“How do I look, Nan?” George asked, modeling her long red silk dress. George rarely got dressed up. She preferred sweatsuits or jeans to skirts and dresses.
“George, you look gorgeous!” Nancy exclaimed. “I love the way you’ve brushed back your hair. Your gold earrings look great, too.”
Then she turned and backed up to George. “Could you zip me up?” Nancy’s turquoise dress shimmered with tiny sequins. She was glad Laura had told them in advance that they’d be going to a ball. She never would have bought such a fancy dress otherwise.
“This is one great dress,” George said. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
Nancy laughed as she adjusted the spaghetti straps. “No, George, I have a feeling that tonight is your night,” she said. “Don’t forget—Mark Plonsky will be there.”
George blushed. “I hope his plan works and that he’ll get a chance to talk to some of the hunt club members,” she said. “But what if none of them will talk to him—who’s he going to talk to all evening?”
“I can’t imagine,” Nancy said dryly, shooting George a teasing look.
Just then Laura called them from downstairs. The two girls hurried to join their friend. After complimenting one another on their dresses, they all set off for the Hunt Ball in Nancy’s car. Nancy knew that Laura’s mother had gone over earlier with Mr. Hathaway to take care of a number of last-minute details.
In a few minutes, Nancy pulled up to the Mill River clubhouse. Yellow lamplight blazed from every window, and Japanese lanterns swung between trees, lighting the way to the tent out back.
Peter Greenbriar, who was helping out in the parking lot, directed them to a parking spot. Nancy turned off the car and got out. “That’s funny,” she murmured to Laura. “That looks like Charles Jackson in the car right next to us. I thought he’d quit Mill River.”
“Well, Mr. Jackson still has a lot of friends here,” Laura explained. “He’s a social guy, and he always likes to know what’s going on.”
Nancy watched as Mr. Jackson and his wife strolled toward the tent, shaking hands with friends along the way. At the same time, the fluttering pages of a magazine or catalog on the ground near Mr. Jackson’s sports car caught her eye. Nancy leaned down to pick it up. A clothes catalog, she mused, and flipped idly through the pages.
Suddenly, she noticed a page where two large letters had been cut out. She caught her breath.
Had someone used this catalog to cut out letters for the kidnapping note about Morning Glory?
13
Dancing with Disaster
Clutching the catalog, Nancy peered at the address on it in the parking lot’s dim light: Resident, 132 White Rock Road, Cold Spring, MD. Mr. Jackson lived on White Rock Road, she remembered.
Had he used this catalog to make the kidnapping note? Did this prove he was the culprit?
Her mind in a whirl, Nancy followed Laura and George into the tent. She looked around for Mr. Jackson and his wife, but already they’d been swallowed up by the crowd. The ball was in full swing. Around her, men in tuxedos and women in evening dresses chatted amiably. A band was playing jazz, and people were streaming onto the dance floor. There was a constant happy murmur of voices.
Mrs. Passano, in a sweeping emerald green silk gown, waved to the girls from the side of the tent. She was busily chatting with Mrs. Shaw, whose simple white dress showed off a strand of black pearls. “Alexa’s here somewhere,” Mrs. Passano announced to Laura.
Laura smiled and waved. “As if I cared where Alexa is,” she muttered to Nancy.
The girls drifted over to a long side table to get soft drinks. Mark Plonsky stepped over to join them. Nancy had to admit he looked handsome in his black tuxedo.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come,” he said. “Want to dance, George?”
“Yes, I’d like to,” George said, smiling. She took his arm, and he swept her into the crowd of dancers.
“I hope George remembers that Mark’s still a suspect,” Nancy whispered to Laura. “He could be being nice to her so she’ll take his side.”
“If Mark’s hiding Morning Glory,” Laura declared, “it won’t matter if he has George on his side—he’ll still need to answer to me.”
Just then a pleasant-looking curly-haired guy asked Laura to dance. Nancy threaded her way through the mingling groups of people, looking for Charles Jackson. He seemed to have disappeared, she thought, feeling frustrated.
Then she felt a tug on her arm. She pivoted in surprise. A familiar-looking young brown-haired guy pulled her onto the crowded dance floor. “I couldn’t let a pretty girl like you stand around on the sidelines,” he said. “I’m Duncan Burnet, by the way.”
Nancy smiled, reasoning to herself that she might as well dance—Mr. Jackson might be out on the dance floor anyway. Hanging on to the rolled-up catalog, Nancy joined Duncan as the band played a rock tune. She danced—and furtively checked out the crowd—for what seemed like an eternity.
“Why don’t you put down your magazine?” Duncan shouted above the loud music. “You’ve been holding it forever.”
“I, uh, promised I’d lend it to a friend,” Nancy said quickly.
At that moment she spotted Mr. Jackson at the far end of the tent. He was heading toward an opening in the tent wall—she had to follow him fast! “And I see him right now. Excuse me,” she blurted out.
Apologizing as she jostled a couple of party guests, Nancy headed for the corner of the tent. But before she could catch up, Mr. Jackson had slipped out through the opening.
Nancy quickened her pace, and in a moment she’d caught up. Standing just inside the tent, she stuck her head carefully through the flap.
Outside in the balmy night, Mr. Jackson stood several feet away from the tent, talking to Peter Greenbriar. Just then the band stopped playing, and Nancy could hear what they were saying.
“Mark Plonsky’s been helping us more than he knows,” Peter Greenbriar said. “I’ve been eavesdropping around here, and from everything I hear, Mill River’s doomed. People will be scared of hunting with Mill River. They’ll come to your hunt for sure.”
“Good news, good news,” Mr. Jackson replied heartily. “Though we still don’t know for sure that Plonsky’s behind all the sabotage. And was he the one who took Morning Glory?”
Peter Greenbriar said something that Nancy couldn’t hear. As she strained to listen, she leaned against the side of the tent, which caused the flap to billow outward.
Mr. Jackson whirled around and saw Nancy. Scowling, he approached her, stopping less than a foot away. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Miss Drew?” he demanded.
Nancy looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m a detective, Mr. Jackson,” she explained, “and I’m investigating Morning Glory’s disappearance and the hunt sabotage. I had reason to suspect you and Peter Greenbriar, and so I followed you over here.”
