088 False Pretenses

  Chapter One

  Nancy Drew flipped through the dresses on the circular rack. The fashions that fall seemed to come in only two colors—brown or rust.

  "Well, Nancy? What do you think?"

  Nancy turned. Her friend Bess Marvin had just come out of the dressing room. She was standing in front of the three-panel mirror, frowning at the many reflections of herself in a dark plaid kilt and rust brown Shetland sweater. Her blond hair fell over one shoulder and her blue eyes sparkled, in spite of her thoughtful frown.

  "It's not very radical, is it?" Bess added.

  "I think the word for it is classic," Nancy replied with a laugh.

  "You're right," Bess said. "But the next question is 5 do you think Kyle will like it? This is a big date tonight, and I want to look just right."

  Kyle Donovan was Bess's new boyfriend. Twenty-one and just out of college, he was working in the law firm of Nancy's dad, Carson Drew, while he saved his money to go to law school. Nancy had introduced the tall, good-looking newcomer to Bess.

  "With a name like Donovan, he's bound to," Nancy pointed out. "Men wear kilts in Ireland, too, you know."

  "Honestly, Nancy," Bess said. "I'm not buying it for him to wear! Maybe I should go for something a little more 'now.' Did you notice those leather jeans near the entrance? The ones with all the straps and buckles?"

  Nancy decided that it was time to take a more active part in Bess's deliberations. "I noticed them," she admitted. "But frankly, Bess, they may be now, but they're not really you. Why not something like this?"

  She reached into the rack next to her and pulled out a drop-waist dress in a floral print. Sighing, Bess took it and held it up to herself in front of the mirror. "I wish George hadn't gone out of town," she fretted George Fayne was Bess's cousin and also Nancy's close friend. "She always knows what looks good on me."

  Nancy studied Bess's face in the mirror and thought her friend looked troubled—about something other than making a decision about what to buy.

  "Bess?" she said, "Is something wrong? Do you want to talk about it?"

  All at once Bess's eyes filled with tears.

  "What is it?" Nancy demanded. "Something between you and Kyle? I thought you were getting along fantastically."

  "We are," Bess replied. She paused to brush the tears from her cheeks. "At least, we were ... I think. Oh, I don't know, Nancy. One of the things I like about Kyle is the way he always cheers me up. And when he gives me that funny, lopsided smile of his, my heart turns over. The past week he's been so strange, though. So moody and depressed. Sometimes when I talk to him, I have the feeling he's a thousand miles away and hasn't heard a word I've said."

  "Ned gets that way at finals time," Nancy remarked. Ned Nickerson, her longtime boyfriend, was a student at Emerson College. "Maybe Kyle is worried about something. Isn't he planning to take the law boards to get into law school in a couple of months?"

  Bess burst out, "That's just it! You know how going to law school is supposed to be the most important thing in his life? Well, now, all of a sudden, he's started talking about not going!"

  "That is strange," Nancy said, shaking her head. "And you have no idea what started this?"

  "He won't talk to me about it," Bess replied. "I've tried, but he just clams up."

  She hesitated, then continued. "I was hoping you might be able to find out what's going on. Maybe something happened at his job—it's the only possibility I can think of. Do you think you could ask your father about it?"

  Nancy frowned. "That's a little tricky, Bess. After all, Dad is Kyle's employer. Kyle might not appreciate my interfering. He might not appreciate your interfering, either."

  "I know. I thought of that," Bess replied, staring down at the floor. "But if Kyle is in trouble, I want to help him."

  Nancy took her arm and turned her in the direction of the dressing room. "Look, it's probably nothing," she said. "There's not much I can do now, anyway. My dad's out of town on an important case. He's due back tomorrow morning, but he said he was going straight to the office. I probably won't even see him until tomorrow evening."

  "I understand," Bess said, downcast.

  Nancy went on, "If Kyle still seems worried when you see him tonight, tell him how concerned you are and ask him to let you help."

  "Tonight!" Bess yelped. "It's practically tonight already, and I still don't have anything to wear. Nancy, help!"

