False Pretences

by Carolyn Keene

  “I’m afraid I can’t really say anything about that,” the detective said, looking uncomfortable. “Would you have any objection if we took a closer look around your offices?”

  “Of course not,” Carson replied.

  “I’d also like to send part of my team to check around your home,” Washington added. “It’s just a matter of covering all bases. You understand.”

  “I think I’m beginning to,” Carson said. Nancy could hear the anger and disbelief in her father’s voice, though she was sure anyone else would have thought he was totally calm. “And I must tell you I deeply resent the implication. But please go ahead. Search as thoroughly as you like. I have nothing whatever to hide!”

  Chapter

  Seven

  AS WASHINGTON’S officers fanned out through the suite, Nancy sat with her father in his office. He picked up a file and opened it. After one impatient glance, he slapped it down on the desk.

  “Honestly,” he said with barely suppressed anger. “This is utter nonsense! Washington may be a good detective, but he doesn’t know his way around River Heights yet if he believes a ridiculous rumor like this.”

  Nancy cleared her throat and said, “Dad? Is it possible that there’s something to the story?”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “What! You think I killed Jack Broughton because he found out that I’m fleecing my elderly clients?”

  “No, of course not,” Nancy protested. “But suppose there is some sort of scam going on at the expense of old people and some of them are your clients. Broughton might have found out about it and tried to blackmail whoever’s behind it. That might be enough of a motive for his murder.”

  “Agreed,” Carson said. “But do you have any reason to believe that—aside from this ridiculous tip that Washington received?”

  “Maybe,” Nancy said slowly. She told him about David Megali and the anonymous phone call that had brought him to the law firm the evening before.

  “Megali?” Carson repeated. “I don’t recognize the name, but if he’s not from around here, there’s no reason I should. What magazine did you say he writes for?”

  When Nancy told him the name, he picked up the telephone and asked Ms. Hanson to put him through to the magazine’s editorial offices in New York. A minute later he said to Nancy, “I imagine your Mr. Megali is exactly who he says he is, but there’s no harm—”

  He broke off as the phone buzzed. He identified himself to the person on the other end and explained why he was calling. After a brief conversation, he hung up and said, “They’ve published a couple of articles by Megali. The editor I spoke to said the magazine is very interested in his nursing-home story.”

  “That’s good to know,” Nancy said. “I’d hate to think that I’d been taken in by a con artist. By the way, Dad, I know you have a lot to do this afternoon. If Detective Washington still wants to check out our house, why don’t you let me take him over? It’d be one less thing for you to worry about.”

  And it’ll give me a chance to keep tabs on what the police are doing, she added to herself.

  “You don’t mind?” her father said, the relief sounding in his voice. “It would be a help.”

  “No problem,” Nancy replied, and settled down to wait.

  Twenty minutes later the team of detectives finished their search, and Detective Washington came to Carson’s office. His disgruntled expression made it clear that he had not found anything important.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Drew,” the detective said. His tone didn’t sound grateful, though.

  “Citizens should cooperate with the police,” Carson replied. “And as an officer of the court, I have an even greater responsibility to do so. Do you still intend to search my home, Detective?”

  Washington shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “With your permission, Mr. Drew,” he replied.

  “Of course,” Carson said. “My daughter will go with you and show you around.”

  For a moment the detective looked as if he were about to argue, but then he must have realized that without a search warrant he was on very shaky ground. “Thanks,” he said, glancing over at Nancy. “We can go now, if that’s okay with you.”

  Washington and two of his men followed Nancy’s Mustang in an unmarked car. Once home, she pulled into the driveway and Washington pulled up at the curb behind a car already parked there. As they got out, so did the passengers of the other car. With a sinking heart, Nancy saw that it was Brenda Carlton and a guy with a camera.

  Nancy hurried over in time to hear Brenda ask, “Detective Washington, is it true that the prominent attorney Carson Drew has been systematically looting the trust accounts of helpless elderly clients?”

  “No comment,” Washington said as the photographer took a shot of him and Brenda with the house in the background. “Excuse me. I have work to do.”

  He started to move away, and Brenda followed, as did the photographer. “Are you here to search the Drew house?” Brenda demanded. “You’re in charge of the investigation of the brutal murder of Jack Broughton. Is it true that Carson Drew is your prime suspect?”

  “No comment,” Washington repeated, and strode up to walk toward the house. Nancy started to follow him, but Brenda stepped in front of her.

  “As the daughter of a murder suspect—” she began.

  Nancy cut her off. “I am the daughter of Carson Drew, but my father is not a murder suspect. Now please get out of my way and off our lawn.” She brushed past the reporter and quickly walked toward her house.

  Brenda shouted after her. “Are you going to try to find someone else to take the blame for this crime?”

  Stung, Nancy whirled around. “I am going to do my best to find out the truth about it,” she proclaimed. “If that means fixing the blame on the real criminal, great!”

  As she spoke, the photographer crouched down and fired off three or four frames of her glaring at Brenda.

  Terrific, Nancy thought, as she turned away again. If one of those pictures is printed in Brenda’s paper, I’ll probably be offered the role of the Wicked Witch of the West in a remake of The Wizard of Oz!

