False Impressions

by Carolyn Keene

  Nancy sat down on the arm of the sofa and watched as her father led the officers to the front door. Inside, she was boiling mad. Now, in addition to being a suspected extortionist, she was a murder suspect.

  After closing the front door, Carson came back into the living room. Nancy cast her father a sour look.

  “Can he really tell me to back off, Dad?”

  “I’m afraid he can, Nancy. Even if you were a licensed PI, you’d have to back off if ordered to do so by the police.”

  “Terrific!” Nancy muttered, and headed for the stairs.

  “Hold on a minute!”

  “Yes?” Nancy turned to look at her father.

  “What about that list I asked you to draw up?” Carson asked. Nancy knew then that her father was beginning to worry that he might have to build a defense case for her after all.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Nancy said, trying to keep her voice light. She was relieved her father was being so supportive, but his concern made her worry just a bit, too.

  “Good, Nancy,” Carson said with the shadow of a smile. “Because we may need it.”

  • • •

  A short while later Bess, George, and Nancy were sitting in Nancy’s bedroom. Nancy had made a list, as best she could, of her whereabouts in the past two weeks.

  “That should do it,” she said, putting down her pen. “There are some gaps, but it looks like I’ve been pretty busy and haven’t had much time to spend at the country club.”

  “Very funny,” George said, barely smiling at Nancy’s feeble attempt at a joke. “You just better hope that ‘Nancy Drew’ wasn’t around in the time you didn’t account for.”

  Bess nodded solemnly. “So where do you stand now?”

  “Dad doesn’t think I’ll be charged with murder. Not with you, Ned, and Danny at the gatehouse as my alibi,” Nancy replied, picking up a brush and running it through her hair. “Those con games are another story. Unless I find that impersonator, I could be charged—and convicted.”

  “What are you going to do?” George asked.

  Making a sound of disgust, Nancy paced the bedroom. “My whole future’s being decided in Mapleton right this minute, and there’s nothing I can do to influence the outcome.” She scowled at her mirror image. “Know something? Brenda Carlton stands a better chance of solving this case than I do!”

  Bess and George burst into laughter.

  As she stared at her reflection, Nancy felt her mind shift into high gear.

  Lieutenant Kowalski had ordered Nancy out of Mapleton, she mused, but that didn’t go for Brenda Carlton.

  Mr. Eklund and Mrs. Hackney wouldn’t even speak to Nancy Drew, but they just might consent to an interview by Brenda Carlton.

  Nancy Drew didn’t dare go near the Mapleton police station, but the cops were used to seeing Brenda Carlton in the dayroom.

  Listening to her friends’ laughter, Nancy felt a sudden inspiration. Brenda could solve this case, if she had the brains of Nancy Drew!

  Turning, Nancy faced her friends. Her mouth parted in a wry grin. “Bess, how do you think I’d look as a brunette?”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  BESS BLINKED in astonishment. “What?”

  Nancy touched her reddish blond hair. “I’m thinking of dying it black. And turning myself into Brenda Carlton.”

  George took her friend’s arm gently. “Nancy, I think you’d better lie down. You’re not feeling well.”

  “This is the best I’ve felt all day, George.” Motioning for the two cousins to sit down, Nancy hastily outlined her plan.

  When she finished, George shook her head slowly. “There’s just one problem, Nancy. Brenda’s around town, hot on the trail of the same story you are. It’s going to look pretty strange for there to be two Brendas making the rounds in Mapleton.”

  Nancy felt the enthusiasm drain out of her. “You’re right, George.” She hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “That may not be a problem after all,” Bess said with an impish grin.

  “What do you mean?” George asked her cousin.

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on, Bess,” Nancy said excitedly. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Bess smiled again. “I just happened to be reading Today’s Times last night . . .”

  “And?” Nancy and George said together.

  “And our girl reporter Brenda Carlton is upstate covering some convention. She’s going to be there until Monday!” Bess concluded with a flourish.

  “Perfect!” Nancy shouted. “Come on, you guys. We’ve got shopping to do!”

