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  Bess nodded her agreement. “Please go on,” she told the landlady.

  “He didn’t have many friends that I know of,” Mrs. Godfrey announced. “Few people ever called or visited, except for that girlfriend of his, Michelle Ferraro.” Mrs. Godfrey shook her head disapprovingly. “She was as bad as a whole army, though. Why, she would call here four or five times a day. I finally had to ask Mr. Foyle to get a phone installed. He got it in just last week.”

  “Michelle Ferraro.” Nancy thought of the blond girl who had been in Conchita’s with Foyle. Could that have been Michelle? “Do you have her phone number, by any chance?” she asked.

  “No, but it’s probably in the book. She lives over in West Mapleton, I believe.”

  “Well, thank you very much for talking with us, Mrs. Godfrey,” Nancy said. She rose to go, then paused because she had almost forgotten to ask the most important question. “Just one last question—did Mr. Foyle seem in good health to you during the past month?”

  “In good health?” Mrs. Godfrey seemed surprised. “Yes, he seemed fine. Why?”

  Nancy explained about Foyle’s insurance claim. As she talked, Mrs. Godfrey’s lips pressed into an even thinner line.

  “There wasn’t a thing wrong with him,” she declared when Nancy was finished. “He was just plain lying, that’s all. I always suspected the man was a scoundrel, and this just proves it.”

  Nancy gave Mrs. Godfrey her telephone number in River Heights, just in case the landlady remembered anything more. Then she and her friends said goodbye.

  “Nan, do you think that insurance claim is important to your investigation?”

  Nancy shrugged. “Definitely indirectly, because it proves what kind of character Foyle was. Possibly directly—how it ties in I don’t exactly know yet. One thing is clear to me, though. Foyle did fake the insurance claim, and he knew that Ned knew about it. He was really scared that night at Conchita’s. At the time I thought it was because he was afraid Ned might hit him, but now I think it was because he realized Ned had found him out.” She steered into a left turn, then bit her thumbnail thoughtfully.

  “It’s possible that he had an accomplice in this scheme. His girlfriend, maybe—or more likely, the doctor who signed the claim. And it’s also possible that the accomplice killed him to keep him from panicking and blowing the whole scam.”

  “Wow! Good thinking!” George said, leaning forward from the back seat. “So now I guess we have to check out this Michelle, as well as the doctor who signed the claim form.”

  “Exactly.” Nancy parked in front of Ned’s house, and the girls went inside. While Bess and George told Ned about their talk with Mrs. Godfrey, Nancy looked up Michelle Ferraro’s address and phone number. She dialed, but there was no answer.

  By now it was almost seven o’clock, and Mrs. Nickerson invited the three girls to stay for dinner. Bess and George were expected home, so they took off in George’s car, but Nancy stayed. She had a feeling Ned needed her right then. He looked pale and worn. The Nickersons’ phone had been ringing all afternoon with reporters from the local papers trying to get statements from Ned or his parents.

  Conversation at the dinner table was strained. No one really wanted to talk about the charges that were hanging over Ned’s head, but it seemed false and trivial to talk about anything else. Finally Nancy and Ned excused themselves and went out to sit on the swing on the front porch.

  The evening was warm. The air was filled with the scent of flowers, and the light from the windows made little pools of illumination in the heavily shaded yard.

  Ned drew in a deep breath. “On a night like tonight, it’s hard to believe any of this is really happening,” he said sadly.

  “I know.” Nancy put her hand in his. “I promised your mom and dad that we’d get you off, and I won’t let any of you down. We’ll solve this case one way or another.”

  “Have I told you lately how great you are?” Ned asked with a tender smile. “I do love you, Nan—and I have faith in you.” Rising, he pulled her up and into his arms. They stood that way for a long moment, just enjoying the warmth of being close.

  Nancy turned her head as she heard a faint rustling noise in the grass beside the porch. “What’s that?” she asked, peering into the darkness.

  Suddenly a black, hunched shape loomed up out of the shadows. Nancy gasped. And then the night exploded in fierce white light.

  Chapter

  Six

  NANCY DUCKED INSTINCTIVELY, pulling Ned down with her. Green and orange afterimages danced in front of her eyes.