  Laughing, Nancy pointed to the dress Bess was still holding. "Try that on," she advised. "And if you don't like it, go home and look through your closet again. I know you'll find something. And remember—it's you Kyle wants to go out with, not your clothes!"

  After Nancy had dinner alone with Hannah Gruen, the Drews' housekeeper, she carried their dishes to the kitchen. She was trying to convince Hannah to let her do the washing up when the phone rang. Nancy ran for it, hoping to hear her father's voice.

  "Nancy, it's me," Bess said in a soft voice.

  Alarmed by her tone, Nancy demanded, "Bess, is something wrong?"

  "What could possibly be wrong?" Bess replied drearily. "What do I care if my date just called to say that he has to work late and what about going out next week? Am I bothered? Am I blue?"

  "Yes, and yes," Nancy said, her mind racing. She had planned on calling Ned and then curling up with a murder mystery. That could wait now. Bess needed her.

  "Bess?" she continued. "I've got an idea. Why don't I pick up a movie and some popcorn and come over to your place? Have you seen Singin' in the Rain?"

  "Of course I have," Bess said indignantly. "But I'd love to see it again." She started humming the title song.

  "Okay. I'll see you in a little while," Nancy concluded.

  Half an hour later she began to think that it wasn't her day to be a Good Samaritan. The convenience store nearest her house was out of microwave popcorn, and when she asked Jerry, the manager of the video store, for Singin' in the Rain, he shook his head and said, "Sorry, Nancy. A guy checked out our only copy a couple hours ago. Our branch downtown might have it, though. You want me to see?"

  "Thanks, I'd appreciate it." As Jerry reached for the phone, Nancy wondered if Bess would be just as happy with another musical, such as An American in Paris or Brigadoon. No, she had had one big disappointment already that evening. There was no point in piling on another, no matter how minor.

  "They're holding it for you," Jerry announced, hanging up the phone. "Do you know how to find our downtown store?"

  "I've passed it a hundred times. It's right across from my father's office," Nancy assured him.

  "Okay, then. Have a nice evening."

  As she drove downtown, Nancy found herself wondering about Kyle. She knew that paralegals like Kyle often had to work late. Yet as far as she knew, the only urgent case her dad's firm was involved in was the one that had taken him out of town. Nancy couldn't imagine what last-minute task Kyle would be working on for that case.

  As she swung the blue Mustang into Judiciary Square, her eye automatically traveled to the tallest building on the block and up to the floor where her father's offices were. Some of the windows were lit, which was no surprise. People who worked late didn't do it in the dark.

  Her mind flashed back to her earlier conversation with Bess. Just what could be bothering Kyle? Something about the way he was being treated at work? Was someone picking on him or dealing with him unfairly? If so, Nancy might be able to drop a hint to her father and get the situation straightened out. It wouldn't hurt to try, she decided.

  She found a spot across the street from the office building and parked the Mustang. As she locked the door, she noticed that the streets were practically empty, even though it wasn't yet seven. The video store was lit, as was the coffee shop back the
other way, but all the other shops were dark.

  "I bet you're here for Singin' in the Rain, " the clerk said when she walked into the store. "It's all ready for you."

  Nancy paid the fee and took the cassette box. As she returned to her car, she glanced up at the windows of her father's offices again. What if she dropped by on some invented errand and acci-

  dentally ran into Kyle? Maybe she could manage to find out what was troubling him without giving him the impression that she was meddling. It was worth a try.

  She crossed the street and entered the building. As she started toward the bank of elevators, an older man in a blue uniform appeared from the back of the lobby.

  "Just a moment, miss," he called. "You'll have to sign in."

  He walked over to a small desk against the side wall, next to the building directory, and took a dog-eared notebook and pencil from the drawer.

  "You're Mr. Drew's daughter, aren't you?" he asked as he opened the notebook to the first blank page and handed it to her. "I've seen you with him. He's a real gentleman, your dad."

