False Pretences

by Carolyn Keene

  Fortunato studied Nancy’s face. What he saw there seemed to change his mind about her and about confiding in them. “You bet he was,” he said. “I guess no one ever told him not to tangle with an old junkyard dog like me. I still got a few bites left. I told him I’d rather give the dough to my dear wife’s lawyers than to him.”

  “I saw you downtown the night he was killed,” Kyle blurted out. “You were in the coffee shop across from Mr. Drew’s office.”

  Fortunato pulled his head down between his shoulders. He reminded Nancy of a cross between a bulldog and a turtle.

  “What if I was?” he blustered. “I pay taxes in this town. I got a right to go wherever I want.”

  Nancy sighed to herself, then said, “Mr. Fortunato, would you mind telling me why you were there?”

  He jammed his hands in his pockets and replied, “Since you ask so nicely, I’ll tell you. Your buddy asked me for money, all right—lots of money. And he told me to bring it to him outside his office at six o’clock, or else. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. Finally, I made up my mind to go there and see how he liked having a few of his own teeth for dinner. But he never came downstairs. When I saw a bunch of cops show up, I decided to go on home.”

  “And you never went up to the office?” Nancy persisted.

  “Ask him,” Fortunato said, gesturing with his head toward Kyle. “He says he was there. Which reminds me—what were you doing there? Did Broughton try to get his hooks into you, too?”

  “That’s a long story,” Kyle muttered, flustered.

  “I think we’d better go,” Nancy said. “Mr. Fortunato, thanks for your frankness. I’ll come back if I have any other questions.”

  “Sure. Just don’t expect answers unless I’m in the mood to give them,” the wrecking yard owner replied. “It’s not like you’re the cops or anything. Sometimes I don’t even answer their questions.” He gave a deep, rumbling laugh that followed the three as they left the wrecking yard.

  Outside on the street, Bess said, “I still think—”

  “I know,” Nancy said, cutting her off. “And I’m not crossing him off my list. But right now I think we have to try a different approach. It’s looking more and more as though Mrs. Carlisle is at the heart of this case. How does this sound? Broughton took both copies of her will—the signed one from the vault and the one from her file—because he was hoping to extort money from her heirs.”

  “You mean he got them to pay him to suppress the will so that they could inherit?” Kyle asked.

  “Could be,” Nancy replied. “Now, if that’s so, did he destroy the wills?”

  “Of course not,” Bess contributed. “He would have needed to keep them. If they ever decided to stop paying, he could produce the will and the courts would take the inheritance back.”

  Nancy snapped her fingers. “Broughton’s apartment!” she exclaimed. “When I went there, I could tell it had been searched. I figured it was the police, but maybe someone else searched it, too. Someone I interrupted by showing up like that!”

  “Nancy! The one who shut you in the closet!”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Nancy said. “And if I interrupted him—”

  Bess finished her sentence. “The will may still be there! Come on, guys, what are we waiting for!”

  • • •

  The police seal was no longer on Broughton’s front door, but Nancy led her two friends around to the back, where she thought they would attract less attention. Once again, opening the back door took only seconds. She held it for Bess and Kyle, then slipped through herself.

  “Nancy, what a mess!” Bess exclaimed.

  Nancy turned. All the drawers and cabinet doors were hanging open. Most of their contents were in piles on the counter or the floor.

  “It looks like someone paid another visit,” Nancy observed. “Come on. Maybe we can find something he missed.”

  The living room was neater, but only because it didn’t have much to mess up. The big TV and the VCR had both been turned around, as if the searcher had expected to find something hidden behind or under them. Kyle got down on the floor and ran his hand along the underside of the TV.

  “When I was a kid, I used to hide letters by taping them to the bottom of my dresser,” he explained. He stood up, empty-handed, and dusted off the knees of his trousers. “I guess Jack didn’t know that trick.”

  “Let’s try the bedroom,” Nancy said, leading the way.

