Nancy briefly told him all that had been happening the past few days, and about the possible connection she’d just made between the Keatings and the letters in Brenda’s column.
“I’d hate to think Maggie could be in any trouble,” Carson said when Nancy had finished, a frown creasing his forehead. “She’s a fine person, used to be married to a lawyer I knew, Wilford Trout. He passed away about five years ago, and last year Maggie married Keating.”
Leveling a serious look at his daughter, Carson went on. “I have to admit I don’t know much about Bill. He hasn’t been in town long—the bank brought him in from Chicago several years ago.
“I hear he’s a bit of a high roller, though. Some of the bank’s directors feel his investment policies are risky.” He shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“All?” Nancy cried. “Dad, you’re amazing!” Thinking out loud, she added, “I doubt Mr. Keating would want to kill his wife just to get back at her for not being wealthy. So what’s his motive?” She drummed her fingers on the chair arm, deep in thought, then snapped up straight and said, “Unless he’s going to get money by murdering her—insurance money, for instance.”
Carson leaned forward. “Nancy, this could be serious. Don’t you think it’s a matter for the police?”
“So far I’m just guessing, Dad. I’m not even sure Mrs. Keating really is Rick’s aunt or that she’s the woman who wrote the letter to Brenda.” Nancy jumped to her feet. “But I’m definitely going to find out.”
• • •
Nancy swung her Mustang right onto the street where the Keatings lived and started scanning the numbers for 357, the address she’d found in the phone book. She located it just down the street from the corner where she and Ned had dropped Rick off after the concert the night before.
Well, at least Rick wasn’t lying about where his aunt lives—if Mrs. Keating really is his aunt, Nancy reminded herself.
At first Nancy saw only the long, sloping lawn edged with tall, leafy trees. It wasn’t until after she turned into the driveway that the house came into view. Set back from the street, it was large and ornately Victorian, with round turrets, lots of gingerbread woodwork, and a sloping roof over the porch.
Nancy didn’t see any cars in the driveway, but then Mrs. Keating’s sedan was probably in the shop after her accident with Brenda. After braking her own car to a stop,-Nancy got out, went to the front door, and rang the bell.
When the door opened, Nancy saw that Mrs. Keating still appeared to be distraught and that there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Mrs. Keating,” Nancy began, “you may not remember me, but I was at the mall when you had your accident the day before yesterday. I’m Nancy Drew.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Keating said, without smiling. She reached up with one hand and nervously patted her ash blond hair. “Is there some problem?”
Nancy wanted to clear one thing up right away. “I’m a friend of your nephew’s—”
Mrs. Keating’s expression brightened slightly as she said, “Rick? Well, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
She began to close the door, but Nancy stuck out her hand to hold it open. “Mrs. Keating, please. I’d like to talk to you about the accident. Rick seemed very worried, and I—”
“Please! There’s nothing to say.” Mrs. Keating was visibly shaken by Nancy’s insistence, but then slowly she got her feelings under control. “I’m sorry,” she went on in a calmer voice, “but I’m late for an appointment. Now, goodbye.” With that she closed the door in Nancy’s face.
Shaking her head, Nancy walked back to her car. Whatever Mrs. Keating was nervous about, she wasn’t about to fill Nancy in on it. So now what?
After driving home, Nancy phoned Ned at work.
“Hi, it’s me,” she said into the receiver when he answered. “Will you do me a big favor?”
“If I can,” Ned answered. “What’s up?”
“I need information on someone who may be a client of Mutual Life,” Nancy told him.
“I can’t give you information about policyholders,” Ned protested. “It’s confidential. I could get fired for doing that.”
“I know, and I hate to ask,” Nancy replied. “But this is important.” Quickly she explained her idea about Mrs. Keating being the letter writer. “I need to find out what kind of life insurance Mrs. Keating has. If it’s enough to kill for . . .”
“Then she’s in trouble,” Ned finished. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Five minutes later he called her back. “She is one of our clients, all right. I had to go into the mainframe computer files to check out her coverage,” he reported. “That’s where the big-ticket policies are maintained.”
