Fatal Attraction (3 page)

Brenda tossed her black hair haughtily. “And what's
your
sudden interest in my business?” She paused and a mistrustful note came into her voice. “Have you got a thing for Mike McKeever?”

“Are you kidding?” Nancy asked. She took a deep breath. Brenda had an irritating way of making her lose her cool. But she couldn't afford
to now. No matter how much she was tempted to lose her temper, she had to keep her wits and focus her attention on the case. “I mean,” she said, in a calmer voice., “Ned Nickerson is more than enough for me. Why should I be interested in somebody else?”

“Then why were you coming on to Mike with all those questions?” Brenda growled, hands on hips.

In spite of herself, Nancy's temper flared. “I was just curious, that's all,” she said, carefully keeping her voice even. Remember that you're on a case, Nancy, she told herself.

Brenda's mouth set into a taut line, her eyes blazing. “Curiosity can get you into a whole lot of trouble if you don't watch out.” Her voice rose to a screech. “I warn you, Nancy Drew, stay away from this guy. He's mine, and I intend to keep him!”

There was a pounding on the door. “Hey, what's going on in there?” a girl's voice asked. “If you two are going to go at it, do it in the parking lot so other people can use the bathroom.”

Brenda glared at Nancy. “You just remember what I said,” she hissed. “Stay away from Mike McKeever! Or you'll be very,
very
sorry.”

• • •

“The more I think about it,” Nancy said, “the sorrier I am—sorry that I took the case, that is.” She took one last look in the picnic basket to
make sure she'd put out on the picnic cloth all of the lunch Hannah Gruen, the Drews' housekeeper, had made. “You can say ‘I told you so' if you want to, Ned.”

“What I can't figure out,” Ned said, taking a sandwich, “is why McKeever didn't say something to that gray-haired guy. Brenda was right—he
did
dump the table on purpose. I saw him.”

Nancy nodded. “I wondered about that too,” she said thoughtfully. “In fact, I thought Mike even looked guilty, like a little kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We'll have to file that away as something to think about.” She helped herself to coleslaw. “Too bad you had to miss all the fireworks in the rest room.” She laughed. “Brenda was really mad.”

Ned chuckled. “I told you so,” he said teasingly. “If you ask me, Brenda's the
real
problem on this case. From the looks of it, she's nuts about the guy. There's no telling what she might do if she thinks you're meddling in her love life.”

Nancy made a face, remembering Brenda's threat. “True. Well, anyway, I guess I've got my work cut out for me. Now that we know that Mike's from Oakton, Vermont, I'll start there, to get a line on his family and check his birth records. Even though we don't have his date of birth, it's a small town, and we're bound to find out something. And I think I'll give Dirk Bowman a call, in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Isn't he a detective?”

“Right” Nancy smiled, remembering Dirk, with his sandy hair and quick smile. She had met him when she and Bess and George had gone to sunny Fort Lauderdale for vacation and found themselves on a hit-and-run holiday. She had helped Dirk wind up the case he was on, and he'd probably be glad to help her out on this one. “If McKeever's been up to anything fishy in Fort Lauderdale,” Nancy added, “Dirk will know about it.”

• • •

Early Monday morning Nancy put in a call to Oakton, Vermont. The town clerk, a woman, had a flat Vermont twang. “The name doesn't ring a bell with me,” she said when Nancy gave her Mike's name and the approximate year of his birth. “And I've worked here for eighteen years. But I'll see what I can dig up and call you back.”

Nancy set the receiver in its cradle, then picked it up again quickly and dialed another number. On the other end, the phone rang twice before Nancy heard a voice say, “Fort Lauderdale police.”

“Dirk Bowman, please,” Nancy said. “Tell him Nancy Drew is calling.”

As she waited, Nancy smiled softly, imagining Dirk's friendly smile and the dimple that flashed in his cheek. They had great respect for each other's ability, and they'd become good friends
on the case they'd worked on together. From the sound of Dirk's warm response when he came on the line, his memories were just as pleasant as hers.

“It's great to hear from you, Nan! Been solving any exciting crimes lately?”

“Oh, one or two.” Nancy laughed. “In fact, I'm on a case now. That's why I'm calling. I think you can help. I'm trying to get the story on a musician named Mike McKeever. He used to play at the coffeehouses in Lauderdale, and I thought you guys might have something on him. I'd sure like to hear about it if you do.”

“No problem. If he's left any dirty laundry here, we'll find it. But in order to get a positive on him, I'll need a clear photo and a set of prints, if you can get them.”

“That shouldn't be too hard,” Nancy said. “Maybe I can get a publicity shot from the club he's playing at now. How do you want me to send it?”

“Why don't you find a facsimile machine and put it on the wire?” Dirk suggested. “Just give me a call and let me know when so I can look for it.” His voice dropped a little. “And watch yourself, detective.” Then Dirk's tone lightened up, the worried sound slipping away. “You know, it would really be great to see you again.”

“Thanks, Dirk. Maybe we'll get that chance sometime. Oh, and Dirk . . . thanks.” Gently,
she replaced the receiver, smiling. It
had
been fun, working with a real cop in Fort Lauderdale.

Nancy's thought was broken by the jangling ring of the phone. She grabbed the receiver before the second ring. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello, this is the Oakton Town Office,” the clerk said. “I've got some information on the person you were asking about.”

“Good.” Nancy took out her pencil. “Shoot.”

“We
do
have a birth record for a Michael McKeever, born here to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander McKeever, on July eighteenth, twenty years ago.”

