False Pretenses

by Carolyn Keene

  “I still think Fortunato’s the murderer,” Bess declared. “Why else was he hanging around the night of the murder? And what about that car that nearly ran you down? You don’t really believe it was being driven by a little old lady, do you?”

  “No,” Nancy said, laughing. “But I can ask her when I see her.” She phoned the nursing home and learned that visitors were permitted that afternoon, beginning in half an hour.

  “Do you want me to come along?” Bess asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Nancy replied. “We might have trouble getting more than one person in to see her, and a crowd might make her nervous.”

  “Okay, then I’m going to run a few errands,” Bess said. “Kyle, as soon as you can get away from the office, why don’t we take another look at Fortunato’s wrecking yard? I’m sure he’s hiding something.”

  • • •

  Crestwood Manor was a former private mansion set amid acres of lawns and gardens. Nancy parked and went in the front door. When she told the man at the desk that she was the daughter of Mrs. Carlisle’s attorney, he telephoned, then said that Mrs. Carlisle would meet her in the solarium.

  Nancy followed his directions to a room with many tall windows and cheerful wicker furniture. Mrs. Carlisle, a short, plump woman with thinning white hair and cool, shrewd eyes, was already there, seated in a wicker armchair. She was grasping a slender wooden cane with a silver head in the form of a bird.

  “You’re Carson Drew’s daughter, are you?” she began. “I suppose he’s too busy to come speak to me himself. Well, girl, what is it? What do you want?”

  “I understand my dad’s firm drafted your will,” Nancy said.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Of course they did,” she snapped. “And charged handsomely for the job, too! What of it?”

  “Do you know where that will is now?”

  “Don’t you know?” Mrs. Carlisle asked. “It’s supposed to be with my other papers at your daddy’s office. Are you trying to tell me that it’s not there?”

  “Well . . .”

  The woman banged her cane on the floor. Her voice rose, nearly to a shout. “They got to you, didn’t they? They still think they’re going to lay their filthy murdering hands on my money! Well, I may be an old woman, but I still have a few surprises for them!”

  “Mrs. Carlisle,” Nancy started to say, “I just—”

  “And for you and your father, too!” Mrs. Carlisle pushed herself up out of the chair and tottered on her feet. Thinking she was about to fall, Nancy took a step toward her. Just then, the elderly woman raised her cane in the air and brought it down toward Nancy’s head.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  NANCY THREW HERSELF to the right as the cane whistled toward her. It missed, but Nancy felt the breeze as the cane went by. An instant later it crashed against the arm of the wicker chair.

  As Mrs. Carlisle raised the cane for another try, Nancy backed toward the door. Before she got there, it opened and a man came in.

  “Is there a problem here?” he asked, going up to Mrs. Carlisle.

  “Charles! Throw this young woman out— right now! And don’t let her come back!”

  “You shouldn’t excite yourself, Mrs. Carlisle,” Charles murmured. “Would you like me to call down for a cup of herb tea?”

  “Get her out of here!” She pointed her cane at the door, narrowly missing his head.

  Charles turned to Nancy. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said politely but firmly, “I’m afraid you’d better leave. This way, please.”

  As she followed him into the front hall, Nancy said, “I’m sorry I upset her. I didn’t mean to. Maybe if I came back another time—”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Charles said. He opened the front door and held it for her. “Our guests expect us to protect them from unwelcome visitors. If either you or your associate return, I’ll be forced to have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Associate?” Nancy said, turning back. “But I don’t—”

  She found that she was talking to a closed door. She knocked and rang the buzzer, but there was no response. Finally she gave up and went to her car. As she drove back downtown, she thought what a shame it was that Mrs. Carlisle had been so badly upset. Still, she had learned two important facts. First, Mrs. Carlisle was convinced that someone was after her money. And second, somebody else had recently shown an interest in the elderly woman. Nancy had a hunch that that somebody was involved in Broughton’s murder. How to track him down? That was the problem.