  Nancy caught up with the team of searchers in the front hall. Hannah, confused by the sudden invasion of the house, was asking them if they would like tea or coffee. Nancy was glad to see this offer of hospitality embarrassed Washington.

  “No, thanks, ma’am,” he said. “If we could just look around?”

  “My father’s study is this way,” Nancy offered. “That’s probably where you want to start.”

  She showed them in, then returned to the living room. She needed time to think over some puzzling questions. Who had tipped off Brenda that the police were going to search the Drew house? Not to mention feeding her all that nonsense about Nancy’s father robbing his elderly clients?

  Why had Washington decided to conduct the searches? Not because of any hard evidence— that was pretty obvious. If he really had such evidence, he wouldn’t have had to ask Carson’s permission to search the office and house. Instead he would have taken the evidence to a judge and gotten a search warrant. That suggested that the police detective was acting solely on the basis of a tip, and that suggested that the same person had tipped off the police and Brenda. Having two tipsters in the same case, with the same idea at the same time, was stretching coincidence a bit too far.

  Who was this mysterious tipster? The person had to be familiar with the inner workings of Carson Drew’s law firm and the police investigation of Broughton’s murder. Nancy was afraid she knew who the obvious candidate was—Kyle Donovan. He had accused Carson of murder to Nancy’s face. Why should he hesitate to do the same to the press or the police?

  His motive, Nancy decided, was obvious, too. If he could manage to divert the attention of the police to Carson Drew, they might fail to notice that he had a powerful motive and the opportunity to kill Broughton. Still, Nancy wasn’t ready to believe Kyle was a murderer.

  What should be the ne
xt step in her investigation then? She knew that Broughton had been blackmailing Kyle and why. Was Kyle his only victim though? It didn’t seem likely. Nancy decided the place to look for clues to the identity of other victims was in the files that Broughton had been consulting.

  Nancy picked up the telephone and called the office. “Carla? It’s Nancy. Could I speak to Margaret Hildebrand? Thanks.”

  When the firm librarian came on the line, Nancy asked if the files she had requested were available. They were.

  “All of them? Great! Thanks,” Nancy said. “I’ll be in later this afternoon.”

  Nancy hung up and turned to find Detective Washington standing in the doorway about six feet away. He had obviously overheard her conversation. Her accusing stare made him lower his eyes.

  “We’re all done here, Nancy,” he said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “You didn’t find anything, did you?” Nancy observed. “Of course, you can’t answer, but we both know you couldn’t have found anything because there wasn’t anything for you to find. Somebody’s been playing practical jokes on you. And personally, I don’t think they’re funny,” she added, glancing out the window. A TV remote unit had just pulled up in front of the house.

  “No, I agree,” Washington replied, following the direction of her gaze. “Believe me, it’s not fun for us, either. But we have a job to do, and believe it or not, we generally do it pretty well.”

  Nancy opened the front door for him and his team. She was careful to stay out of range of the TV camera. She knew that unless the TV crew got good pictures the story would be useless to them.

  Once Washington and his officers were gone, Nancy lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. She found it impossible to relax and after a few minutes got up to call Ned. Nancy could always rely on Ned to help her clarify her thinking. There was no answer so Nancy hung up and headed back downtown to her dad’s law office.

  The files were laid out for her on the long oak table in the library. She slowly leafed through each of them, searching for anything that might link up with the case. Two of them concerned elderly clients, but neither involved large sums of money. The other files were a divorce, an adoption, a personal-injury case, and a couple of commercial real-estate transactions. She didn’t spot any obvious possibilities for blackmail among them.

  Frustrated, she left the office and went back downstairs. As she was crossing the lobby, she spotted the night security guard on his way in. She waved and went up to him.

  “Terrible thing, what happened last night,” he said. “You found him, I hear. Terrible thing.”

  “Yes, it was,” Nancy replied. “I wanted to ask you about any other people who went up to my dad’s office last night.”

  “The cops already asked me,” he said, nodding. “I told them what I’ll tell you. There weren’t any—not after seven, when I started logging people in. Before that, I wouldn’t know.”

  “No one at all?” Nancy asked, not bothering to mask her disappointment.

  “Nope. Not unless you count the cops themselves and that reporter fella with the press card. I didn’t make any of them sign the book, the way they all flooded in. Sorry I can’t help you.”

  “That’s okay,” Nancy said. “Thanks anyway.”

  She glanced at her watch. She just had time to go home and get ready for her dinner date with David. She hoped he was having better luck With his inquiries than she was.

  She took a quick shower, then changed into a dark blue skirt and light blue silky blouse. She pulled back the sides of her strawberry blond hair into a Victorian silver hair clasp. The effect was just right for a place like the Riverside—not too formal, not too casual.

  Bess’s house was almost on the way to the restaurant. Nancy decided to stop and bring her friend up to date. She went up the steps and rang the bell.

  When Bess opened the door, Nancy saw that her cheeks were stained with tears.

  “Bess! What’s wrong?” Nancy asked.

  “You’re what’s wrong, you—you traitor!” Bess cried. “Go away! I never want to speak to you again!”