  Nancy blushed with pleasure. "Thank you," she replied. She signed her name on the top line and added the floor of her father's offices, then glanced at her watch.

  "It's just seven," the guard said. "That's when we start asking people to sign in. You're my first customer of the day."

  "Thanks," Nancy murmured again, and wrote in the time. "See you later."

  The elevator went nonstop to the firm's floor. The highly polished wooden double doors that led into Carson Drew's offices were directly across the hall from the elevators. Nancy frowned. Ordinarily, the doors were locked after business hours, and late visitors had to ring a bell and wait to be let in. Now, though, the left-hand door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

  The wood-paneled reception area was empty. A brass lamp on the mahogany corner table cast a soft glow over the two leather-upholstered armchairs that flanked it. Nancy breathed in deeply. She always loved the air in her dad's office, heady with the tang of lemon-oil furniture polish and the musty scent of old leather-bound law books.

  The firm took up most of the floor. Down a short hall to the left were her father's office and the conference room. The desk just outside them belonged to Ms. Hanson, Carson Drew's secretary. A long corridor to the right led to the firm's library and a series of offices occupied by associates and paralegals.

  Nancy went to the head of the right-hand corridor. "Hello?" she called. "Is anybody here? It's me, Nancy Drew."

  No one answered, but she thought she heard a faint rustling sound somewhere down the hall. She stood very still, held her breath, and listened hard. The sound was not repeated.

  Nancy's heart started to pound. If the offices were empty, someone had been terribly negligent in leaving the outer door open and the lights on. And if someone were here, he obviously had a reason to keep his presence secret. Either way, it meant trouble—and possibly danger.

  Stealthily, she started down the hallway. Most of the offices that lined it were dark, but at the end light spilled out from the open door to the law library. She tiptoed up to it and walked into the room, then choked back a gasp of horror.

  A man in dark trousers and a shirt and sweater was sprawled facedown across the long oak table in the center of the room. Nancy couldn't see his face, but the unnatural angle of his head told her that he was almost certainly dead.

  Chapter Two

  Nancy stepped out into the corridor and peered up and down. Back in the library she circled the body and bent over to study the face. She didn't recognize the man. A heavy law book was lying on the table. The murder weapon? That was one of the questions the police would have to answer. It was time to get them on the phone.

  Making sure not to touch anything, Nancy stood up and carefully searched the room with her eyes only. All four walls were lined with tall oak bookcases filled with row after row of law books. Nancy noticed a gap in one of the rows, a little below shoulder height just to the right of the door. The volume on the desk appeared to be a part of that series.

  Had the victim been working there? It didn't seem so. Aside from the law book, the surface of the table was bare. No legal pads, no index cards, no pens or pencils and the overturned old-fashioned reading lamp on the table wasn't lit.

  As she returned to the reception area, Nancy paused and listened at each of the office doors she passed. She didn't dare try the knobs. The killer might have left his prints on one of them—or on the telephone at the receptionist's desk. How was she going to call the police? She picked up the receiver with a tissue and used the eraser end of a pencil to punch in 911. Then she settled down in one of the leather chairs to wait.

  It wasn't long before she heard the wail of sirens, then the whine of the elevator. The doorbell rang. She looked through the peephole and opened the door. Almost before she knew it, the reception area filled with uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, and a team of paramedics.

  A tall, thin man with short black hair, a narrow mustache, and chestnut skin seemed to be in charge. Nancy didn't recognize him. Maybe he was a recent addition to the River Heights Police Department, she thought.

  He came over to her. "Ms. Drew? I'm Detective Washington. You put in the call about a killing here?"

  "That's right," Nancy replied. "The victim's down the hall, in the law library. You can't miss it—the ceiling lights are on, and the door's open."

  The paramedics, detectives, and one of the uniformed officers took off quickly in that direction. The second uniformed officer moved over to stand in front of the door to the elevators.

  In a short time Detective Washington returned. He took a notebook from his hip pocket. "Would you mind telling me how you came to discover the body, Ms. Drew?"