“Big-ticket?” Nancy repeated. “What’s that?”
“Any coverage over two hundred thousand dollars,” Ned said. “Mrs. Keating’s policy has only been in the big-ticket file for six months.”
Nancy felt a rush of anticipation. “What does that mean?” she asked excitedly.
“It means that six months ago, Mrs. Keating’s life insurance coverage jumped—to a cool million dollars!”
Chapter
Eight
NANCY TIGHTENED HER GRIP on the receiver. “Ned, are you serious?” she gasped.
“You bet. Mrs. Keating has had a policy with us for almost ten years,” he explained in a grim voice. “Her coverage was a hundred thousand dollars—until January. That was when Mr. Keating arranged for them both to receive much more substantial policies.”
“Wow,” Nancy murmured. She picked up the phone, carried it over to the sofa, and sat down. “I can’t believe this. Maybe Brenda has stumbled onto a real case.”
“And she’s totally botching it up,” Ned added. “We’ve got to do something, Nan.”
Nancy thought for a second. “How about this?” she suggested, glancing at her watch. “It’s four now. Can you leave work a little early?”
“I guess so,” Ned replied after a moment.
“Great. Meet me here at my house. You and I are going to pay a little visit to Brenda.” Nancy’s brows drew together in a determined frown. “It’s time we got a straight story from her.”
“On my way, chief,” Ned said, then hung up.
Nancy raised her eyes as Hannah bustled into the room. “I thought I heard you in here,” the housekeeper said. “I just came in from the garden. My, but it’s hot today! Come on into the kitchen and I’ll fix us both some iced tea.”
“Mmm, sounds good,” said Nancy, following Hannah into the kitchen. Still deep in thought, she reached distractedly for two glasses and filled them with ice.
“By the way, Bess called while you were out,” Hannah said, pouring tea into the glasses. “She wants you to call her back late tonight. She sounded very excited—said something about a date with someone named David.”
“Hmm? Oh, that’s nice,” Nancy said vaguely.
“Let me guess—you’ve got a new mystery.”
With a start Nancy realized that the housekeeper was peering at her closely. “You’re right, Hannah. I guess you know me pretty well.”
“I should say so!” Hannah replied firmly.
They sat down at the kitchen table, and Nancy told Hannah about the Keating case. As she was finishing, Ned arrived, flushed and scowling.
“The air conditioning in my old clunker is out,” he said. “I’m just about roasted. Let’s take your car, Nan.”
“Sure,” Nancy agreed, grinning as Ned downed in one giant gulp the glass of iced tea she had poured for him. She put both their glasses in the sink, then headed for the front door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be home for dinner, Hannah.”
They drove to the Today’s Times offices, in downtown River Heights, only to be told by the receptionist that Brenda had left. Ten minutes later Nancy guided her blue Mustang up the Carltons’ steep driveway.
“Here we are,” Nancy announced. “Finally.”
As the house came into view, Ned exclaimed, “Wow! I’d forgotten what a castle this place is.”
The Carltons’ enormous white house was perched on a knoll overlooking several acres of grounds. Manicured green lawns swept down to a high, well-trimmed hedge. Beyond the hedge a thick belt of trees all but hid the neighboring house, a huge brick mansion.
“It’s pretty impressive,” Nancy agreed. She steered her car into a gravel turnaround and parked. Then she and Ned got out, went up to the pillared porch, and rang the doorbell. A uniformed maid answered.
“Hi,” Nancy said. “We’re friends of Brenda’s. Is she home?”
“Miss Carlton is out by the pool,” the maid replied. “May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Oh, don’t bother to announce us,” Nancy said quickly. “We’d like to surprise her.” She didn’t want to give Brenda the chance to avoid them.
The maid hesitated briefly but then led them through the house and out a set of glass doors that opened onto a flagstone patio. “Right down those steps,” she directed.
