False Pretences

by Carolyn Keene

  Nancy examined it briefly. “Eliot College,” she read. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. Where is it?”

  “Just outside Seattle, Washington,” David replied. “It’s pretty small. Not many people know of it here, but I liked it. Listen, Nancy, not to change the subject, but I heard a rumor this afternoon that the police were going to search your home and your father’s office. I’m telling you so you won’t be too thrown by it, if it happens.”

  “Thanks,” she said dryly, “but it’s already happened. You seem to be pretty well plugged in to local rumors, especially for someone who hasn’t been in town that long.”

  “It’s one of the skills I had to pick up when I decided on investigative journalism,” he explained. “But it’s not all that hard, once you know how. Most people love to show how much they know, if you give them the opening. The trick is to figure out whose inside information is the genuine article. But that just comes down to a lot of careful cross-checking of sources.”

  “You’re really involved in what you do, aren’t you?” Nancy said. “What first drew you to it?”

  He laughed. “I guess I like to know inside information as much as anybody,” he said. “Oops! Here comes the waiter. I think we’d better study our menus.”

  For appetizers, they both ordered shrimp cocktails. For his main course, David chose broiled rainbow trout, while Nancy decided on grilled salmon steak. As the waiter walked away, Nancy said, “We seem to be on the same wavelength this evening.”

  For a moment David looked startled, almost alarmed. Then he laughed it off by saying, “We’re both in the mood for fish, if that’s what you mean. It must come from spending our time fishing for information.”

  Nancy groaned at his pun, but she didn’t try to top it.

  “Nancy?” David continued in more serious tones. “I heard another rumor today that I think you should know about. It’s the reason the police wanted to search your house and your dad’s office. Oddly enough, it concerns the article I’m working on, too.”

  Nancy, remembering her last exchange with Brenda, said, “Is this the idiotic tale about my dad stealing from his elderly clients?”

  David blinked in surprise. “Why—yes, it is. You’ve heard it already, then.”

  “I certainly have,” she replied grimly. “And I want to put a stop to it, right away. A rumor like that could destroy my dad’s practice.”

  “Yes, I can see why,” David replied.

  “Has your investigation turned up any evidence that old people really are being swindled?” she asked. “Or is it still in the rumor stage?”

  He hesitated. “No hard evidence so far,” he said. “But you know what they say. Where there’s smoke—”

  “Sometimes there’s fire,” Nancy said, breaking in. “And sometimes just a smoke screen. Do you have any idea who started these rumors about my father?”

  “I got my information from a secretary at police headquarters,” he replied. “I doubt she’ll say where she got it from, but I’ll ask.”

  Just then the waiter arrived with their shrimp cocktails.

  “I’d really appreciate your trying,” Nancy told him.

  As they ate, David told her some wonderful anecdotes about people he had met. He seemed especially fond of two charming rascals whose West Coast real-estate scam he had exposed.

  “What happened to them?” Nancy asked, intrigued.

  “Oh, they went to jail. But they didn’t hold it against me. One of them even promised me a great deal on a second home as soon as he got out!

  “The trouble is,” he concluded, “I can’t afford to carry out many investigations like that. They take too long and pay too little. Papers and magazines are more generous to delivery people than they are to free-lance writers. This nursing home piece is just about to drain me. I’ve checked out leads in a handful of cities and still have lots more to follow up on.

  “I guess I could take a staff position and get a regular paycheck,” David said, “but then it would be the editor who decides what stories I work on, not me. To do the kind of work I want to do, I should be independently wealthy.”

  As if afraid he had become too gloomy, David changed the subject and quizzed Nancy about all the things she thought he should see and do while he was in River Heights. She was surprised at how easily he kept her talking. He made only an occasional comment or asked a question. She began to see why he was good at his job.

  After dinner David walked Nancy to her car. When she turned to thank him and say good night, she sensed that he was about to put his arms around her and kiss her. This was definitely a complication she didn’t need. She quickly stuck out her hand for him to shake and said, “Good night, David. I’ll call you tomorrow. And do try to run down the source of that rumor.”

