Poison Pen

by Carolyn Keene

  Nancy was puzzled. Why was he being so friendly now, when before he’d practically run away from them? She couldn’t help wondering if this was part of some plan he and Brenda had hatched. What was his game?

  Nancy was glad when Ned said, “Sure, no problem.” He gestured down the row of cars to their right. “My Chevy’s parked right over there.”

  Now, at least, she’d have a chance to dig deeper into Rick’s story about his aunt being in danger. “So, Rick, you were telling me about your aunt and uncle before,” Nancy said casually as the three of them walked to Ned’s car.

  “Oh, right,” Rick said. “Listen, forget about it. I shouldn’t have been going on about their problems—it’s really none of my business.”

  “You know, Nancy is a detective,” Ned put in. They reached his car, and he unlocked it. “If you’re really worried, talk to her. She can get to the bottom of anything.”

  “A detective? No kidding!” Rick exclaimed. From the too-bright tone of his voice, Nancy was almost positive Ned’s comment wasn’t news to him.

  “Maybe you can help me,” Rick said. He gave her a disarming grin. “Do you really want to hear my story?”

  Nancy climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Definitely,” she said. He sounded as if he had rehearsed every word. This ought to be good! Nancy told herself.

  Rick climbed into the back seat, and Ned slid in behind the wheel. A moment later he was pulling into the stream of traffic leaving the concert.

  “I’ve always been close to my aunt,” Rick began, leaning forward and resting his arms on the back of Nancy’s bucket seat. “She’s my godmother, too, and—well, several months ago she invited me to spend the summer with her and her new husband. But when I got here, he seemed very put out about my being here.”

  “You said he’s your aunt’s new husband?” Ned asked, glancing at Rick in the rearview mirror. “If they’re newlyweds, maybe he just wants time to be alone with his bride.”

  Rick shook his head. “They’re not newly-weds. I meant to say he’s her second husband. They’ve been married over a year. No, he just doesn’t want me around. I even heard them arguing about it one morning, when they thought I was still in bed. At one point Bi—my uncle said, ‘Why did Rick have to come now?’ ”

  Nancy was sure Rick had been about to say his uncle’s name before he stopped himself. Why wouldn’t he want her to know who his uncle was? Aloud, she asked, “What did your aunt say?”

  “She didn’t say anything,” Rick answered. “She just burst into tears. She’s been doing that a lot lately. And that’s not like my aunt. She’s usually a really fun-loving type.”

  “Mmm. Go on,” Nancy prompted.

  “Well, this morning we were having breakfast. My uncle had already left for work. My aunt was reading Today’s Times, and suddenly she let out a funny little noise. She had turned totally white and appeared to be really shaken up.” Rick blew out his breath. “I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t give me a straight answer. She gave me some line about how she’d been reading about tornadoes and how much they scared her. But I knew she was lying, because I had the news section. She was reading Lifestyles.”

  “So later you checked out the Lifestyles section, and you saw the letter in Brenda’s advice column from the woman who thinks her husband is trying to kill her,” Nancy guessed.

  Inwardly, she was thinking, Oh, you’re good, Brenda. You actually convinced this guy to back up your claim about someone being in trouble. She still couldn’t think of why Rick would go along with the story, though. Maybe he just had a crush on Brenda.

  “Right,” Rick was saying. “And I made a connection—” He broke off abruptly. “Wait, let me backtrack.” His voice grew sober. “See, I wouldn’t have thought anything about that letter, except that just yesterday my aunt was in a car accident. And the letter had something in it about the husband sabotaging the wife’s car.”

  “But didn’t the woman who wrote the letter say that she hasn’t driven her car since she saw her husband tampering with it?” Ned pointed out, wheeling his Chevy into a right turn.

  Rick shrugged and sat back. “Sure, but so what? That letter was probably written a few days ago. The accident was yesterday. Maybe something made her change her mind about driving.