Brenda, clad in a white two-piece bathing suit decorated with long fringe, lay on a chaise longue by the kidney-shaped swimming pool. When she saw Nancy and Ned, her expression was anything but welcoming. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“Some answers,” Nancy shot back.
“Hey!” a new voice broke in. Nancy turned and was surprised to see Rick Waterston emerging from the bathhouse, wearing a pair of swim trunks. “Hi!” he called, waving. “I didn’t know you two were coming over. Did you bring your suits?” he asked.
Although she hadn’t expected to see Rick, Nancy was glad for the chance to question them both. “We’re just here for a moment,” she told him. “May I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” Rick replied, grinning easily.
“Why didn’t you tell us Maggie Keating is your aunt?”
Rick’s smile faded, and he sputtered, “How’d you know—hey! Has something happened to her?”
“Not that I know of,” Nancy told him. After a short pause she added, “Not yet, anyway.”
“What are you trying to say?” Rick asked.
Taking a deep breath, Nancy explained, “I’m saying that I believe your aunt is in serious danger from her husband. I’m sorry I doubted your story last night.” She glanced at Brenda, who wore a look of blank surprise on her face. “But if we work together now, it may not be too late to save your aunt.”
“Tell me what to do,” Rick said instantly.
“Rick!” Brenda protested, jumping up from her lounge and going over to him. “Didn’t I tell you I could handle it?”
“Yeah, but if Aunt Maggie really is in trouble, I’ll take all the help I can get.” Rick’s voice was apologetic but firm.
Brenda opened her mouth to say something, but Rick put his hand gently over it. “Please.”
To Nancy’s amazement, Brenda subsided.
“Incredible!” Ned murmured. Brenda shot him a dirty look but remained quiet.
Nancy and Ned pulled up deck chairs and sat.
“Rick, why was it such a big deal for you to keep your aunt’s identity a secret?” Nancy asked.
With an apologetic glance at Brenda, Rick said, “It was Brenda’s idea. I just—”
“You don’t have to go sticking your nose in every single case that comes along, Nancy,” Brenda said hotly. “We were doing just fine on our own!”
Ignoring Brenda’s outburst, Nancy asked Rick, “Can you add anything more to what you told us last night?”
Rick began pacing up and down by the edge of the pool. “Not a lot,” he admitted, frowning. “All I have is a bunch of vague suspicions.”
Nancy glanced at Brenda, half expecting her to interrupt again, but the reporter just stared sulkily. Turning back to Rick, Nancy urged, “Tell us about your uncle. What’s he like?”
“Well,” Rick said, pausing to look at her, “to be honest, no one in my family is too crazy about Uncle Bill. He’s one of those gung-ho types. He used to be in the army, and he never stops talking about the service and all the incredible missions he was on. I think he probably exaggerates.”
Nancy smiled slightly, thinking of the story she’d overheard in the bank earlier that day.
“Is he nice to your aunt?” Ned asked.
“I guess so,” Rick replied, shrugging. “My mom thinks he married Aunt Maggie for her money, but I don’t know about that. She isn’t rich. Her first husband had some family money to start out with, I think, but by the time he died, there wasn’t much left. Uncle Wilford spent most of it on racehorses. The Trouts—that’s Uncle Wilford’s family—are famous for their expensive hobbies, and Aunt Maggie’s a pretty big spender herself.”
Rick gave a short laugh. “If Uncle Bill did marry her for her money, he must have been pretty disappointed.”
I’ll bet, Nancy thought.
“That’s the thing I don’t get,” Rick went on. “Why would Uncle Bill want to kill her? If he’s after a wife with money, why doesn’t he just divorce Aunt Maggie?”
Nancy and Ned exchanged a knowing glance. Clearing his throat, Ned explained about Mr. Keating’s increasing the insurance policy on Rick’s aunt to a million dollars.
Rick drew in his breath in a shocked gasp. “Oh, no,” he murmured, his face a ghostly white.
“We think he’s after that million dollars,” Nancy added. “But we need some hard evidence. Unless we can prove our suspicions to the authorities, we can’t help your aunt.” She leaned forward to take in Brenda.