  “What was that?” Ned cried.

  “That was a primo shot to go with my article in tomorrow’s paper,” came a familiar voice.

  “Brenda Carlton,” Nancy muttered. Now her vision was beginning to clear, and she could see the outlines of the teenage reporter’s face as the tall, dark-haired girl approached.

  Brenda wrote for a River Heights paper called Today’s Times, which was conveniently owned by her father, Frazier Carlton. The young reporter was a frequent thorn in Nancy’s side. Her competitive nature drove her to meddle whenever she could in order to get a hot scoop. In the past her interference had almost blown several of Nancy’s cases.

  Brenda pushed back her dark hair and smiled triumphantly. “Yes, it’s me—in the flesh,” she purred. “Now, what should my caption be? ‘Teen Sleuth Gets Friendly with Murder Suspect’? Or maybe ‘Sleuth Nancy Drew and Murder Suspect Ned Nickerson: Could a Crowbar Pry These Two Apart?’ ”

  “I ought to rip the film right out of your camera,” Ned said angrily.

  Brenda tossed her head and said, “What a splash this’ll make! All the other reporters just got the bare details off the police band radio. But I tried harder—and now I’ve got a terrific photograph of the prime suspect! Just wait until you see the paper tomorrow.”

  Nancy could imagine the trashy, sensational story Brenda would write. An article like that could permanently damage Ned’s reputation, even if Nancy did manage to solve the case eventually. She had to talk Brenda out of it.

  “Brenda,” she said, “you know Ned. You know he didn’t kill that man. But your article could really hurt him. Give us a break, will you?”

  “I’m a reporter,” Brenda said haughtily. “I tell the facts the way I see them.”

  “When it suits your style,” Ned muttered, but Nancy put a hand on his arm. This was no time to antagonize Brenda.

  “Listen,” Nancy said, trying a different tactic. “You’re a smart girl, Brenda. You and I both know that Ned is innocent. So why not use that?”

  “What do you mean?” Brenda asked, her voice suspicious.

  “I’m offering you a scoop to end all scoops,” Nancy said quickly. “I’m going to track down the real killer—and I promise that when I do, you’ll get the exclusive story. That is, if you promise not to write any stories about Ned before then. How about it—is it a deal?”

  Brenda was silent for a moment. “How do I know you’ll call me?” she asked at last.

  Rolling her eyes, Nancy said, “You’ll have to trust me. I give you my word of honor.”

  After another long pause Brenda said, “Okay. I’ll be waiting to hear from you. And you’d better call me soon, Nancy Drew.” With that, Brenda flounced off to her car.

  “Thanks,” said Ned, breathing a sigh of relief. “That was some fast talking you did, Nancy.”

  “Right,” Nancy replied. She didn’t add what she was thinking—all the fast talking in the world wouldn’t help Ned, unless she delivered on her promise and caught the real criminal!

  • • •

  The next day Nancy got up early. She went out and bought copies of the Mapleton papers, which she brought home to read along with the River Heights papers. She was a little cheered to see that, although Foyle’s murder had made the front pages, a bureaucratic scandal in Chicago had stolen the headlines. The pieces on Foyle’s murder were short and not very detailed. Still, Ned’s high-school yearbook pictur
e did appear in two of the articles, and his name was mentioned in all of them.

  Nancy decided not to call on Bess and George to help that day. She wanted to track down suspects, and she preferred to do that by herself. A gang of girls wouldn’t put a reluctant talker at ease.

  By ten-thirty, Nancy was on the road to Mapleton. She had already called Ned and gotten the name and home address of the doctor who had signed the medical report for Toby Foyle’s false claim. Foyle had gone to Dr. Robert Meyers three days after his accident, Nancy recalled. That was pretty suspicious. The question was, had the doctor been an innocent dupe in Foyle’s insurance scam, or was he a participant?

  Dr. Meyers lived in a pleasant, prosperous-looking neighborhood near the center of Mapleton. His house was only two blocks from 421 Beechwood, where Toby Foyle had lived, Nancy noted. She wondered if that fact had any significance.

