Fatal Attraction

by Carolyn Keene

  Nancy was concentrating so hard that she almost didn’t hear George’s low, piercing whistle. When she did, she glanced behind her, over the balcony, just in time to see Brenda climb out of her red car and slam the door. She jumped back hurriedly and dashed around the corner, out of sight.

  “What do you suppose she’s here for?” Bess whispered.

  “Guess.” George giggled.

  Careful not to be seen, Nancy looked around the corner. Brenda, wearing a sleeveless, tightly belted blue tank dress, was knocking confidently at the door. “Mike,” she called in a low, honeyed voice. “Mike, it’s me, Brenda.”

  The door opened. “Yeah?” The man’s tone was abrupt. He was obviously angry at the interruption. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, uh, pardon me,” Brenda said, flustered. She cleared her throat and stepped back. “I must . . . I must have the wrong room. I . . . I’m looking for Mike McKeever.”

  “He’s not here,” the man said.

  “Oh, well, uh, it’s okay.” Brenda shifted nervously. “I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d drop in.”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell him you were here.” The door shut in Brenda’s face. Looking confused, Brenda went down the stairs, got into her car, and drove off.

  After a few minutes, the door to Mike’s room opened again and the gray-haired man stepped out, closing the door behind him. He hurried down the steps and climbed into an old green car parked in the lot.

  “Come on,” Nancy said as they watched him start the motor. “We’re going to tail him!”

  The three girls raced down the stairs and around the corner to Nancy’s car. She started it up just as the man pulled out of the lot, onto Ridgeview in front of them.

  “There he goes!” Nancy exclaimed. “Hey, that’s a neat old car—a Buick, I think. We won’t lose him easily.”

  Staying a few car lengths back, Nancy followed the green Buick as it drove quickly down Ridgeview. She’d gone about four blocks, hanging back in the traffic so that the driver wouldn’t spot them, when she checked the rearview mirror—and found herself staring right at Brenda Carlton! Brenda’s face was twisted into a mask of rage, and she was hunched furiously over the steering wheel. Her tomato-red car was hugging Nancy’s bumper. Was she going to rear-end them?

  Nancy speeded up slightly to keep Brenda from hitting them. “Don’t look now, gang,” she said, “but we’re being followed.”

  “It’s Brenda!” Bess exclaimed, swiveling around. “Is she trying to hit us?”

  “The Buick’s making a left on Albert Drive,” George reported, pointing. She took a quick look behind her. “Is Brenda tailing us, or him?”

  “Let’s hope she’s after us,” Nancy said, turning left. “Otherwise, she’ll give us away, for sure. If we can stay between her and the green car long enough, maybe our target will show us where he’s headed. Then we can shake Brenda.”

  The green car led them toward the main business district. It turned into the parking lot of the public library, and the driver got out and walked briskly toward the library.

  “Great!” Nancy breathed a sigh of relief. “It doesn’t look like he spotted us.” As she drove past the library and on down the street, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Brenda was still tailing them, looking even angrier than before. “Now, let’s lose Brenda!” She speeded up.

  At that second, the stoplight just ahead turned yellow. Nancy stepped on the gas and squeaked through the light. Brenda, who was caught momentarily off guard by the Mustang’s sudden speed, was left several car lengths behind. Still, she didn’t hesitate. She accelerated, right through the red light.

  “Hey, look!” George said triumphantly, watching Brenda through the back window. “There’s a cop!” George pointed to a police car pulling out of the cross street, its red light flashing.

  “That’s one way to stop her!” Bess noted.

  Nancy glanced back. The red car had pulled over to the curb, and the officer was out of his patrol car and strolling toward it. She was sure that Brenda’s face was as red as her car.

  “Beautiful!” cried George. “That was great driving, Nancy.”

  “I’d give a month’s allowance to hear that conversation,” Bess added.

  Smiling, Nancy headed back to the library, where she parked on a side street.