  He took her hand and held it just a little bit longer than necessary, then gave her a quirky smile. “I will,” he promised. “Sleep tight.”

  He walked away as Nancy slid into her car. She turned the ignition key. For a moment nothing happened. Then all at once there was a piercing whistle, followed by a small explosion. A cloud of dense white smoke started to boil out from under the hood of the Mustang.

  Chapter

  Nine

  THE INSTANT the whistling noise began Nancy had started to react. She switched off the ignition, hit the release button on her seat belt, and yanked at the door handle. As the door swung open, she was already diving out and rolling toward the rear of the car, away from the engine. She sprang to her feet and backed up.

  David came running over. “Are you all right?” he demanded, stepping between her and the Mustang and putting his hands on her shoulders. “What happened?”

  The gravel in the parking lot had skinned Nancy’s palms. She stepped back from David and tucked each of her hands under the opposite arm and pressed hard. That helped a little to ease the pain.

  “I’m okay,” she said breathlessly. “But my car—”

  Over David’s shoulder she could see that the cloud of white smoke was almost extinguished. One of the cooks, in white apron and high white chef’s hat, had come running carrying a bright red fire extinguisher. Behind him, other members of the restaurant staff had stepped outside to watch or help.

  Nancy went to meet him and said, “It’s all right, thanks. I think it was just somebody’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “Are you sure, miss?” he asked in a faint European accent. “A car fire is no joke. I had a Fiat once—”

  “I’m sure,” Nancy said, breaking in on his story. “But thanks again.”

  He seemed almost disappointed to be robbed of his chance to be a hero. As the cook returned to the kitchen, David joined Nancy. “A joke?” he said. “How do you know? I think we should call a garage to come get your car.”

  “I doubt if that’s necessary,” Nancy replied. “Someone wired one of these so-called car bombs to a friend’s car last year. They’re pretty startling, but they don’t do any real damage to a car.

  “I should check just the same,” she added, going back to the car and leaning in to pull the hood latch. “But I’m almost positive that’s what it is.”

  When the hood popped open, the smell reminded Nancy of Fourth of July picnics minus the hot dogs and burgers.

  David pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. “There it is,” he said, aiming the light at a blackened cardboard tube that dangled from the distributor. He leaned over and detached the thin wires, then studied it. “I guess when you turn on the ignition, the current sets it off. Cute.”

  “I’ll take that,” Nancy said, reaching for the car bomb. “It could be a clue.”

  “Oh, sorry,” David said. “I got my fingerprints all over it.”

  Nancy borrowed his light and shone it around the engine compartment, then closed the hood. “It looks okay,” she reported.

  David frowned. “I don’t like the feel of this. It could just as easily have been a real bomb. I wonder if you ought to drop out of this investigation.�
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  “Sorry,” Nancy said. “There’s no way I’m going to allow myself to be scared off. Too much is at stake—such as my father’s reputation.”

  David nodded as if he had expected her answer. “Would you like me to try starting the engine for you?” he asked.

  “Thanks, but I’ll do it,” Nancy replied. “I doubt if I’ll have any more trouble.”

  “Okay, but if you don’t mind, I’ll follow you home. Just in case that gizmo caused some problems that don’t show up until you’re on your way.” He waited while Nancy got the engine going and backed out of her parking place. Then he returned to his own car and pulled in behind her.

  Nancy’s mind was focused half on her driving and half on what had just happened. The car bomb was not a random prank, she was sure of that. It had been aimed at her, as a warning. But by whom? Broughton’s killer was the obvious candidate, but how had he known where to find her car? She didn’t think anyone had been following her, but then, too, she had to admit that she hadn’t been watching.

  Her heart sank. She had told Bess that she was on her way to dinner and had named the Riverside Restaurant. What if Bess casually mentioned that fact to Kyle? He could have easily installed the prank bomb while Nancy and David were having dinner.