  "My father is Carson Drew, and this is his office," Nancy explained. "I came downtown to pick up a video. When I noticed the lights were on up here, I thought a friend of mine, Kyle Donovan, might be working late, so I came up to say hi. When I got upstairs, I found the front door open, which worried me, so I took a look around and found the man in the library."

  "Did you see anyone else?"

  Nancy shook her head. "No. But I didn't search, because I didn't want to ruin fingerprints by touching things."

  The detective nodded. "Good thinking," he said. "Let's see—you arrived just after seven o'clock, is that right?"

  "Why, yes," Nancy replied. "How—oh, of course, the sign-in sheet."

  "And your call to the police department was logged in at seven twelve," Washington continued. "Twelve minutes seems a little long to find the body and call the police, doesn't it, Ms. Drew? Did you do anything else, anything you forgot to mention?"

  Nancy gazed up toward the comer of the room. "I don't think so," she said. "Let me see—I chatted with the watchman for a minute or two after signing in. Then the elevator ride. Then I entered the office, looked around, tiptoed down to the library, and came back to call you. Twelve minutes doesn't sound about right for all that to you?"

  "Hmm." Detective Washington seemed to be unhappy. He was opening his mouth to ask another question when the officer at the front door said, "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

  Nancy turned. The officer was blocking the way of a cute guy with light brown hair and brown eyes. He was of medium height, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and looked to be in his early twenties. He wore jeans, a plaid sport shirt, and a leather jacket. Nancy had never seen him before.

  "My name's David Megali. I'm a free-lance journalist," he told the officer. He took out his wallet and handed him some pieces of identification, which the officer passed to Detective Washington.

  After scanning them and asking for his current address and phone number, he handed them back. Washington then motioned for the officer to let him in. "What brings you here, Mr. Megali?" he asked.

  Megali frowned. "I could say I saw you and your team come in and decided to follow, in hopes of uncovering a story," he replie
d. Then he sighed. "But that wouldn't be true. The fact is, I have an appointment here. What's going on?"

  "Oh? With whom?" Washington said, ignoring the man's question.

  "I don't know," Megali said. Nancy thought he was beginning to sound frustrated. "I was following up on an anonymous call. Somebody left a message on my answering machine, promising to give me startling evidence."

  "Evidence of what?" the detective demanded.

  Megali hesitated, then said, "I'm looking into abuses suffered by elderly patients in nursing homes. Specifically, the embezzlement of funds held in trust for them. It's pretty shocking stuff, with millions of dollars at stake."

  Nancy broke in. "You mean you came up here tonight on the basis of an anonymous phone call?"

  "I had to," he replied, turning to her. "I've found that the hottest tips usually come from people who have good reason to keep their identities secret. Now what happened here, Detective?"

  It was Washington's turn to hesitate. "An apparent homicide," he finally said. He was about to add to that when his partner appeared in the doorway and beckoned to him. The two had a whispered conversation. Then the partner returned to the crime scene and Washington rejoined Nancy and David Megali.

  "Does the name Jack Broughton mean anything to either of you?" he asked.

  Megali shook his head. "Sorry, no."

  "Why, yes," Nancy said. "My dad mentioned that name just a week or two ago. He was working here on some kind of short-term project—I don't remember what. Was he the victim?"

  "It looks that way," Washington replied. "We located the jacket of his suit in a small office a couple of doors from the library. Ms. Drew, are you aware that there's a vault built into the library? The vault door is hidden by one of the bookshelves. We've called in an expert to examine it, but it appears to have been tampered with."

  "Somebody broke into the firm's safe?" Nancy demanded. "That's awful!"

  "We think someone may have tried to," the detective said, correcting her. "It may be that the victim had the bad luck to walk in on a burglary. The burglar might have tried to silence him and done too good a job. He'd have to have pretty strong nerves to go on trying to open the safe after he'd committed a murder. Still, we need positive identification of the victim. We also need someone from the firm who's familiar with the contents of the vault to check it over. Is your father home? Maybe we can get him down here."