The Red Slippers (Nancy Drew Diaries #11)(27)

We stepped farther into the room. Bess took the desk, George went to the vanity, Ned sprinted to the closet, and I headed toward the backpack in the corner.

“If there’s anything that seems weird, flag it. It could be a clue. Sebastian is smart. It may not be obvious what his plan is.”

I could hear my friends opening drawers and rummaging through Sebastian’s belongings as I dumped the contents of the bag onto the floor. A phone charger, some gum, a toiletries kit, and an old photo album. I flipped through the photos. They were all of him and his sister. It started when they were preschool age and ended with Veronica holding up her offer letter from the New York City Ballet. From the pictures, it was clear that they were incredibly close. They were always hugging and smiling and genuinely seemed to be proud of each other and all their accomplishments. Even though I knew that what Sebastian was doing was wrong, I could understand the pain he felt seeing his sister suffer.

But I didn’t see a single clue. Just for the sake of doing something, I emptied the toiletries kit on the table, but all it had was a toothbrush, deodorant, a comb, and a bottle of talcum powder.

George came over. “Nothing of note in the closet. You find anything?”

I shook my head.

“The only thing I’ve learned is that this guy must have really stinky feet.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“How much talcum powder does one guy need?” George asked, picking up the bottle that was on the table.

“You found talcum powder too?” I asked.

“Yeah, a bottle about three-quarters full.” She shook the bottle. “This one has less, but it’s still at least half full.”

“Can I see the bottle you found on the vanity?” I asked George.

George brought it back to me. The bottle was the same size and color as the talcum powder I’d found, but the logo was different. I looked closer.

“This isn’t talcum powder. This is orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile,” I said, sounding it out.

“In English?” George asked.

“That’s the main chemical in tear gas!” Ned exclaimed. “We talked about it in my chemistry class last semester. Tear gas is actually a powder.”

I hastily set the bottle down.

“It has to get over a certain temperature to emit a gas, which is when it causes all the symptoms, like crying, sneezing, difficulty breathing, and so on,” Ned continued.

“Is there a way Sebastian could get the stage area hot enough to emit the gas?” I asked. “Having a bunch of dancers onstage crying and coughing is going to make the choreography look pretty bad.”

“The Fresnels,” George said. “They’re the biggest lights, and they get really hot. I heard the crew talking about it when I was undercover. If you touch them without gloves, you can actually burn your flesh.”

“That’s disgusting,” Bess said.

“We have to get those lights turned off,” I said.

Ned scooped me up again, George and Bess grabbed my crutches, and we made it back to the front door of the theater.

Ignoring the ushers who tried to stop us, we entered the theater as quietly as we could. A few people turned to glare at us, and I felt bad for distracting them, but I reminded myself that getting hit by tear gas would be even more distracting. George led the way to the lighting booth, and we pushed our way in, shutting the door behind us.

Jamison sat in the booth behind the crew member running the board, watching the show. His head snapped toward us. It was tight quarters with all of us piled in.

“Are you kidding me? How many times and how many different ways do I have to tell you to get out of my theater?”

The crew member working the lighting board stayed focused on the show, studiously ignoring the commotion we were causing.

“You have to turn off the Fresnels,” I said.

Jamison turned to the board operator. “Don’t you dare turn those lights off, Kevin.” He turned back to us. “Forget the police. I’m having you sent straight to the loony bin, because you have clearly lost your mind. If we cut the Fresnels, three-quarters of the stage will be dark.”

“Better than one hundred percent of the dancers crying and coughing,” George said.

“What on earth are you prattling on about? None of you are making any sense.”

“Sebastian put tear gas on the Fresnels. When the lights get hot enough, tear gas will spread through this entire theater,” I said.

Jamison opened his mouth, presumably to tell us we were crazy again, but he paused. I could see him putting the pieces together.

“Do you have definitive proof?” he asked.

“We found this in Sebastian’s dressing room,” Bess said, handing Jamison the bottle of tear gas.

“I don’t buy it,” Jamison said.

“That’s proof,” George said, exasperated. “What more do you want?”

“I don’t know what orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile even is,” he scoffed. “You could be pulling a prank on me, getting me back for belittling you earlier.”

“If you didn’t treat people so badly, you wouldn’t have to worry about that,” Bess muttered under her breath.

Onstage, a dancer sneezed. “It’s starting,” I said to Kevin, the board operator. If Jamison wouldn’t see sense, maybe I could appeal to Kevin. “You have to turn off the lights right now.”