  “Oh, Nancy!” Carla said when Nancy walked into the law firm’s reception area. “Your father asked me to make sure that you see him the moment you got back.”

  When Nancy pushed open the door to her father’s office, she saw him sitting with his head in his hands. He lowered his hands and raised his eyes. She had never seen his face so drawn.

  “The buzzards are circling,” he said. He tried to smile to take the edge off his comment, but the effort defeated him. He picked up a stack of pink message slips. “These are all from newspaper and TV reporters who want to interview me. I don’t think they’re calling to find out my views about the latest Supreme Court decision.”

  The telephone buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, then replaced it. “The police,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “They asked to see me again tomorrow morning at headquarters. At least they’re still asking.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” Nancy said. She circled the desk and gave him a quick hug. “We’re a lot closer to solving this business.”

  “I heard,” he said. “A missing will, eh? I wonder what the connection is to Broughton’s death. Was there really a burglar after all?”

  Nancy quickly explained why that didn’t seem likely, then asked, “Do you remember anything about Mrs. Carlisle’s will?”

  Carson shook his head. “I’m not even sure that I drafted it,” he said. “She was never a big client of the firm. I doubt if I met her more than two or three times over the years. I have a vague feeling that she planned to leave the bulk of her estate to various causes—birds, perhaps? Something like that.”

  “Suppose we hadn’t discovered that the will was missing?” Nancy asked. “What would have happened when she passed on?”

  “We would have hunted for the will and not found it,” Carson replied. “In that case, the laws are very clear. The estate would go to her nearest living relative, whoever that might be.”

  “I didn’t see any mention of relatives in her file,” Nancy observed.

  “She may not have any. If none come forward, after a waiting period, the state takes over the property—unless, of course, someone can prove to the court that she intended to leave it to him or her.”

  “I just know that Mrs. Carlisle is the key to this,” Nancy declared. “But how? Did Broughton steal her will? Or was it his killer? And in either case, why? Are you sure you can’t tell me anything more about her?”

  Carson raised his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry, Nancy,” he said. “As I told you, I doubt if I met the lady more than two or three times. I know she had the reputation of being a very shrewd businesswoman, and I seem to recall some story about a tragedy in her past, but that’s it.”

  Suddenly alert, Nancy asked, “What sort of tragedy?”

  “An accident of some sort. I don’t recall.”

  “Hmm—I wonder if whatever it was made the newspapers?” Nancy mused.

  She was about to ask about Jack Broughton’s job references when there was a tap on the door. Ms. Hanson put her head in. “Oh, Nancy,” she said. “There’s a call for you on three from a David Megali.”

  “Finally!” Nancy said. “Thanks, Ms. Hanson. Can I take it at your desk? Dad, I’ll catch you later.”

  She hurried out and picked up the phone. “Hi, Nancy,” David said. “I got your messages today, but I’ve been running around like crazy.”

  “That’s okay,” Nancy replied. “How did you track me d
own?”

  He laughed. “I called your house, and the woman I spoke to told me to try your father’s office. Simple, huh? So, have you found out anything new?”

  “I certainly have,” Nancy replied. “And it may tie in to your investigation, too.”

  She told him a little about Mrs. Carlisle, though she didn’t mention the missing will. When she finished, he said, “Crestwood Manor? I’ve heard of it, of course. Very upscale, very comfortable. And very profitable, too, I bet. But none of my sources has mentioned it in connection with the kind of abuses I’m researching. I don’t recall the name Carlisle, either.”

  “Oh. Too bad,” Nancy said. The disappointment she felt took her by surprise. Had she really expected David to solve the case for her?

  “I couldn’t get anything more on who spread the rumors about your father,” David continued. “I have gathered a lot of other information. Some of it may help you solve your case. Why don’t we meet for dinner? I’ll lay it all out for you.”