  A moment after she rang the bell, the oak front door of Dr. Meyers’s house swung open to reveal a plump, pink-faced man with a fringe of gray hair around a shiny scalp.

  “Dr. Meyers?” Nancy inquired politely. At his nod, she went on, “My name is Nancy Drew. I’d like to talk to you about one of your patients—Toby Foyle.”

  At the name the twinkle in Dr. Meyers’s blue eyes faded, and his expression became serious. “Oh, yes, poor man,” he said. “I just read about his death in the paper. Shocking—and to think the killer is a local boy! What a tragedy. Come in, come in.”

  Meyers led Nancy through the house and into a small, sunny backyard with a patio and wrought-iron garden furniture. He waved her to a seat and took one himself. “Now, how did you know Toby Foyle?” he asked curiously.

  “Actually, I didn’t know him,” Nancy said. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into his death, and I’m also interested in some—inconsistencies in his medical history.”

  Meyers drew back, looking a little offended. “Inconsistencies—such as—” he prompted.

  Nancy explained Ned’s theory about Foyle having falsified his insurance claim. When she had finished, Dr. Meyers shook his head.

  “I really shouldn’t be discussing a patient with you, Ms. Drew,” he said. “But I suppose in this case it’s acceptable. As for Mr. Foyle having falsified his trauma symptoms, it’s my opinion that he did not. Otherwise I would never have signed his claim! It’s difficult to verify these things, though,” Meyers went on. “He had a bruise or two—no detectable damage to the skull, according to my colleague at the hospital emergency room. But you can certainly have a head injury without a fractured skull. I can say that when I examined his eyes, his pupils were not contracting properly. He also complained of frequent headaches and double vision.”

  “I see. Thank you, Dr. Meyers. You’ve been very helpful,” Nancy said. She gave the doctor her sunniest smile. “If I could just ask you one more question?”

  Meyers smiled back. “Of course, my dear.”

  Still smiling, Nancy leaned forward in her chair. She had to be alert for the tiniest suspicious reaction on Meyers’s part. So far he hadn’t betrayed any nervousness or worry, but the next question ought to shake him up a bit.

  “Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of nine and ten?” she asked softly.

  Meyers blinked. Then, as he realized what she was asking, his face flushed with anger. “Are you implying that I might have killed Toby Foyle?” he demanded. “That’s absurd! Young lady, I’m a doctor. I preserve life, I don’t destroy it! Anyway, the police have already arrested the killer. It’s an open-and-shut case.

  “However, if you really want to know, I have office hours on Saturday mornings. Yesterday I had a full roster of patients. The first one arrived at eight-thirty, and the last one didn’t leave until well after one in the afternoon. I didn’t leave my office at any time during that period.”

  Nancy nodded. If Dr. Meyers was lying, it would be easy to find out by asking his receptionist, or checking with his patients from that day. But he sounded very sure of himself.

  She rose to go. “Thank you again,” she said to the plump doctor. “I’m sorry if I seemed rude. It’s just that I don’t have much time. An innocent guy will go to jail if I don’t find out who really killed Toby Foyle.”

  Meyers cleared his throat. “Well, then, I suppose I understand. No harm done.”

  After he had shown her out, Nancy walked slowly to her car, thinking hard.

  Maybe her accomplice theory was no good. Meyers, a doctor, was the most obvious choice of partner for a scam involving medical insurance. But it looked as if he couldn’t have killed Foyle—though she still had to check his alibi, of course. If he was telling the truth, then perhaps Foyle’s death had nothing to do with the insurance scam.

  On the other hand, maybe the accomplice in the scam was someone other than Meyers, and that person and Foyle could have had a falling out. . . .

  Nancy sighed. All her speculating was useless without some solid leads and evidence.

  After climbing into her Mustang, Nancy took out her notebook and studied the address she had written down for Michelle Ferraro in West Mapleton. “You’re next, Michelle,” she said out loud. “I hope you give me a lead.”

  The building where Michelle lived turned out to be a dilapidated three-story structure with rickety wooden stairs running up the outside of the building to the apartments. Nancy scanned the rows of mailboxes on the breezeway wall until she found the name Ferraro. Michelle lived on the third floor in the rear of the building.