  “You know, that guy didn’t exactly look like the intellectual type,” Bess remarked as they got out of the car. “I wonder what he’s looking for in the library.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Nancy replied. “But we’ll have to stay out of sight. We were lucky he didn’t recognize us at the motel. We don’t want him to spot us now.”

  The man was at the main desk, talking to the librarian. Then he went to the reading room. While Nancy and the others watched from behind a bookshelf, he pulled several documents from a filing cabinet and took them to a table, where he pored over them. Then, with a satisfied look, he put the documents away and walked out.

  When the man had gone, Nancy went up to the main desk. The librarian was a woman she had known ever since she started checking out mysteries by the dozen. Recently, though, she’d been too occupied with real mysteries to think much about fictional ones.

  “Hello, Miss Howard,” she said.

  “Why, Nancy Drew,” the librarian said. She put down the file cards she was checking and smiled at Nancy over gold-rimmed glasses. “Can I help you?”

  “Well, maybe,” Nancy told her. “Actually, I’m interested in the man who spoke to you about fifteen minutes ago. He looked familiar. I’m curious—what was he looking for?”

  Miss Howard nodded. “Oh, yes, that one. I didn’t get his name. He’s a distant cousin of the Carltons, and he wanted to check on the family history. I suggested that he go to the River Heights Historical Society. But he wanted more current information, so I sent him to the files where we keep that data.”

  “What was he interested in?”

  Miss Howard frowned. “That was the funny part. Usually when people are checking on their family trees, they’re more interested in who their relatives are than in how much they make.”

  “So he was after financial information.”

  “That’s right. I guess he found what he was looking for, since he didn’t ask any more questions.” She smiled, leaning forward. “Now,” she said, “can I interest you in a good mystery?”

  “Thanks,” Nancy replied with a rueful grin. “I think I’ve already got one.”

  “Well,” Nancy said as the girls hurried down the library steps, “it’s beginning to look like we’re on to something. Obviously, since this guy has a key to Mike’s motel room, the two of them are connected. And we know that they’re interested in Brenda for more than just her pretty face.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime. After lunch, I’ll call Mr. Carlton and bring him up to date. We probably haven’t got enough to persuade Brenda to break off with Mike, but we’re getting close.”

  Bess grinned. “Did you say something about lunch?” she asked. “The Creekside Patio has terrific shrimp salads.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Nancy said, taking her keys out of her purse. They came around the corner to the car.

  “Nancy!” George yelped, jumping backward. She clutched Nancy’s arm. “Look at your car!”

  Nancy glanced up. What she saw stopped her in her tracks. Across the windshield of her car was scrawled an ugly message, in dark red letters.

  STAY AWAY FROM MIKE MCKEEVER—OR ELSE!

  Chapter

  Seven

  WHAT IN THE world—” Bess sputtered as they went up to the car.

  Nancy touched the red stuff with a finger, then sniffed at it. “It’s lipstick,” she said grimly. “Who do we know that wears this particular shade of plum-red lipstick?”

  George snapped her fingers. “Brenda Carlton, who else?”

  Nancy nodded. “Right. After the cop nabbed her, she probably cruised around for a while, looking for us. Then when she spot
ted the car, she left us this little message.”

  “The question is,” Bess said, energetically scrubbing at the lipstick with a tissue, “how we get this stuff off. It smears into a gooey mess.”

  “Bess,” Nancy suggested, “why don’t you go over to the gas station on the corner and get a towel with some grease solvent on it?”

  As Bess hurried off, Nancy opened the car door and sat down on the seat, staring at the letters. “This case is hard enough,” she said wearily, “without Brenda sticking her nose into it. Her interference makes it tougher to figure out who’s doing what.”

  Frowning, George sat down beside her. “You don’t suppose that Brenda would actually do anything to hurt you, do you?” she asked. She gestured at the threatening message. “I mean, I know she’s capable of making mischief, but would she do anything really dangerous?”