  The room looked as if it had gone through a hurricane. In front of the dresser was a tangled pile of shirts, socks, and sweaters. The empty drawers had been thrown on the floor. The same fury had visited the closet.

  Kyle picked up one of the suit jackets, glanced at the label, and whistled softly. “Jack had pretty expensive taste,” he commented as he replaced the jacket on a wooden hanger.

  Bess helped him sort through the jackets and pants. Meanwhile, Nancy studied the old rolltop desk. All the drawers and cubbyholes were’ emptied. There didn’t seem to be much point in retracing the rifler’s steps. If he had found the missing will, he had obviously taken it away with him. If he hadn’t, the reason was almost certainly that the will hadn’t been in the places he searched.

  What about the places he might not have searched? This wasn’t the first time Nancy had come across a rolltop desk. She recalled that some of them . . .

  She pulled out each of the drawers in turn, feeling with her fingertips around the openings. Just when she was on the point of giving up, she felt something give slightly. She pressed harder. A small square area of the wood frame moved inward. There was a faint click, and a shallow drawer popped out of the carved molding above the opening. Inside was a folded document in a heavy paper sleeve.

  “Hurray!” Nancy cried, grabbing the document. Printed on the cover, in large Old English letters, were the words Last Will and Testament. Winona Carlisle’s name and that of Carson Drew’s law firm were typed on it.

  Nancy slid the will out of the sleeve and scanned the pages. Mrs. Carlisle’s estate was left to several conservation organizations. There were no relatives listed as inheritors. Nancy flipped to the last page to find Mrs. Carlisle’s signature and that of two witnesses.

  “Let’s get this back in the vault, where it belongs,” she said, slipping the will back into its sleeve and putting it in her purse.

  Kyle and Bess followed her out through the kitchen door. Nancy was just closing the door when there was a sudden, blinding flash of light. She spun around. Brenda Carlton was standing a few feet away with a camera aimed at Nancy and her friends.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  FAANTASTIC!” Brenda exulted. “Hold it right there!”

  The flash went off again. Kyle jumped the steps and started toward Brenda, who hopped away, holding the camera behind her back.

  “Don’t you dare try anything,” Brenda warned him. “I’m a reporter, and you’re going to see your face on the front page tomorrow, next to my story about Carson Drew’s connection to the murder of Jack Broughton.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Nancy said.

  “What a scoop! Nancy Drew, daughter of murder suspect Carson Drew, breaks into murder victim’s apartment. Was she planting evidence to clear her father? Details on page five,” Brenda said.

  Nancy took a deep breath and told herself to remain calm. “Brenda,” she said. “If you run a story like that, you’re going to end up with egg on your face. I am very close to tracking down the real killer, and as soon as I do, I promise I’ll give you an exclusive—if you hold off with this dumb story. But if you keep hounding my father, I’ll give the exclusive to Bob Broward at the River Heights Record, and I’ll make sure your father knows exactly why the competition beat you out.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Brenda blustered.

  “Why, no,” Nancy replied sweetly. “I’m just trying to do you a favor by making sure you understand that what happens next depends on you.”

  Brenda stared at N
ancy, then gave a quick nod. “Deal,” she said. “But I’m warning you, Drew—if you’re trying to string me along, you’ll be sorry. Produce the goods or else!”

  She turned and stalked away.

  “Whew!” Bess said. “I can just imagine what my parents would say if they saw me in the paper as a burglar.”

  “Your parents? Huh!” Kyle added. “What about the law school admissions committee? Nancy, I sure hope you can come through on your promise.”

  “So do I,” Nancy replied. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, no, it’s late! I have to get over to the library before it closes! Kyle, will you and Bess take Mrs. Carlisle’s will to the office and make sure it’s put back in the vault?”

  “Sure,” Kyle said, tucking the envelope in the inside pocket of his coat. “Should we get together later, to plan our strategy?”

