put those things in the photograph? Those items would only incriminate her. Which leads me to believe someone else put those things there to frame Braddock.”
Denise Ellingsen nodded. “I guess I see your point,” she agreed reluctantly.
“So now what?” Bess asked. “We know Braddock isn’t the kidnapper, but that still doesn’t tell us who the kidnapper is.”
“I’m going to call the police,” Ellingsen said. “Now that I know the kidnapping is for real, I think it’s time to show them the evidence.”
Ellingsen stuffed the envelope with the photograph into her purse. “If you need me for anything, I’m in room Eight fifteen.”
The girls went to their room too. Nancy turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
As soon as Nancy turned on the light, she wanted to close the door again. Once again, a room had been ransacked—and this time it was theirs.
“My clothes!” Bess shrieked, running into the room. “I can’t believe they did this,” she cried as she waded through the dresses, pants, and blouses scattered all over the floor.
Nancy and George followed Bess inside. The mess was even worse than it had been in Will Leonard’s or Sally Belmont’s rooms. Both beds had been slashed open and mattress stuffing still floated through the air. The drapes had also been slashed and hung in ribbons over the window.
Nancy picked her way through the bedroom to the bathroom. The kidnapper had struck there too. The bathroom mirror had been shattered, its cracks forming a pattern like a giant spiderweb. Bottles of shampoo and perfume had been emptied all over the floor.
“Phew!” Nancy said, lifting her hand over her nose to filter the heavy odor of perfume. “That guy sure had a busy morning. First the cab ride, then trashing our room.”
“If he’s trying to scare us,” said Bess, “he’s sure doing a good job. I’m ready to check out right now.”
“Isn’t it enough that he’s got Will and Sally?” George asked. “What does he want from us?”
“To stop us from finding him,” Nancy said, kneeling by one of the beds and pulling out her suitcase. The suitcase, made of fabric, had also been slashed to shreds. “And I have a feeling he got the other thing he wanted too.”
“What was that?” George asked.
Nancy stuck her hand through one of the tears in her suitcase and felt around. Just as she had feared, the suitcase was empty.
“He got the evidence,” Nancy said. “The contact lens, the gray cloth, and the kidnap notes.”
“Everything?” Bess asked.