  “I wanted to see the letter Brenda got,” Rick continued. “I called the newspaper office this morning, and the receptionist told me Brenda had just left for the mall, so I went there to find her,” Rick said. His voice grew sheepish. “The hardest part was getting up the nerve to approach her. A girl as gorgeous as Brenda—well, I was afraid she wouldn’t even give me the time of day.”

  In the driver’s seat Ned turned and raised his eyebrows at Nancy. Rick sure was laying it on thick. Brenda must have loved coaching him on this part of their story!

  Rick leaned forward again. “I recognized Brenda from her picture in the paper. I was sort of following her when she stopped to talk to you, Nancy. Then the next thing I knew, she was practically killed by that beam, and Brenda was saying someone did it on purpose because of her column.” He gave a little laugh. “Let me tell you, that really shook me up.”

  Turning in the front seat to look at Rick Nancy commented, “Well, you and Brenda seemed to hit it off tonight. Did she show you the letter?”

  “Not yet,” Rick admitted. “She has good reasons not to—she said it would be a violation of the writer’s privacy, and it would compromise freedom of the press. But I’m still trying.”

  Nancy had to admit that Rick and Brenda had thought of all the angles. But it was suspicious that he hadn’t actually mentioned names. “Rick, if you don’t mind my asking,” Nancy said, “don’t you think you should go to the police with this information? What’s your aunt’s name, anyway?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know her,” he said in a rush. Rick seemed immensely relieved when Ned broke into the conversation.

  “Excuse me, Rick,” said Ned. “Where should I drop you off?”

  “The corner of Grange and Spruce,” Rick said.

  “It’s no problem for us to take you right to your aunt’s house,” Ned protested.

  Rick seemed a bit flustered. “No—no, really, it’s not necessary. Grange and Spruce is just fine. Really.”

  “Okay,” Ned agreed, shrugging. “Whatever.”

  A moment later, following Rick’s directions, Ned pulled over at the intersection of Grange and Spruce, and Rick climbed out of the back seat. After thanking Nancy and Ned, he walked off into the darkness.

  “Hmm,” Nancy mumbled as she gazed around. “Recognize this neighborhood, Ned?”

  He peered through the windshield to where the headlights illuminated a big stone house. “Looks pretty ritzy.”

  “It is,” Nancy informed him. “And it just so happens Brenda Carlton’s house is only about a block away.”

  Ned whistled. “Hey. Are you saying Rick is on his way to see Brenda right now?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Nancy said. She crossed her arms and frowned out into the night. “You know what? I think Brenda is using this guy Rick as part of some kind of campaign to convince the world—or me, at least—that the letter in this morning’s column was serious.”

  “You mean he’s lying about his aunt?”

  “I think so,” Nancy said uncertainly. Shrugging, she added, “Rick seems to have a crush on Brenda. She could be using that to get him to feed us this whole story. It’s—”

  Nancy was interrupted by a shout, followed by the echoing sound of rapid footsteps on pavement. Peering out her window, she saw a muscular man of medium height dash through the beams of the headlights. Close on his heels was a taller figure.

  “It’s Rick!” Nancy exclaimed, recognizing the second figure.

  The shorter man was faster than Rick. He raced forward and snapped his head back briefly to check out his pursuer.

  Nancy gasped when she saw his face. It was the man she’d seen the day of the car accident —the guy with th
e mismatched eyes!

  Chapter

  Seven

  IN A MOMENT he was gone, swallowed up in the darkness of the tree-lined street. Rick continued to tear after him.

  “Ned, I’ve seen that guy before!” Nancy cried, jumping out of the car. “He was in the mall parking lot the day Brenda had her accident.”

  Ned climbed out of the car, too, and came around to stand by Nancy. “So what does that mean?” he asked, looking baffled.

  Just then Rick reappeared and crossed the street toward Ned’s car. He was frowning, and his face was shiny with sweat. “I lost him;” he panted. Bracing his hands against the hood of the car, he bent over, inhaling deeply.

  “Rick, what happened?” Nancy asked urgently.

  “I saw that guy prowling around my aunt and uncle’s house,” Rick replied. He straightened up indignantly. “I’d better go call the cops.”