With a sense of elation, Nancy hurriedly jotted down the information. This would make it a lot easier to do a complete check on Mike's background. “Is that all you've got?” she asked.

“Not quite,” the clerk said slowly. “You see, we also have a
death
certificate, filed on July twenty-third, that same year. Michael McKeever died when he was just five days old!”

D
IED
!” N
ANCY EXCLAIMED
, her heart doing a somersault. “But that's not possible! I met him just yesterday. And he was
very
much alive!”

“But it's true,” the clerk insisted. “I'm holding a copy of the death certificate.”

“Is there any way to explain something like this?” Nancy wanted to know. There had to be a mistake, she told herself. Or . . . or maybe it was something
more
than a mistake. Maybe the
real
Mike McKeever
had
died twenty years ago and the man who was dating Brenda Carlton was a fake.

“Unfortunately, it's not hard to get a new birth
certificate—and a new identity,” the clerk said with a sigh. “All someone has to do is say that the original birth certificate is lost, then give us the name and the birth date of someone who died as an infant. Since we don't routinely check death records against these requests, we usually issue the new certificate, believing that we're issuing a legitimate duplicate. The imposter can use it to get a social security card and a driver's license. It's a real racket—some people are even in the business of
selling
identities.”

“Thanks,” Nancy said, “I think.” She hung up. So Mike McKeever wasn't the
real
name of Brenda's sexy new boyfriend! This was the first concrete evidence she'd found to support Mr. Carlton's hunch that Mike—or whoever he was—wasn't up to any good. You didn't go to the trouble of changing your identity for the fun of it. You only did it when you had something to hide. What was Mike hiding?

Nancy doodled on her note pad. She'd found herself up a blind alley with her first inquiry, but there was a good chance that Dirk Bowman could help her get a lead on Mike's true identity. She would need a picture and a set of prints. She reached for her purse and her car keys. Maybe Charlie's would have an extra publicity photo of their star performer.

In ten minutes, Nancy was back at Charlie's, which was almost empty at this time of the day.
The club's bald-headed manager was in his office.

“A publicity photo?” the manager asked, in response to her question. “Yes, I think so. In fact, I remember filing it last week. We're planning to run it in the paper next weekend.” He went to a file cabinet and opened a drawer. “Here it is.”

But the file was empty. “That's strange,” he said, staring at it. “I would have sworn—”

“Could somebody have taken it?”

“Maybe.” The manager shook his head wearily. “There's a black-haired girl who hangs out here all the time. She's really fallen for him. Maybe she took it.”

Nancy frowned, considering. Could Brenda have stolen the photo to put up on her wall? That didn't make sense—Brenda could
take
a snapshot of Mike if she wanted one. Maybe Mike himself had taken the photo—but why?

There weren't any answers to these questions just now, and Nancy had to concentrate on getting another photo. And for
that,
she needed to find Mike McKeever and convince him to pose for her. Maybe she ought to make a trip out to the Ridgeview Motel, where he was staying.

Nancy didn't have to drive all the way out to the motel after all. She was leaving Charlie's when she unexpectedly bumped into him.

“Hi, Mike,” she said, smiling up at him. Really, she thought to herself, it isn't too hard to
act
as though I think he's cute. Mike McKeever, Mystery Man, is one good-looking guy. But he's got a secret to hide. Until I know what that secret is, and whether or not there's a real crime involved here, I've got to be very, very careful with him.

Mike looked at her appreciatively. “Hi, Nancy,” he said.

“How about joining me for a soda?” Nancy asked. “I'm dying to hear more about your performing career.” If he handled a glass, maybe she could sneak it into her purse and lift the prints later.

Mike looked around. “Well, I don't know if I have time,” he said a little nervously. “I mean, I just came to pick up my check and I'm supposed to meet somebody. . . .”

“Oh, Brenda?”

“Uh, no,” Mike said uncomfortably, “not Brenda.”

Who
was
he meeting? Nancy wondered. But it wasn't something she could pursue at the moment—she had another, more urgent job to do.

“Well, then,” Nancy said. “I wonder if you'd do me a favor.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried on, inventing as she went. “I did some work for
Flash
magazine a while back, and I got to know the editors pretty well. They're interested in buying photographs of promising
performers. You're
so
photogenic—I think they'd really jump at the chance to do a photo feature on you. But I'd need to send them a couple of shots so they could get a look at you.”

Mike's face relaxed a little. “You really think they'd be interested?” he asked hopefully. “Gee, that would give my career a terrific boost! Maybe then I'd finally be able to get away from—” He stopped. “That would be great.”

“Let me just run out to my car for my camera,” Nancy suggested. “Listen, let's make this a really relaxed pose, with you sitting at a table with a glass in your hand. Why don't you get something to drink while I'm gone?” If she did this right, she thought as she dashed to her car and got the camera out of the glove compartment, she could get both the picture
and
the prints at one time.

In a minute she was back, and had posed Mike at a table on the terrace, a glass in his hand.

“That's perfect!” she said, clicking the camera. “Turn your head just a little—there!” She took two more pictures. She would send all of them to Dirk, just to be sure he could get a positive identification.

Mike glanced at his watch and drained his glass quickly. “Listen, I've got to go. I sure hope that
Flash
likes the pictures.”

“Oh, I'm sure they'll
love
them,” Nancy said, keeping her eye on Mike's empty glass. All she
had to do was wait until he'd turned to go, slip the glass into her purse, and—