  • • •

  Two hours later with a newly bought “Brenda outfit,” the three friends arrived at Bess’s house. After covering Nancy with a smock, Bess washed and put a black rinse on Nancy’s hair. Forty minutes of careful combing and lots of hairspray produced a Brenda-like chignon.

  While Nancy was having her hair done, George went to the stationery store and bought black stick-on letters and a reporter’s notebook. Back at the house, she put together a professional-looking Press sign.

  After Nancy got dressed in a tight black skirt, off-white silk blouse, and black high heels, she sat down in front of Bess’s vanity table, put the smock on again, and let Bess get to work on her makeup.

  Finally Bess capped her lipstick tube and stood back, nodding in satisfaction. “All set!”

  Nancy stared at her new reflection. A somber brunette looked back at her, plum-red lips set in a straight, unsmiling line.

  The lipstick, eye shadow, foundation, and hair color were exactly right, Nancy mused, but the shape of the face was wrong. Brenda’s face was slightly thinner, more vixenish.

  No matter. Nancy’s lips turned up in a wry smile. No one—maybe not even Hannah Gruen—would ever recognize her.

  “It’s good,” George remarked. “But you’re still not Brenda Carlton.”

  “I know what’s wrong.” Bess clapped her hands decisively. “You look too nice. Change your expression. Squint a little. Stick up your nose. That’s it.”

  “Like this?” Nancy asked, screwing her face into a sneer.

  “Try again,” said George. “Act as if you just smelled something really rancid.”

  After a lot of practice, Nancy finally came up with an expression approximating Brenda’s—a blend of amused superiority and mild distaste. Then she made her voice slightly higher and more nasal. She picked up her reporter’s notebook. “I’m ready,” she said with determination.

  “It’s a great disguise,” George agreed, picking up after her cousin.

  Nancy tucked the notebook in her purse. “I just hope it’s good enough to convince Donald Eklund and Elizabeth Hackney.”

  Bess neatly folded the smock. “What should we do while you’re questioning them?”

  “I think you should stake out Barry Aitkin’s house,” Nancy suggested, giving them the address. “We still don’t know what he’s got to do with all this, and it can only help if you keep an eye on him.”

  “You bet.” Bess nodded, following Nancy to the door.

  George gave Nancy a thumbs-up sign. “Good luck, Brenda!”

  • • •

  Midafternoon found Nancy strolling up to the door of Eklund’s. She paused a second and squared her shoulders, cleared her throat, and put on her Brenda expression. Then she walked in.

  An overhead bell jingled. The blond saleswoman Nancy had met earlier came around a display case. Her smile was pleasant. “May I help you?”

  Taking out her notebook, Nancy mimicked Brenda’s nasal voice. “Yes, you can. I’m Brenda Carlton from Today’s Times. You may have heard of me. Could I speak to Mr. Eklund for a moment, please?”

  The saleswoman smiled and retreated in the direction of the rear office. “Just a moment, Ms. Carlton. I’ll send him right out.”

  Nancy let out a sigh of relief. The first test of her disguise and she’d passed it!

 
Donald Eklund came out of his private office, a wide welcoming smile showing beneath his wispy mustache. He swiftly crossed the room, took Nancy’s hand, and shook it warmly.

  “Brenda Carlton. This is indeed a pleasure,” he said, beaming. “Please, please, come into my office.”

  Mr. Eklund’s office was a cloistered, wood-paneled chamber, with a large mahogany desk, heavy drapes, an old-fashioned wheeled safe, and sturdy steel file cabinets. Looking over the desk, Nancy noticed his high-intensity spotlight, mounted magnifying glass, and jeweler’s eyepiece. A black velvet cloth covered the blotter. On it, a small pile of diamonds sparkled beneath the spotlight.

  Drawing up a chair for Nancy, Mr. Eklund asked, “Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Fruit juice?”

  Nancy sat confidently in the plush guest chair. “Tea will be fine, thanks.”

  Mr. Eklund picked up his telephone and put in a request to some invisible helper. Then he looked at Nancy and remarked, “You know, I’ve been a Times reader for years. I met your father at our country club Christmas party. Fine man.”