  Nancy laid a hand on Rick’s arm as he was turning to go. “Did you get a good look at him?” she asked. “The police will need a description.”

  “I only saw him from the back,” Rick said, shaking his head.

  “Well, I saw him,” Nancy told him. “He shouldn’t be too hard to spot—he’s unusual looking. He has one blue eye and one brown eye.”

  At her last words Rick blinked, and a wary expression spread over his face. Nancy had the distinct impression that her description rang a bell with Rick. “Do you know anyone like that?” she asked him.

  “Uh—no,” Rick said quickly.

  Why was he lying? “Maybe I should be there when you talk to the police,” Nancy pressed. “I seem to be the only witness who actually saw the man’s face.”

  “I don’t want to put you out. In fact, maybe I shouldn’t go to the police. The guy is probably long gone by now, and it would only scare my aunt if She knew he’d been around.” Rick had suddenly become nervous and in a hurry to leave. “Well, good night and thanks again.”

  Back in the car Ned turned to Nancy. “What do you think made him change his mind about going to the police?” he asked. “That was weird.”

  “I thought so, too,” Nancy agreed. “He seemed to recognize the man’s description, but he sure wasn’t about to tell us who it was.”

  Whatever Ned was about to say was interrupted by a tremendous yawn. “I’m beat. I’d better get you home,” he said. “Why is it that so many of my dates with you turn into major adventures?”

  “I just like to keep you on your toes, Nickerson,” Nancy retorted playfully.

  As they drove the short distance to the Drews’ house, questions whirled dizzily in Nancy’s mind. Who was the man with the different-colored eyes? Did Rick really have an aunt? And if so, who was she? Was her husband trying to kill her? Had she really written a letter to Brenda’s column? Or were Rick and Brenda trying to pull a hoax?

  Suddenly Nancy found herself yawning, too. I’ll get a good night’s rest, she thought to herself, and tomorrow I’ll start digging out the real story behind the letter in Brenda’s column!

  • • •

  Nancy glanced out the window of her second-floor bedroom, toweling her hair dry after her morning shower. Heat was already rising in shimmering waves from the shingles of the porch roof. It was going to be another scorcher.

  After putting on a pair of shorts and a maroon T-shirt, she went out to her Mustang and drove to pick up a copy of Today’s Times. When she returned, her father was seated in the dining room, eating a breakfast of French toast, juice, and coffee. He greeted Nancy with a smile that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes.

  In contrast to Nancy’s reddish hair, Carson Drew’s was dark brown, though it was now flecked with silver at his temples. His face was square, while Nancy’s was a delicate oval. But both father and daughter had the same straight nose—and the same gleam of intelligence and determination in their eyes.

  “Morning, Dad,” Nancy said cheerfully, setting the paper on the table as she sat down. “I hope you saved me some breakfast.”

  “There’s a stack of French toast in the warming dish,” Carson answered, pointing to a covered dish on the table. “And there’s bacon and melon slices. Hannah’s out doing errands, but she made sure we wouldn’t starve.”

  Nancy helped herself. “You must be busy—you’ve been at the office late a lot this week.”

  “I’ve been swamped.” Looking over his coffee cup at her, Carson said, “As a matter of fact, I have to ask a favor. I need a cashier’s check from my bank, but I can’t get there today—I’ve got meetings until six o’clock tonight. Would you mind going for me?”

  Nancy shook her head. “No problem.”

  “Thanks.” Carson pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll call you from the office and let you know the exact sum.’

  Nancy blew him a kiss. Then she opened her copy of Today’s Times and turned to Brenda’s column.

  “Wow,” she muttered. Brenda hadn’t printed any letters that day. Instead, the entire column was a dramatic plea to the woman who was afraid her husband was trying to murder her.

  “Please contact me!” the column trumpeted in big letters. “You can’t survive this terrible crisis alone. You need the help of a sensitive, intelligent, resourceful person. I am that person, but you have to come to me.”

  “Oh, brother,” Nancy muttered out loud. Brenda was really coming on strong.