  Nancy climbed the two flights of stairs to apartment 3-R and knocked on the door. She could hear loud, pulsing rock music coming from inside. No one answered, so after a minute Nancy knocked again, harder.

  The music suddenly stopped, and a girl’s voice called, “Yeah, I’m coming. Hold on.”

  In another minute the door flew open, and Nancy found herself facing a young woman of about twenty-three, with masses of brunette hair held back from her face by a leopard-print scarf. She wore a short, flounced skirt with leggings underneath. In her right hand she held a paring knife.

  “Hi. Is Michelle Ferraro here?” Nancy asked, eyeing the knife a little nervously.

  The girl scowled. “I’m Michelle.”

  Nancy was startled. This definitely wasn’t the blond girl she’d seen Foyle with at Conchita’s. Could there be two Michelle Ferraros in West Mapleton? Or had Foyle been out with another girl that night? There was only one way to find out.

  “Uh—I wanted to talk to you about Toby Foyle,” she began. But she got no further.

  “So you’re the one he was dating. Why, you little witch!” Michelle snarled. “I can’t believe you’ve got the nerve to show up here.” Her eyes narrowed. “I ought to teach you a lesson.”

  Michelle raised her hand, and Nancy saw a sudden glint of silver. Then Michelle lunged straight at her!

  Chapter

  Seven

  NANCY’S DETECTIVE INSTINCTS took over as she saw Michelle come at her with the knife. She jumped to one side, turning in midair so that her back was against the wooden rail of the landing. Then, as Michelle hurtled past her, she grabbed the girl’s arm and twisted it up behind her back.

  Michelle gave a cry of pain. The knife dropped from her fingers, and Nancy kicked it off the edge of the landing. It skittered down the stairs, out of sight.

  Now that the danger was past, Nancy’s knees turned to water. That had been close!

  “Let me go!” Michelle panted, struggling.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Nancy said angrily. “But attacking a person with a knife is really dumb—especially when that person is a detective looking into a murder case!”

  Michelle abruptly stopped struggling. “You—you’re a detective?” she asked in a shocked voice.

  “That’s right. My name’s Nancy Drew. I’m investigating the death of Toby Foyle. Maybe I should call the police in to talk to you.”

  “No! Look, I didn’t mean to hurt you, not really. I had the knife in m
y hand because I was opening some boxes with it, and I forgot I had it. That’s the truth, I swear!” Michelle took a deep breath and went on in a calmer voice. “I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry—I was mad, that’s all.”

  I wonder what she does when she’s really furious? Nancy wondered. From the comment Michelle had made when she first opened the door, it sounded as though she thought Nancy was the “other woman.” Maybe Toby had been two-timing her, and Michelle had found out. Was that a motive for murder?

  Nancy released Michelle’s arm, watching the girl warily. But all Michelle did was rub her wrist and look sulky.

  “So who did you think I was?” Nancy asked in a conversational tone.

  Michelle dropped her gaze to the floor. “No one. I mean, it has nothing to do with your investigation. Look, I don’t understand why you’re here. I thought they already know who did it. That’s what the papers said.”

  “They haven’t proved anything yet,” Nancy said. Then she had an idea. Michelle might be willing to tell her a lot more if Nancy made her think she wasn’t a suspect in the murder.

  “In fact, I’m helping the prosecution put its case together,” Nancy fibbed. “I’m trying to eliminate all the surprises—you know, make sure the defense doesn’t come up with any witnesses or facts that we can’t account for.”

  Michelle nodded slowly. “I see,” she said.

  “May I come in?” Nancy asked her.

  Michelle moved aside and gestured for Nancy to go into the apartment. Nancy stepped through the door and looked around.

  The place was messy and cramped. A huge, apparently new home entertainment center dominated one wall: the teak cabinet held a big color television set, a VCR, and expensive-looking stereo equipment, including a compact disk player and a cassette deck. On the floor lay two speakers, which had obviously just come out of their shipping boxes. Shreds of brown cardboard from the boxes littered the carpet.

  I wonder where Michelle got the money to pay for all this stuff? Nancy thought.