  Nancy slipped a pen out of her shoulder bag. “Mr. Eklund, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Drew case.”

  The same blond saleswoman came in then, carrying a tray with two cups of tea. Mr. Eklund took both, thanked the woman, then handed one to Nancy. He smiled admiringly. “I read your story in the Times yesterday. I thought you did a fine job. It must be exciting, covering crimes.”

  “Not always, Mr. Eklund,” Nancy added, allowing a touch of Brenda-style petulance to enter her voice and expression. “Sometimes the police won’t tell me anything. I’m still not clear on how you became involved in all this.”

  After taking a quick sip of his tea, the jeweler leaned back in his chair. “It all started about a week ago. I was working late here, doing an appraisal of gems for an estate sale, when I heard a loud noise outside. I locked the jewels in the safe, then went to investigate. Out in the alley, I found a big black mark on the wall. Someone had planted a firecracker between the wall and my burglar alarm cable. It completely wrecked my alarm system.”

  Nancy remembered what Brenda had told her about the firecracker in Mrs. Hackney’s car.

  Blinking nervously, the jeweler continued, “At first I thought it was some kids, but when I went back to the front door, I found a note taped to the glass.”

  Nancy leaned forward. “Do you still have that note?”

  “No, the police took it as evidence,” he answered. “But I made a copy. Would you like to see it?”

  Nancy nodded. Mr. Eklund took out a piece of paper from his file cabinet. He put it on the desk in front of Nancy.

  The lettering was cut out from newspaper headlines.

  Hello, Eklund—

  Enjoy the boom? If you want to keep it from happening again, turn some of those stones into cash. I want ten thousand dollars. Otherwise we’ll see how well that wall stands up to real dynamite!

  Nancy sat back, her thoughts spinning. Both the wording and the modus operandi were similar to the threat Mrs. Hackney had received. A startling firecracker blast, followed by an anonymous bomb threat unless the victim paid up.

  We’re dealing with a cool team here, Nancy thought. The accomplice shocks the victims at a vulnerable moment. Then the con artist moves in and makes her pitch.

  “Were you ever contacted again?” asked Nancy, jotting down a few notes.

  “Only once. It was a man’s voice. Muffled. As if he were speaking through a cloth. He said, ‘Have that money ready, Eklund, or the walls come tumbling down.’ After that, I got phone calls whenever I worked here alone at night.”

  Taking out a handkerchief, Mr. Eklund mopped beads of sweat from his brow. “There was always dead silence at the other end. It . . . it was quite unnerving, believe me.”

  That could have been either the man or the woman, Nancy thought. Crank calls to keep the victim in a state of high anxiety.

  “What made you confide in Nancy Drew?”

  “Well, she seemed to know so much about it,” he explained. “She told me that other people had been victimized the same way. She said she was working to trap that extortionist and she needed my help. She urged me not to tell anyone about it until the arrest had been made.”

  “When did this happen, Mr. Eklund?”

  “A week ago Saturday. I was updating the membership file at the country club.” Mr. Eklund thought for a moment. “A red-haired girl appeared in the doorway. I asked if I could help her. She said, ‘Are you Donald Eklund?’ I said I was. Then she told me her name was Nancy Drew and she was a detective from River Heights. She said she came to the country club because she’d found out that I’d been threatened by the extortionist.”

  Nancy paused, weighing her next question. “Didn’t it seem a little strange at the time that Nancy Drew should track you down that way?”

  “Not really.” He stirred his coffee with a plastic spoon. “I remembered that a few months ago, there was an article about her in Heartland magazine—‘River Heights’s Teen Sleuth.’ I assumed she was working on a case.”

  “And you trusted her,” Nancy prompted.

  “I never figured her for a con artist. She seemed so sincere.” Disillusionment filled Mr. Eklund’s face. “You never can tell about people, I guess.” Shoulders shrugging in resignation, he drained his cup. “Looking back, though, I suppose I should have been more suspicious. Especially when . . .”

  His voice trailed off. He shook his head slightly, his features baffled.