  Setting the paper back down on the table, Nancy thought through her plans for that day. After she went to the bank, she’d go to the paper to see if she could get her hands on the letter that woman had supposedly written. It was definitely time to get to the bottom of this.

  • • •

  “You’ll have to get an approval from the bank manager, miss.” The teller raised her eyebrows apologetically at Nancy. “I’m not authorized to dispense that kind of cash.”

  Letting out a sigh, Nancy thanked the teller and headed for the manager’s office. The office door was open, and Nancy could see a stocky man with gray hair cut short in military style behind the desk.

  It was just her luck that he was busy with another customer. She’d already waited in line for twenty minutes, but she had no choice but to take a seat and wait some more.

  After a few minutes she began to get impatient. The bank manager didn’t seem to be in any great hurry. In fact, he and his customer seemed to be swapping war stories!

  “And frankly, Bill, I was scared,” the customer was saying. “But I crawled on my belly until I reached the arsenal, and then I pulled out my last grenade and chucked it in. And then I ran. Brother, those were some fireworks!”

  The bank manager chuckled. “I’ll bet. Say, did I ever tell you about the time I blew up a convoy of enemy supply trucks in a tunnel?”

  Ugh, what a gruesome conversation! Nancy shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat outside the office.

  “It was so simple, it was beautiful,” the manager declared. “The tunnel had been sealed at one end by a rock slide. It was a protected location, in the heart of a mountain —impossible to bomb, and so deep in enemy territory they never thought they’d have to worry about security.”

  Nancy was trying not to get annoyed. She’d heard of good customer relations, but this was carrying it a bit far.

  “I parachuted in at night,” the manager was saying, “and slipped into the tunnel before the convoy arrived. I planted a bottle of ether at the sealed end. Then I went to the open end, lit a candle, and left. A few hours later the ether fumes reached the candle flame, and—boom!”

  Nancy began tapping her foot against the carpeted floor, letting her gaze roam around the manager’s office. Suddenly she sat up straighter in her chair as she read the name-plate on his desk. William A. Keating.

  Wait a second—Could he be related to Maggie Keating, the woman who’d crashed into Brenda at the mall? It wasn’t a very common name; it made sense that they could be related.

  Then another idea hit Nancy. The previous night Rick had cut himself off i
n the middle of saying his uncle’s name. He’d said “Bi—” and then changed it to “my uncle.” What if he had been about to say “Bill”? As in Bill Keating?

  Nancy’s eyes widened. If Mr. Keating was Rick’s uncle, and Mrs. Keating was Rick’s aunt, and she had had a car accident . . .

  Could it be that Rick’s story was true and the letter was genuine? Could Maggie Keating have written it? Could the bank manager be a killer?

  “Can I help you?”

  Nancy came out of her thoughts with a start to see Mr. Keating in the doorway, beckoning to her. His other customer had gone.

  Nancy managed a smile. “Sure.” She handed him her withdrawal slip and asked him to approve it.

  Just then the speaker phone on Keating’s desk buzzed.

  “Excuse me.” Leaning over the intercom speaker, he said, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Keating, the auditors want to move the inspection up to next Monday. Will that be all right with you?” inquired a tinny voice.

  “Monday? What was wrong with Wednesday?” Keating asked sharply.

  “I don’t know, sir,” the voice replied.

  Keating frowned. “All right, fine. Make it Monday.” The intercom clicked off.

  Keating looked up at Nancy. “Excuse the interruption,” he said, smiling. He scrawled his initials on the slip and handed it to her. “There you are, young lady. Have a nice afternoon.”

  “Thanks,” Nancy told him. “You, too.”

  Nancy could barely bring herself to wait for the teller to make out the cashier’s check. When she finally got it, she drove it over to her father’s law firm. He was between meetings, so she took it into his office herself.

  “Thanks,” her father said when she handed him the draft. “Did you have any trouble?”

  “Not really, but I had to get an approval from Mr. Keating, the bank manager.” Nancy sank into a red leather chair by her father’s desk. “Dad, what do you know about him?”

  “Who? Keating?” Carson asked, sounding surprised. “Not much. Why?”