  “I’m supposed to meet David Megali for dinner,” Nancy explained. “Bess, I’ll call your house later. If you’re not in, I’ll leave a message on your machine. See you.”

  • • •

  “Back issues of the Record?” the man at the library’s reference desk said when Nancy told him what she was looking for. “Certainly. Everything more than two years old is on microfilm. You’ll find them shelved downstairs, in the periodicals section. There’s a copy of the index for each year down there, too. Have you used the microfilm readers before?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Nancy replied.

  As she turned away, the librarian added, “Don’t forget, we close at seven today. You’ll hear a warning bell at ten to.”

  Nancy waved a hand in acknowledgment and headed downstairs. The dimly lit stacks in the basement were deserted. They seemed to stretch on forever. After a few minutes of searching, Nancy located the newspaper files. She pulled out several years’ worth of indexes and carried them to a nearby table. It took only moments to check each one for the name Carlisle. There were at least one or two entries in most years. She copied down the dates, then swapped the indexes for another stack of them.

  Finally she came to a stretch of five years with no listings for Carlisle. She stopped and scanned the notes she had made. The earliest entry was from twenty-six years earlier, and the most recent was just three years old. She decided to work backward and went to get the more recent microfilms.

  Thirty minutes later Nancy sat up, discouraged, and rubbed her neck. Staring down at the screen of the reader was hard on the eyes. She had gone back over fifteen years, and she knew little more than she had when she started. About half the newspaper stories concerned various real-estate deals that Winona Carlisle had been involved in. The others were about her support for wildlife organizations. The story that got the most play was her donation, eight years earlier, of a large tract of wilderness as a nature preserve.

  Nancy frowned. She was sure she had skipped over something important—something to do with the nature preserve. She found that year’s microfilm again and cranked the reel to the proper date.

  There it was, in the second paragraph.

  The new wilderness area will be named after Mrs. Carlisle’s only child, Charity, who died twelve years ago in a boating accident.

  Nancy counted backward. Twelve years from the date of the donation meant twenty years ago. She went to the shelf for that year’s microfilm. According to her notes, there were four Carlisle stories that year, all in July. She dried her damp palms, then began to crank the film to early July. Every instinct told her that she was on the verge of an important discovery.

  The story was on page three.

  Death on the River

  River Heights, July 6—A family picnic ended in tragedy today when a boat carrying a local couple and their small child overturned on the Muskoka River near Sherman Park. The husband managed to carry the child to the bank, but by the time he returned to rescue his wife it was too late.

  The dead woman is Charity Carlisle Megali, 26, of River Heights. Her parents . . .

  Nancy straightened up so quickly that she banged her head on the hood of the microfilm reader. Megali! That was hardly a common last name. David must be connected to Mrs. Carlisle, which meant—

  No jumping to conclusions, she reminded herself. She read each of the other stories from that tragic July. Then she sat back and chewed on the end of her pencil. Charity Carlisle had been married to a man named Jerome Megali, and their child, who was four at the time, was named David!

  Not only that, there were hints that the authorities had questions about the boating accident. No one had seen it happen, but witnesses said they had heard what sounded like an angry argument just before the boat overturned. The medical examiner found that the dead woman had suffered a blow to the side of the head and had probably been unconscious when she fell into the water.

  Had Jerome Megali killed his wife, with their four-year-old son as a witness, then faked the accident to hide his crime? In many ways it didn’t matter. What did matter was that David Megali was Mrs. Carlisle’s only grandchild and therefore in a direct line to inherit all her wealth—if she died without leaving a will that excluded him. That gave him a powerful motive to find a way to steal the will and destroy it. But how—

  “Stupid!” Nancy exclaimed, slapping her forehead. She rummaged through her purse and found the envelope with Jack Broughton’s résumé. She had only scanned it before, but now she looked at it more carefully. The solution to the case was right there on the first page, under Education.

  “ ‘Bachelor of Arts, Eliot College, Belleport, Washington,’ ” she read out loud. “So that’s how David knew Jack Broughton. They were at school together!”