  Nancy’s spirits lifted. “Great,” she said. “But not at the Riverside. I really enjoyed our meal there, but it gave my car indigestion.”

  He laughed. “Okay, then, I noticed a Middle Eastern restaurant not far from downtown,” he said. “How does seven o’clock sound?”

  Nancy hesitated. “Can we make it a bit later?” she asked. “I need to go by the library first. I thought I might find some background information on Winona Carlisle in the newspaper files.”

  “Sure, no problem,” David replied. They agreed on the place for eight o’clock and hung up.

  After the call from David, Nancy found herself oddly troubled. She tried to calm down by checking over her notes on the case, but it didn’t work. She kept finding herself staring blankly into space.

  It was time for drastic measures. She reached for the telephone and dialed Ned Nickerson’s number. The rush of happiness she felt when he answered told her that this was the right prescription for what was bothering her.

  “Hi, Nancy,” Ned said. “I was going to call you tonight. What’s all this about somebody being killed in your father’s office? I saw a story on the news last night. Are you on the case?”

  “Yes. I tried to call you earlier, but it’s been hectic around here,” Nancy said. She quickly filled him in on her investigation. Each time she mentioned David’s name she sensed herself stumbling a little. Ned apparently noticed.

  “Tell me again who this guy David is,” he said when she finished. “He’s a reporter? For what paper?”

  “He’s not a reporter, he’s a free-lance journalist,” Nancy replied. “He’s written for a lot of important magazines.”

  “Yeah? That’s nice,” Ned said dryly. “River Heights must really feel like the sticks to him, then. How long is he planning to hang around?”

  Nancy hesitated. It hadn’t sunk in that David was in town for just a limited time. “I don’t know—until he collects the information he needs for his article, I guess. Why?”

  “I was wondering how many more dinners you’re planning to have with him,” Ned said. “Tonight’ll make two in a row.”

  “Why, Nickerson, I think you’re jealous!” Nancy said with a giggle. “You should know better. You’re the one I love. But David is an experienced investigator, and I think he can help me with this case. And he is pretty cute,” she added, teasing Ned.

  “He’d better keep his distance, or he won’t be so cute when I’m done with him,” Ned growled. “You take care of yourself, do you hear? Someone out there is a killer, and he’s already made at least one try for you.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Nancy promised. She was about to say more when the telephone buzzed. “Hold on a sec,” she said, and pressed the intercom button.

  “Is that Nancy?” Carla said. “You’ve got a call on two. She said it’s urgent.”

  Nancy switched back to Ned and told him goodbye, then pressed the blinking button for the other line and said, “Hello?”

  “Nancy?” Bess said urgently. “Listen, we’re at the junkyard—I mean near the junkyard, down the street—and I think we’ve spotted the car that tried to run you over today at the diner. You’ve got to come over here—right away!”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  AS NANCY DROVE out Henderson Road toward Al Fortunato’s wrecking yard, she asked herself why she wasn’t more excited about the discovery Bess and Kyle had apparently made. Was it because she didn’t want Fortunato to be the killer? Or simply that the net of dues was drawing tighter, and she didn’t think Fortunato was secured yet?

  As arranged, Bess and Kyle were waiting in Bess’s car in the parking lot of the frozen yogurt stand next to the wrecking yard. Nancy pulled in alongside them, got out, and went over to order a double cone, vanilla and strawberry. She wasn’t really hungry, but her sense of fairness told her that if they made use of the parking lot, they ought to buy something. When her cone came, she carried it over to Bess’s car and got in.

  “I’m sure it’s the same car,” Bess said, almost bouncing up and down on the seat. “We almost missed it because it’s partly hidden behind the office trailer. That’s suspicious right there, if you ask me. Why hide a dumb old car unless you’re afraid somebody might see it?”

  “What we call hiding it somebody else might call just getting it out of the way,” Kyle pointed out in a let’s-look-at-both-sides-of-the-question tone of voice. “We don’t know it’s the same car, and even if it is, what real evidence do we have to link it to Fortunato?”