  After reaching her street, she pulled into the driveway. Behind her, David lightly tapped his horn before driving off. As she walked to the door, Nancy thought about the evening as a whole.

  Except for the moment when her car seemed about to blow up, she had thoroughly enjoyed her date with David. She had to admit that date was a better word than conference, whatever she might have said to Bess. David was clearly attracted to her, and she— How did she feel about him?

  She admired his devotion to his craft, which had much in common with her own detective work. Also he was good-looking and fun to be with, but, she knew, he was no threat to her relationship with Ned. That was different—not a casual flirtation, but real, true love. If only Ned weren’t away at college!

  She sat down at her desk and wrote Ned a quick note, telling him how much she missed him. She could fill him in on her current investigation—and David Megali—the next time she saw him.

  • • •

  At breakfast the next morning Carson Drew was somber. “The police don’t have a bit of evidence against me,” he said. “Not that that will stop them from suspecting me.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, then added, “But the police investigation isn’t my biggest concern. I’m still having trouble taking in Jack’s death. And then there’s the publicity. First someone on my staff is murdered in the office, then rumors appear to suggest that I’m responsible. It’s getting in the way of maintaining my clients’ confidence in my integrity.

  “To give you one example, my client in that product liability case asked me about Jack yesterday afternoon. The message from him was that these suspicions could undermine my ability to function as his counsel.”

  “It’ll be all right, Dad,” Nancy said, patting his hand. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, and once the real killer is unmasked, everyone will realize how badly you’ve been treated.”

  Carson shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure it’s wise for you to go on with this case, Nancy,” he said. “You can’t possibly be impartial—not with me on the short list of suspects. And whatever you uncover, most people are bound to think that you’re simply trying to exonerate me.”

  “If I paid attention to what ‘some people’ think, I’d never solve any of my cases,” Nancy retorted. “Don’t worry, Dad—I’ll be careful. But I’m not giving up!”

  Before leaving the house, Nancy telephoned Bess and arranged to meet her at Carson Drew’s office. When Nancy arrived, she found Bess already in the reception area, looking at a magazine.

  “Oh, Nancy,” Bess said, speaking in an undertone. “I told Kyle your idea about the files last night. He was so excited that he wanted to get started checking them first thing this morning. He even took me home early.”

  Nancy smiled, but inwardly she wondered if Kyle had ended his date with Bess early to give himself time to wire the smoke bomb to Nancy’s car.

  “Oh, look. There he is,” Bess said, pointing down the hall. “Kyle! Yoo-hoo, Kyle!”

  Carla was aghast. No one shouted “Yoo-hoo!” in the reception room.

  Nancy quickly took Bess’s arm and led her down the hall to where Kyle was standing loaded down with file folders.

  “Hi, Bess. Hi, Nancy,” he said. “I think I may be getting somewhere. Let me show you.”

  They followed him into Broughton’s former office. Kyle dumped the files on the desk and picked up a notepad.

  “Jack checked out dozens and dozens of the firm’s files,” he explained. “That was his job, after all—to reorganize and computerize the filing system. But if Nancy’s right, he was also searching for victims for his blackmail racket.”

  Bess groaned at the size of the pile of folders. “It’ll take forever to look through all of these, and even then we might miss something important.”

  Kyle nodded. “I know. But then it came to me. Ms. Hildebrand’s log shows the date and time each file was checked out and returned. Usually Jack checked out eight or ten at once and returned them all at the same time. But when I looked more carefully, I saw that there were a few files he kept longer. And there was one that he checked out not once, but three times.”

  Nancy began to feel the first tremors of excitement. “Whose file is it?” she demanded.

  “It’s a divorce case,” Kyle replied. “A very messy one, too. Our client is the husband, and if some of the information in the file got into the hands of his wife’s attorneys, it would probably cost him a whole lot of money.”