  Suddenly Nancy froze. Had she just heard a shoe scraping on the floor somewhere nearby? She lifted her head, held her breath, and concentrated on listening. There it was again, behind her and to the left! It might be a mouse, but she didn’t think so. Someone was in the basement with her—someone who didn’t want her to know he was there.

  Slowly, carefully, Nancy slid her chair back and started to push herself to her feet. As she did she became aware of a lemony scent—one she had smelled before in Broughton’s bathroom. Now, too late to be of much help, she recalled where she had smelled it before that. It was shortly after she found Broughton’s body, when David arrived at the office. She had thought she was smelling the lemon oil used to polish the furniture, but of course he must have been wearing the scent. It was just that she hadn’t always noticed it.

  Now she knew who was in the basement with her, and she also knew that he didn’t mean for her to leave the basement alive.

  Screaming would do no good. The basement was like a tomb, silent and deep underground. No one would hear.

  Nancy glanced all around without moving her head. He probably didn’t know that she was aware of his presence yet. That might give her the advantage of surprise. On the other hand, he was between her and the stairway. No escape— unless she could lure him away from his position. What if she made a quick dash to the right, then doubled back to the stairway?

  She took a deep breath and was ready to put her plan into motion when suddenly there was a loud click. Every light in the basement went out. Nancy was trapped in the dark by a desperate killer!

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  HER MIND RACED. David had an advantage over her because he knew exactly where she was at the moment he turned out the lights. Her first priority was to move but not too quickly. Any noise she made—any collision with a table or rack of books—would reveal her new position immediately.

  She strained to see in the darkness, but it was hopeless. She saw one faint gleam of light in the far distance, but nearer at hand all was blackness and gloom. With her hands out in front of her, she began to creep away from the spot where she had last heard noises.

  Her fingers touched something. It was one of the metal bookshelves. But which direction was the closest end, to the left or right? She ran her hand along the shelf until she found an upright. Beyond it was a vacant space that had to be an aisl
e. She tiptoed in that direction and started forward again.

  “Nancy!” a voice called softly. “Nancy Drew!”

  She froze. Where was it coming from? Behind her? In front? The voice seemed to ricochet around the basement until it sounded as if it were coming from everywhere at once, or nowhere.

  “You can’t get away, Nancy,” David continued, almost casually. “You know you can’t. Make it easy on yourself.”

  She suddenly realized that the voice was moving swiftly in her direction. David must be hoping to distract her with his words while sneaking up on her.

  Quickly she stepped around the shelves and into the next aisle, then flattened herself against the side. She knew David couldn’t see her any better than she could see him. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, she waited.

  A foot brushed the floor, so faint that she wasn’t absolutely sure she heard it. It seemed to come from just behind the bookshelves. The lemony scent reached her nose again. David must be only a few feet away. She kept herself rigid and still, hoping he would pass her by and leave open the path to escape.

  Another almost inaudible sound, closer this time, and a faint stirring of air. Nancy held her breath.

  A hand brushed her face, then grabbed her shoulder. Nancy screamed. Quicker than thought, she bobbed her head to the left and sank her teeth into the fleshy part of the hand that grabbed her. Even before she heard the gasp and felt the pressure on her shoulder let up, she made a dash to the right, down the middle of the aisle, waving her hands in front of her to keep from crashing into a wall.

  Something—a change in the reflected sound of her footsteps, perhaps—suddenly told her that there was empty space to her left. She sprang in that direction and found herself at the end of the stack. She edged around it into the next aisle and once more waited, silently gulping air. This time she was sure she had thrown David off her track.

  A faint gleam of light blossomed in the aisle she had just left. Her heart sank. David had a flashlight! Any thought of evading him now was pointless. Nancy groped behind her on the shelves and grasped the tallest, thickest book she could find—in fact, it was almost as thick as the book that had killed Jack Broughton.