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  There was heavy breathing from Spike’s end of the line. “I understand,” he said, and hung up.

  Nancy hung up, too, and ran back into the living room in triumph. “You did it, Jeff!” she cried.

  “Nancy, just one thing,” Bess said.

  Hearing the concern in her voice, Nancy turned to look at Bess. “What’s that?”

  Bess’s blue eyes flicked nervously at Nancy. “What if Spike Wilson tries to kill Curtis Taylor all over again?”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  IT’S TOO DANGEROUS to do this on our own,” Nancy told the others. Checking her watch, she saw that it was already after six. “I’d better call the police and see if they can back us up.”

  Twenty minutes later the details were all arranged. “The police are going to meet us at the gully,” Nancy said. “They’ll be there the whole time, backing us up.” With a grin she looked at her friends and Jeff. “Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m hungry.”

  After heating up leftover macaroni and cheese in the microwave, the group played cards until it was time to leave. Nancy felt a nervous tingle as she turned her car onto Route 459. I hope this works, she thought to herself. Because if it doesn’t, a killer will go free.

  When they reached the spot where Curtis had died, Nancy pulled her car off the road and into the shadow of a grove of trees. Turning off the motor and headlights, she said, “Let’s walk from here. We’ll hide in the gully and take Spike by surprise.”

  “Where are the police?” Bess asked, looking around nervously.

  “It’s only eleven-thirty, Bess,” Nancy assured her. “They’re due at about eleven forty-five. Don’t worry, they’ll be here.”

  The group got out of the car and walked, single file, along the side of the highway to the place where the guardrail shone silver in the moonlight. “If we crouch down here in the tall grass on the side of the gully,” Nancy pointed out, “he won’t be able to see us.”

  Walking up to Jeff, she took out her miniature tape recorder and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “You know what to do,” she told him. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Jeff said. “I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.”

  Nancy smiled at him. “Now we just wait until everyone shows up.”

  • • •

  “Isn’t it midnight yet?” Bess whispered after a half hour had gone by. “Where’s Spike?”

  Nancy checked her watch by the light of the moon. It was ten after twelve.

  “Never mind Spike—where are the police?” Louisa asked anxiously.

  Nancy wished she had an answer for her.

  “Shhh!” George warned. Looking up, Nancy spied a lone car coming slowly down the highway. It pulled over across the road from the gully. The headlights went out, and Spike Wilson emerged from the car, looking around nervously.

  Nancy pounded her fist into her palm. “Rats, he got here before the police,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Now, if they show up, it’ll blow the whole show.” She let out a frustrated breath. “Oh, well. Here goes nothing. Jeff, you’re on.”

  Jeff got up, walked up to the guardrail, and hopped over it. “Hello, there, old buddy,” he called out.

  Spike whipped around to face him, and even in the moonlight, through the tall grass, Nancy could see that his face had gone dead white. Jeff looked virtually identical to Curtis Taylor. The impersonator wore a white suit, and his dark hair was styled exactly as the singer had worn his.

  Spike backed up against the side of his car, breathing hard. “What the—Curtis? Is that really you?”

  “Yep,” Jeff said, his voice sounding just like the late star’s. “It’s me all right.”

  “Are you alone?” Spike asked nervously.

  “Alone—and alive,” Jeff retorted.

  Spike swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “So you—you didn’t die that night?” he stammered.

  “No, Spike, I didn’t. I managed to escape with a few scratches, that’s all. A nice old couple came by and picked me up. Foreigners, they were, from Germany. Didn’t even know who I was. Since then I’ve been in hiding. And all that time I’ve been wondering who did it. Now I know.” He took a step forward, to the edge of the highway. “Why’d you do it, Spike?”

  Spike’s eyes were transfixed on the man who stood across the road from him. “What are you talking about, Curtis?” he stammered.

  Ignoring him, Jeff went on. “Sure, I fired you, but that kind of thing happens all the time. Remember, I also gave you your big break. And you would have gotten other jobs if it hadn’t been for your accident. You can’t rightly blame me for that. So why did you do it? Why did you put those barbiturates in my bourbon? You must have hated me pretty bad to have made that long trip from the hospital just to spike my liquor.”

  As Nancy watched, a change seemed to come over Spike. He clenched his hands into fists and stepped forward menacingly. “I bet you never knew I was that smart, did you, Curtis?” Spike sneered. “All I had to do was hot-wire a car and drive to Greenwood.” He let out a little cackle. “Oh, my leg hurt, all right, but it was worth it.”

  “But why, Spike?” Jeff pressed.

  Nancy noticed Jeff take a slight step backward as Spike advanced on him, clenching and unclenching his fists. Where are the police? Nancy’s mind screamed.