  “It’s in his yard, isn’t it?” Bess retorted impatiently. “That’s a link. And we’re not going to find out if it’s the same car by sitting here, yakking and eating yogurt. We have to go check it out.”

  “Fortunato won’t be very happy to see us again,” Nancy said.

  “What if I go in first?” Kyle offered. “If he’s there, I’ll start asking him a lot of questions about carburetors or something. He doesn’t know me, so he won’t suspect anything. And while he’s talking to me, you two can slip past and check out the car.”

  “Good plan,” Nancy said.

  They walked down the road to the big Fortune Salvage sign. Nancy and Bess waited, out of sight, while Kyle strolled into the wrecking yard. Through the hedge, Nancy could just glimpse him standing with another person who had to be Fortunato, Kyle gestured, and the two of them walked off to the left.

  “Now!” Nancy muttered. She and Bess ran into the yard. “Which way?” Nancy asked, keeping her voice low.

  “Over there,” Bess replied, pointing.

  Just behind the office trailer was a familiar-looking battered blue sedan. The space on the trunk for a license plate was conspicuously empty and clean. Nancy hurried over, with Bess close behind. There were dents and scratches on the right rear fender that showed bright, unrusted metal under them. That meant they were very fresh. Nancy squatted down and examined the rear end of the car more closely.

  “Aha!” she said triumphantly. With her thumb and forefinger, she plucked a fragment of greenish safety glass from the gap between the car and the bumper.

  “I was right, this is the car!” Bess crowed.

  “What are you girls doing there?” an angry voice demanded loudly. “Get away from that car!”

  Nancy stood up and turned to face Al Fortunato. Kyle was right behind him. “Is this your car?” she asked.

  “It’s on my lot, isn’t it?” he retorted. “What business is it of yours?”

  Bess jumped in. “That car nearly hit Nancy just a few hours ago. Not long after we left here, as a matter of fact.”

  “Attempted homicide is very serious,” Kyle added.

  Fortunato scowled at him. “You’re with them, are you?” he said. “I should have known. You talk pretty, but you don’t know beans about carburetors.”

  He turned back to Nancy and said, “I can see right through your game. You think you can take up where your friend left off, do you? Well, think again. I worked hard for what I have. I’m not ab
out to hand it over to some thieving kid on account of some cock-and-bull story about being hit by a car. You look like you’re in pretty good shape to me,” he added.

  “Mr. Fortunato,” Nancy began. “A couple of hours ago someone wearing a ski mask deliberately crashed this car into a phone booth while I was in it. I was lucky to escape without being seriously hurt.”

  She pointed out the fresh dents and scratches, then showed him the piece of broken safety glass. Then she said, “This is the car that was used, and it belongs to you. Do you care to explain, or would you rather talk to the authorities?”

  Fortunato shifted uneasily and said, “I don’t know anything about hitting a phone booth, and this isn’t my car, anyway.”

  “It’s here on your lot,” Kyle pointed out.

  “Yeah—well, what happens is this,” Fortunato replied. “Somebody’s got an old junker he wants to get rid of, but since he doesn’t want the hassle of transferring the title, he’ll park it outside my lot and take the plates off, then walk away from it. It happens all the time. So we just drag them inside the lot and try to make a few bucks off them.”

  “Are you trying to tell us that this car was abandoned here this afternoon?” Bess demanded in a disbelieving tone.

  “I’m not trying to, sweetie—I am,” he replied. “And I still think you’re trying to measure me for a frame. But get this, and get it right. I won’t play and I won’t pay. I told your buddy that, and now I’m telling you.”

  “Mr. Fortunato,” Nancy said. “We have no intention of trying to frame you, or blackmail you, or anything else—really we don’t. All we want is a few facts. Was Jack Broughton trying to extort money from you?”