  She slammed the door shut in Nancy’s face.

  Chapter

  Eight

  NANCY WAS TOO stunned to react. She and Bess had known each other since they were little, and for most of that time they had been the closest of friends. What could have happened to make Bess treat her like an enemy?

  Nancy knew she had to find out what was wrong and fix it right then. The first step was to get Bess to listen to her.

  Setting her jaw, Nancy put her finger on the doorbell and held it down.

  Bing-bong! Bing-bong! Bing-bong!

  After what seemed like dozens of rings, Nancy heard footsteps running toward the door. Just in time, too. Her finger was almost numb.

  Bess flung open the door and cried, “Stop it! Why don’t you go away and leave me alone!”

  “Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” Nancy declared. “I have the right to expect at least that much from you.”

  Bess’s stare was that of a puppy who had just been swatted with a newspaper. “What’s wrong? How can you even ask? You know perfectly well what’s wrong! Kyle called. He said that you think he killed Jack Broughton. He says you’re hunting for evidence against him. Nancy, how could you! I asked you to help Kyle, not accuse him of murder!”

  Nancy took a deep breath, which helped to calm her a little. “Did he tell you anything about his relationship with Broughton?” she asked.

  “You mean the blackmail?” Bess replied. “Yes, he did. I’m glad. Now I understand what he’s been going through the past couple of weeks.”

  “And you understand how someone could think that might be a motive for murder, don’t you?” Nancy asked.

  Bess shook her head. “I don’t care. I know Kyle, and he could never kill anyone. Never! Besides, he told me he’s innocent, and I believe him. I’m sorry, Nan, but unless you believe him, too, I can’t go on being your friend.”

  Keeping her voice calm and sympathetic, Nancy said, “I’d like to believe him, Bess. I really would. But I can’t shut my eyes to the facts. When the police find out that Broughton was blackmailing him and that he was nearby at the time of the murder, they’re not going to care whether we believe him or not.

  “The best way for us to prove that Kyle is innocent is to find the guilty person. And that is exactly what I’m trying to do. I could use your help, and even his, but with or without it, I’m going ahead.”

  Bess frowned. “According to the police, Broughton was killed by a burglar.”

  “That was yesterday. Today they think my father may have killed him.” She quickly told Bess what had happened that day, not mentioning her suspicion that an anonymous tip from Kyle was what had motivated the police to suspect her father.

  “But, Nancy, that’s terrible! You must be a wreck,” Bess exclaimed. “And your poor dad! What are you going to do?”

  “I told you—find out who really killed Broughton,” Nancy replied. “There must be other suspects. After all, blackmailers make a lot of enemies.”

  “That’s true,” Bess said, her face brightening. “All we have to do is find out who his other victims were. But how do we do that?”

  Nancy noticed the significant we. “I’m guessing that Broughton’s real reason for working at the firm was to dig up dirt on people,” she said. “If I’m right, there must be clues in the files he consulted. That’s where Kyle could help, by seeing which clients seem like possibilities. Then we can check them out.”

  “You’re on,” Bess declared. “I was planning to go shopping tomorrow, but I’d much rather help you—especially if it means we can help prove that Kyle’s innocent.”

  Nancy didn’t mention to Bess that their investigation might prove him guilty. If that happened, Bess would just have to deal with it, Nancy decided.

  It crossed her mind then that if the police knew Kyle had been Broughton’s blackmail victim, it would take some of the heat off
her father. Washington would probably find it out sooner or later—but not from Nancy. She couldn’t do that to Bess.

  “Okay, I’ll call you first thing tomorrow,” Nancy said. Then she glanced at her watch. “Oh, rats! I’m supposed to meet David at the Riverside Restaurant in five minutes. I’ll never get there on time!”

  Bess gave her a sly look. “David? Who’s David?” she asked. “Does Ned know about him?”

  “This is a business conference,” Nancy told her.

  • • •

  The drive to the restaurant took less time than Nancy expected. After parking the Mustang next to a purple van, she went inside. David hadn’t arrived yet, but the headwaiter showed her to a table next to a window overlooking the Muskoka River and took away the Reserved card. While she waited, Nancy gazed out at the river and thought about Bess. She sincerely hoped that her friend was not about to face a terrible discovery about Kyle.

  A pair of swans glided by lit by floodlights focused on the river. Nancy wasn’t a bit superstitious, but she was tempted to take the pair of birds as a sign that the relationship between Bess and Kyle would work out.

  “Nancy,” David said, hurrying over to the table. “Sorry I’m late. I got a little lost on the way here.”

  He sat down and glanced out the window. “Too bad it’s not warm enough to sit on the terrace,” he added. “But this is almost as good as being outside. Did you notice the swans?” he added, pointing.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Nancy replied. “Oh, you hurt your hand.”

  He glanced down at a bleeding knuckle. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I haven’t gotten used to all the knobs on the car I rented. There’s one I always knock into.”

  “That’s so irritating,” Nancy said sympathetically. “What an unusual ring.”

  “Is it?” He slipped it off and passed it to her. “It’s my college ring. I guess it is a little different from most.”