  Nancy shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “But she could do something really stupid, without thinking about the consequences—to herself or to somebody else.”

  When Bess came back with the solvent-soaked rag, they scrubbed the windshield. “What a mess,” Nancy said glumly as the lipstick began to come off. It took five minutes’ hard work before the glass was clean again.

  “All this running around has made me really hungry,” said George. “How about heading for that lunch now?”

  “Fine with me,” Nancy agreed. “We need some time to decide our next move.”

  The Creekside Patio had a deck built out over a rippling creek. They chose a shaded table, and Nancy sat down with relief, enjoying the cool breeze.

  “So where are we now?” George asked Nancy after the waiter had taken their orders.

  “It’s beginning to look to me,” Nancy replied slowly, “like a con game with two players. I’m speculating now, because we don’t have any proof, but it may be that Mike’s just a decoy—you know, the guy with the fatal attraction, who lures the girl. He’s certainly sexy enough. The guy we saw doing research on the Carlton financial holdings could be the brains behind the business.”

  That would make sense, Nancy thought. What was it that Mike had said when she’d suggested that maybe Flash magazine might be interested in a photo feature? He’d said, “Then I’d be able to get away from . . .” Maybe this line of work was getting distasteful to him.

  “Hey, Nancy!”

  Nancy looked up to see Ned striding toward her. With a welcoming smile, she moved her chair, making room.

  “I was driving by and saw your car out front. How’d it go this morning?” he asked.

  Bess smothered a giggle. “You mean, before or after they jumped into the dirty linen?”

  “Or before or after Brenda got a traffic ticket?” George asked.

  “Or before or after my windshield got smeared with lipstick?” Nancy added.

  “It must have been an interesting morning,” Ned said, grinning. But his face was serious when Nancy gave him a quick recap of the day’s adventures, even a verbatim report of the love note they’d found in Mike’s pocket. “It sounds to me,” he said, frowning, “as if Brenda’s gotten herself into a mess—a really slimy one.”

  Nancy thought about the love note. Who was Darla? Had she been one of Mike’s victims in his game of rip-off love? Had she wakened one morning to the awful realization that Mike McKeever had never cared about her, never intended to make good his promises?

  “You know,” she said slowly, still thinking of Darla, “if Brenda weren’t—well, if Brenda weren’t Brenda, it would be easy to feel sorry for her. Thinking someone’s in love with you and then finding out he was only using you for your money must be the worst.” She shuddered. “We’ve just got to put a stop to it.”

  “I wish we knew who that guy called from Mike’s room,” George said thoughtfully.

  “I think I know somebody who can help trace it,” Nancy replied. She thought ahead to the afternoon. “I need to get the film and put the photo and the thumbprint on the wire to Dirk Bowman. I’ve got enough to keep me busy for the rest of the day.” She glanced at Ned. “But we have to get something more concrete on this guy. Maybe you and I should make a trip tomorrow, Ned. Brenda told us that Mike’s last job—before the one in Florida—was in Silver Hills. Remember?”

  Ned nodded. “Right. So you’re thinking of driving over there to check up on him? It’s only a couple of hours.”

  “Are you free tomorrow?”

  “My time is your time,” Ned said grandly, with a big grin.

  “Speaking of time,” Bess said, with a glance at George, “Peterson’s is having a one-day-only sale—today. How about it, George?”

  George nodded. “I need some new running shoes. If you’re sure you don’t need us this afternoon,” she said, turning to Nancy.

  “I’m sure,” Nancy said. “Listen, do you remember that red shirt I tried on the last time we were in Peterson’s? If it’s on sale, will you pick it up for me?”

  After lunch, Nancy headed off to pick up the developed film. The photos were clear and sharp, exactly what Dirk would need to check Mike’s ID. With the pictures tucked safely into her purse, she stopped at the phone company. There she talked to an old friend of her father’s, Mr. Conrad, who was a supervisor.