  Nancy picked right up on it. “When what happened, Mr. Eklund?”

  “After we spoke that first time, I checked the club register. I wondered who had invited her in.” He gave Nancy a mystified look. “The name Nancy Drew wasn’t listed at all. Then I went to the front desk. I asked the clerk when he had let her in. He said he hadn’t even seen her.”

  Nancy’s voice tensed with excitement. “Did anyone else see her that night, Mr. Eklund?”

  “No one, Brenda. And that’s what’s so odd. No one saw her that night except me.”

  Donald Eklund gave Nancy a troubled look. “You know . . . it was as if that girl had materialized out of thin air!”

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  WHO WAS this disappearing con artist? Nancy wondered. No one seemed to have a clue as to her identity. If she hadn’t signed in as Nancy Drew, what name was she using?

  Putting those questions aside momentarily, Nancy went on. “Did you ever see the Drew girl again?”

  “I saw her the night of the dance. She was with the Hackney crowd.”

  “Hackney crowd?” Nancy echoed.

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Eklund scratched his nose. “Beth Hackney, and that businessman she’s interested in. Oh, and the Tannenbaum girl.”

  Nancy kept writing. “Mr. Eklund, did you happen to overhear any of Ms. Drew’s conversation with them?” Nancy asked.

  “No.” The jeweler thought a moment. “Come to think of it, I don’t think she even spoke to Beth. She sort of signaled Aitkin. Then they went over to the buffet table together.” He grimaced in embarrassment. “I can’t believe I was dumb enough to fall for that girl’s story.”

  Here was another clue that pointed to some involvement between Aitkin and “Nancy Drew,” Nancy thought.

  Nancy then opened her manila envelope and took out Joe Crain’s photo. Showing it to the jeweler, she asked, “Tell me, have you ever seen this man around the club?”

  Mr. Eklund beamed in recognition. “Why, yes! That’s Andrew Carson. Interesting young man. He owns a number of gas stations.”

  Nancy held back her surprise. Andrew Carson—there was a clever reversal of the name Carson Drew. Not only that, now she had proof that Crain had been around the Mapleton Country Club. But why? she wondered.

  “You talked to him?” she prodded.

  “Yes. At the dance last Saturday night. We talked for a while. He was certainly knowledgeable about gems. I saw him much later that evenin
g, after he’d danced with Andrea Tannenbaum. She seemed to know him from somewhere. Very handsome couple, those two. But I don’t think the young lady’s uncle approved.”

  “Who’s her uncle?” Nancy asked. This cast of characters was getting more confused by the moment.

  “Why, Barry Aitkin, of course.” Eklund chuckled to himself. “You should have seen the look on his face when he walked in and saw his niece dancing with Carson.”

  “Did you see Nancy Drew anywhere nearby?”

  “No, I only saw her once that evening. About two hours before Aitkin came in.”

  Closing her notebook, Nancy said, “Thanks for your time—and the tea, Mr. Eklund.”

  “Oh, anytime, Ms. Carlton, anytime.” Rising from his chair, he went to the door. “Here, let me show you out.”

  • • •

  Ten minutes later Nancy pulled up in front of Ned’s house. She wanted to work through and piece together what Eklund had just told her, and Ned was always the perfect sounding board.

  Ned was sweeping a light sprinkling of fresh snow from the porch. After getting out of her car, Nancy raised her hand to greet him. Ned’s handsome face looked confused for a second. “Hi. Nancy? You really look different.”

  “Is that good different or bad different, Mr. Nickerson?”

  “Umm?” he said, scanning her from head to toe. “You always look good, but I prefer the other Nancy. What’s going on? Why the Brenda Carlton disguise?”

  “Undercover work.” Grinning, Nancy slipped into his embrace. “I guess if I fooled you for even a second, I could fool anybody.”

  Mischief gleamed in Ned’s eyes. “On the other hand, you could be Brenda pretending to be Nancy pretending to be Brenda.”

  Nancy enjoyed his tightening hug. “Hmmm, run that one by me again.”

  “Never mind,” he said softly. “I can think of only one way to make sure you’re Nancy.”