  “And you think that Broughton may have tried to extort money from the husband as his price for not passing this information on?”

  “Maybe. Or he may have tried to sell the information to the wife’s attorneys and the husband found out about it,” Kyle replied.

  “Who is he?” Bess asked, thrilled. “We have to question him!”

  “His name’s Al Fortunato,” Kyle replied. “He owns a junkyard and tow truck business. It’s over on the south side, near the town line.”

  Nancy frowned. Kyle’s report reminded her of something, but what? The harder she tried to pin it down, the farther it slipped away.

  Then all at once she had it! The slip of paper she had found in Broughton’s jacket. She had rightly deciphered “KY D” to mean Kyle Donovan and “100/WK?” as the amount Broughton was demanding from Kyle. But what about the line above that—“DAM ALF SG”? “ALF” could stand for Al Fortunato!

  “Do you know anything more about Fortunato?” Nancy asked.

  Kyle shrugged. “I saw him here a couple of times, when he came in for appointments. He’s a big, burly guy who looks like he’s been in a fight or two in his day. Running a junkyard must be a lot rougher than operating a tearoom.”

  “Nancy, let’s go see him!” Bess exclaimed. “Right away!”

  “All right,” Nancy agreed. Kyle’s reasoning about the files impressed her, and the note she’d found in Broughton’s own handwriting seemed to corroborate his suspicions. The junkyard owner definitely had to be checked out, and the sooner the better. Still, she reminded herself, even if Fortunato turned out to be one of Broughton’s blackmail victims, he wasn’t necessarily Broughton’s murderer.

  Before she and Bess left the office, Nancy called David’s number. He wasn’t in, but she left a message on his machine, asking if he had any information about Al Fortunato. She promised to call back later.

  Fortunato’s wrecking yard was on a busy stretch of Henderson Road between a tire dealership and a frozen yogurt stand. A line of tall, thick hedges hid the yard from the road. Nancy spotted it by the four tow trucks parked out front and the billboard-size sign that said Fortune Salvage—Car Parts All Model Years. She parked near the tow trucks.

  Inside the yard Nancy and Bess saw stacks
of junked cars, three and four high, that stretched in every direction. To her left Nancy noticed a pile of car doors, each carefully marked with the make, year, and model. Next to it was a stack of windshields separated by lengths of lumber.

  A dozen feet away a heavyset man with close-cropped hair and a nose that bent to one side was talking to two younger men in oil-stained overalls. He noticed Nancy and Bess and called out, “You girls need something?”

  “Mr. Fortunato?” Nancy said.

  “That’s me,” he said. “What about it?”

  “I’m Nancy Drew. Could we talk to you for a couple of minutes?”

  “Drew,” he repeated. “Carson Drew’s kid? Sure, soon as I’m done here. You can wait in the office if you want.”

  He waved in the direction of a rusty mobile home. Nancy and Bess walked over to it and went inside. The main room was furnished with a battered desk, two metal file cabinets, several folding chairs, and a computer and fax machine.

  “He doesn’t believe in putting on airs, does he?” Bess said, giggling.

  Nancy studied the file cabinets. The drawers of one were labeled Catalogs, Manuals, Invoices, and Misc Junk. The other had labels for A-G, H-M, N-S, and T-Z.

  “Watch the door,” Nancy told Bess, and pulled open the A-G drawer.

  She quickly located the B’s and started flipping through the tabs on the files. She was just passing the one for Branford Motors when a loud, angry voice rang out, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Chapter

  Ten

  NANCY HURRIEDLY slid the file drawer closed, taking care to avoid banging it. Putting on the most innocent expression she could manage, she turned—to see that she and Bess were still alone in the room.

  “Sorry, Al,” a second voice said. It too sounded close at hand. Nancy noticed that the window of the trailer was propped open. “I thought you’d want me to tow it in,” the voice continued. “Some turkey took off the plates and left it parked half up on the pavement.”