“What are you staring at me for?” Brenda demanded hotly.
“You’re the one who holds the key to this case,” Nancy said. “The letter from Mrs. Keating. You have to show it to us.”
Brenda glared. “No way! I can’t reveal my source,” she protested. “It would ruin my reputation as a reporter.”
“We already guessed who wrote the letter,” Ned said angrily. “Besides, a woman’s life is more important than your reputation as a reporter, Brenda. That letter is the only solid piece of evidence in this whole case. Without it the police won’t even listen to us.”
“But the letter was confidential,” Brenda objected stubbornly.
“Please,” Rick begged. He took Brenda’s hands in his and stared into her eyes. “My aunt’s life is at stake. I need your help.”
Brenda looked torn but remained silent. Gazing at her, Nancy was struck with a sudden thought—one she didn’t like at all.
“Brenda, when did you get the letter?” she asked.
Brenda flushed. “Tuesday,” she said. “The day I had the accident at the mall.”
“Morning or afternoon?” Nancy demanded quickly.
“Morning, I think,” Brenda mumbled, looking flustered.
“What did it look like?”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Brenda stammered.
“What did it look like?” Nancy repeated. “Was it handwritten?”
“Yes—I mean no. It was typed.”
Aha! That was Brenda’s first slip. “How long was it?” Nancy asked, continuing to grill the reporter.
“I don’t remember.” Brenda’s voice was becoming shrill. “What does it matter? I don’t like the third degree, Nancy!”
“You don’t?” Nancy asked sharply. “Then show us the letter, Brenda.”
“I can’t show it to you,” Brenda insisted. “I can’t. Now, stop bugging me!”
Nancy folded her arms and gave Brenda a piercing look. “I think I know why you can’t show it to us,” she said.
Brenda glared at her but said nothing.
“You can’t show it to us because there is no letter,” Nancy accused, unable to keep the anger from her voice.
“What—?” Rick said, an expression of shock coming over his face.
Brenda took one look at him and buried her face in her hands. “You’re right,” she confessed in a muffled voice. “I made the whole thing up!”
Chapter
Nine<
br />
FOR A MOMENT Nancy just stared at Brenda. She was furious with the reporter, but what made it even worse was that she herself had ended up buying Brenda’s dumb stunt.
“Wait a minute,” Rick said, his green eyes’ bewildered. “You mean you made the letter up? This woman whose husband wants to kill her—she doesn’t exist?”
Brenda fiddled nervously with the white fringe on her bathing suit. Without looking up, she nodded.
“And the accident in the mall, with the beam. You said someone was trying to kill you,” Rick said. “Were you just making that up, too?”
Brenda nodded again, shamefaced.
“Why?” Rick asked. “What was the point?”
When Brenda didn’t answer, Nancy spoke up. “It was for publicity. Brenda wanted to make a splash with her new column, so she invented an exciting, dramatic scenario. Right, Brenda?”
Brenda lifted her head and tossed back her dark hair. “Well, it could have happened,” she said indignantly. “People need to know that things like that can happen. In a way, you could say I was just being a responsible journalist.”
“Come off it, Brenda,” Rick said angrily. He moved to the edge of the pool and sat down with his back to Brenda, his feet dangling in the water.
Brenda seemed to have lost some of her spirit as she turned to Rick. “I had to do it,” she said, pleading to his back. “My father threatened to cancel my column because I wasn’t getting any interesting mail. I figured if I got just one exciting letter, others would follow. So I decided to write one myself. I’m sorry,” she added weakly. “I never meant for it to get out of hand like this.”
That reminded Nancy of something she had wondered about. “Brenda, how did you come up with that particular letter?”
“I got the idea after the crash in the parking lot. Mrs. Keating kept talking about how her brakes weren’t working, and I thought, suppose they were deliberately sabotaged?” She shrugged and seemed to be faintly pleased with herself. “The idea just took off from there.”
“I thought that might be it,” Nancy murmured, shaking her head. “I should’ve listened to my instincts.”
Poison Pen Page 5