  “I wonder if you could trace a phone call for me,” Nancy said. She had jotted down the number of the motel and the number of Mike’s room. “The call was made from this number, about ten-thirty this morning. I’d like to find out the number the person was calling. Can that be done?”

  “Sure, it can,” Mr. Conrad said confidently. “No problem at all.”

  He sat down at a computer and began to enter the numbers Nancy had given him. Almost instantly, the screen was filled with a long listing of numbers.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Conrad said, pointing to a row of numbers. “The call was made to Batesville. Here, let me copy the number for you.”

  Nancy stared at the screen, her mind racing as she began to put the pieces together. They had found the ticket stub from the Batesville County Fair, and Brenda had said that Mike played there. The phone call was one more link to the town, which was only a three-hour drive from River Heights. When she and Ned finished in Silver Hills, Batesville ought to be next on their list.

  Nancy stood up and took the slip of paper the supervisor handed to her. “Thanks, Mr. Conrad. I appreciate your help.”

  “Nothing to it. Tell your dad hello for me, will you?”

  Nancy got into her car and drove home quickly. It was already nearly four on the East Coast, and she wanted to catch Dirk Bowman before he left.

  Dirk sounded pleased when Nancy told him about the picture and the thumbprint. “If we’ve got anything at all on this guy,” he told her, “I’ll pass it along to you. But there’s a hitch. I’ve got to get to a meeting that’s going to tie me up the rest of the day. How about putting the stuff on the wire at nine tomorrow morning? That way I’ll be here to get the ball rolling.”

  “Great,” Nancy said. She put down the phone and then picked it up again, to dial Mr. Carlton. He listened quietly while she reported the events of the morning. But when she got to the part about Brenda’s visit to the motel, he made a sharp, unhappy noise. And when she told him about Brenda’s ticket, and about the lipstick message on the windshield, he sounded almost angry.

  “Sometimes I just don’t understand my daughter,” he growled disgustedly. “How anyone so bright could act so dumb . . .”

  Nancy coughed. “I’ve got the feeling we’re on the right track,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I need to send the photos and the print to Fort Lauderdale. Can you help?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Carlton said. “There’s a facsimile machine in the copy room on the second floor of the Times, down the hall from my office. I’ll tell my secretary that you’ll be there to use it and she’s to see that you’re not disturbed.” He hesitated, and then added cautiously, “But use the back stairs, just to be on the safe side.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed
. “I wouldn’t want to run into Brenda.” To tell the truth, Brenda Carlton was the last person she wanted to see.

  • • •

  Wednesday morning, Nancy made her way up the back stairs of the Times building, looking over her shoulder to be sure that no one saw her. It was early enough that Brenda was probably still in bed, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Mr. Carlton’s secretary was expecting her. She led Nancy to the copy room and showed her how to operate the facsimile machine, only one of several pieces of copying equipment in the room.

  “Mr. Carlton instructed me to wait outside and not let anybody else in,” she said, going to the door. “If you need any help, just call me.”

  “Thanks,” Nancy said, glancing at the machine, which looked like a combination copier and answering machine. “I think I can manage.”

  Nancy put the thumbprint into the machine and turned it on, punching Dirk’s telephone number on the keypad. The machine began to whirr quietly, and the print fed through the machine, while Dirk’s telephone number and the word transmitting appeared on the digital display. Less than thirty seconds later, the print was completely transmitted to Fort Lauderdale, over fifteen hundred miles away. Next Nancy fed in the first two photos, one after the other.

  Outside in the hallway there was a buzz of conversation. Mr. Carlton’s secretary was speaking firmly to someone.

  “The copy room is being used right now. My orders are to make sure that everyone stays out.” There was a pause. “Everyone.”

  But the other person wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Listen,” the voice snapped, “my father’s the boss here. He owns the place. So if I want to use that copy machine, I will and that’s that.”

  Nancy spun around, the third photo in her hand. Brenda was coming into the room—and there was no other way out!

  Chapter

  Eight