Poison Pen (6 page)

I
N 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 in 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?”

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.