  “Because of Melanie!” Spike bellowed. “Because I loved her. I still love her. I thought she’d come to me after you were gone, not to that skunk J.J.” His face twisted with fury, Spike went on. “And then she had the nerve to tell me she was still in love with you.”

  Standing his ground, Jeff said, “So you went and smashed up my tombstone on account of that, didn’t you, Spike?”

  “So what if I did!”

  “And you tried to kill Tyrone, too,” Jeff continued.

  “He was onto me,” Spike snarled. “He hired that girl to spy on me. But I got a peek at her address in Tyrone’s book, and I’ll get rid of her. The way I’m going to get rid of you—for good.”

  Nancy heard Louisa gasp beside her. “Nancy, we have to do something,” she whispered.

  Seeing Jeff Ryan start to back away from Spike, Nancy stood up, climbed over the guardrail, and ran over.

  “You’re not going to get rid of anyone, Spike,” Nancy said, coming up next to Jeff. A moment later Bess, Louisa, and George came up behind them. “We’ve got your whole confession down on tape, and the police are on their way. You’re going to jail for the murder of Curtis Taylor.”

  “What—?” Spike sputtered, looking frantically at Jeff Ryan.

  The actor held out his hand, saying, “Sorry, but the name’s really Jeff Ryan, not Curtis.”

  Spike started backing up, his eyes darting back and forth. “You little witch,” he murmured bitterly. “You tricked me!” His eyes were wild with panic.

  Turning on his heel, he yanked open the passenger door of his car, jumped in, and slammed it shut.

  Nancy turned to George and shouted, “Quick, my car!” George took off toward the stand of trees where Nancy’s car was parked as Spike gunned the engine. With a screech his tires spun on the asphalt.

  At last Nancy heard in the distance the comforting wail of a police siren. But in the meantime Spike was getting away.

  “Watch out!” Nancy yelled to her friends. She and her party scattered, leaping in all directions to stay clear of Spike’s careening car. Spike was still burning rubber as he pulled it around in a sharp U-turn. But the car lost control in midturn, its rear slamming hard against the guardrail, then ricocheting back across the road.

  Suddenly there was a loud pop as the left rear tire exploded. The car veered to the left and came to a wobbling stop in the middle of the highway.

  Moments later two police cars pulled up. Four officers jumped out, their pistols in hand. “Are you okay?” one of them asked Nancy and her friends while the others approached Spike’s car.

  “Where were you all this time?” Bess cried.r />
  “Got caught in traffic downtown,” the officer explained. “All those tourists.”

  Nancy, Bess, Louisa, George, and Jeff Ryan watched as the officers handcuffed Spike. “I guess from here Spike can take his chances in court,” George murmured.

  “Not much of a chance, I’d say,” Bess remarked.

  “True,” Nancy agreed. “But it’s a much better chance than he gave Curtis Taylor.”

  • • •

  The next night Nancy and her friends stood backstage at the Civic Center, watching the greatest live performance they had ever seen.

  In the soft glow of a rose-colored spotlight Melanie had just finished her heart-stopping rendition of “Losin’ My Heart.” Tears filled Bess’s and Louisa’s eyes, and Nancy noticed that even George was swallowing hard. When the singer wailed her final note, there was a second of total silence before a tidal wave of applause and cheering filled the hall.

  In the middle of it Melanie lifted her slender arms. “Tyrone Taylor,” she said loudly, “get on out here!”

  Wild cheering and a standing ovation met Tyrone, who ambled onstage, a new neon guitar in hand. He was smiling and looked completely recovered, except for a small bandage on his neck.

  After Melanie had signaled for the audience to settle down, she said, “My nephew and I have a little surprise for you.”

  Tyrone leaned into the mike, adding, “You know we’ve had a little excitement around here this past week, but it’s over now. So Melanie and I wrote a song to express our gratitude to someone very special—someone who helped us out when we needed it the most.”

  “What’s this all about?” George said, craning her neck to get a better look at the stage.

  “Beats me,” Nancy said.

  The band started up a country waltz featuring a fiddle solo, as Tyrone and Melanie put their heads close together and sang:

  “Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew,

  We’re so grateful to you-oo. . . .

  “Oh, no!” Nancy cried, covering her face with her hands.

  “Smart as a whip, with a heart so true,

  Tell me now, what would we do—

  Without youuuu—Nancy Drew.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Nancy murmured, peeking out of her fingers and shaking her head in embarrassment.

  “If you need a clue

  Go ask Nancy Drew!”

  “Well, that sounds like a gold record to me,” Louisa said, squeezing Nancy’s shoulder with a laugh. “Just like you, Nancy—pure gold!”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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