Fatal Attraction (6 page)

“Sounds good to me,” Nancy said, taking her keys out of her purse. They came around the corner to the car.

“Nancy!” George yelped, jumping backward. She clutched Nancy's arm. “Look at your car!”

Nancy glanced up. What she saw stopped her in her tracks. Across the windshield of her car was scrawled an ugly message, in dark red letters.

STAY AWAY FROM MIKE MCKEEVER—OR ELSE!

W
HAT IN THE
world—” Bess sputtered as they went up to the car.

Nancy touched the red stuff with a finger, then sniffed at it. “It's lipstick,” she said grimly. “Who do we know that wears this particular shade of plum-red lipstick?”

George snapped her fingers. “Brenda Carlton, who else?”

Nancy nodded. “Right. After the cop nabbed her, she probably cruised around for a while, looking for us. Then when she spotted the car, she left us this little message.”

“The question is,” Bess said, energetically
scrubbing at the lipstick with a tissue, “how we get this stuff off. It smears into a gooey mess.”

“Bess,” Nancy suggested, “why don't you go over to the gas station on the corner and get a towel with some grease solvent on it?”

As Bess hurried off, Nancy opened the car door and sat down on the seat, staring at the letters. “This case is hard enough,” she said wearily, “without Brenda sticking her nose into it. Her interference makes it tougher to figure out who's doing what.”

Frowning, George sat down beside her. “You don't suppose that Brenda would actually do anything to hurt you, do you?” she asked. She gestured at the threatening message. “I mean, I know she's capable of making mischief, but would she do anything really dangerous?”

Nancy shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said slowly. “But she could do something really stupid, without thinking about the consequences—to herself or to somebody else.”

When Bess came back with the solvent-soaked rag, they scrubbed the windshield. “What a mess,” Nancy said glumly as the lipstick began to come off. It took five minutes' hard work before the glass was clean again.

“All this running around has made me really hungry,” said George. “How about heading for that lunch now?”

“Fine with me,” Nancy agreed. “We need some time to decide our next move.”

The Creekside Patio had a deck built out over a rippling creek. They chose a shaded table, and Nancy sat down with relief, enjoying the cool breeze.

“So where are we now?” George asked Nancy after the waiter had taken their orders.

“It's beginning to look to me,” Nancy replied slowly, “like a con game with two players. I'm speculating now, because we don't have any proof, but it may be that Mike's just a decoy—you know, the guy with the fatal attraction, who lures the girl. He's certainly sexy enough. The guy we saw doing research on the Carlton financial holdings could be the brains behind the business.”

That would make sense, Nancy thought. What was it that Mike had said when she'd suggested that maybe
Flash
magazine might be interested in a photo feature? He'd said, “Then I'd be able to get away from . . .” Maybe this line of work was getting distasteful to him.

“Hey, Nancy!”

Nancy looked up to see Ned striding toward her. With a welcoming smile, she moved her chair, making room.

“I was driving by and saw your car out front. How'd it go this morning?” he asked.

Bess smothered a giggle. “You mean, before or after they jumped into the dirty linen?”

“Or before or after Brenda got a traffic ticket?” George asked.

“Or before or after my windshield got smeared with lipstick?” Nancy added.

“It must have been an interesting morning,” Ned said, grinning. But his face was serious when Nancy gave him a quick recap of the day's adventures, even a verbatim report of the love note they'd found in Mike's pocket. “It sounds to me,” he said, frowning, “as if Brenda's gotten herself into a mess—a really slimy one.”

Nancy thought about the love note. Who was Darla? Had she been one of Mike's victims in his game of rip-off love? Had she wakened one morning to the awful realization that Mike McKeever had never cared about her, never intended to make good his promises?

“You know,” she said slowly, still thinking of Darla, “if Brenda weren't—well, if Brenda weren't
Brenda,
it would be easy to feel sorry for her. Thinking someone's in love with you and then finding out he was only using you for your money must be the worst.” She shuddered. “We've just got to put a stop to it.”

“I wish we knew who that guy called from Mike's room,” George said thoughtfully.

“I think I know somebody who can help trace it,” Nancy replied. She thought ahead to the
afternoon. “I need to get the film and put the photo and the thumbprint on the wire to Dirk Bowman. I've got enough to keep me busy for the rest of the day.” She glanced at Ned. “But we have to get something more concrete on this guy. Maybe you and I should make a trip tomorrow, Ned. Brenda told us that Mike's last job—before the one in Florida—was in Silver Hills. Remember?”

Ned nodded. “Right. So you're thinking of driving over there to check up on him? It's only a couple of hours.”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

“My time is
your
time,” Ned said grandly, with a big grin.

“Speaking of time,” Bess said, with a glance at George, “Peterson's is having a one-day-only sale—today. How about it, George?”

George nodded. “I need some new running shoes. If you're
sure
you don't need us this afternoon,” she said, turning to Nancy.

“I'm sure,” Nancy said. “Listen, do you remember that red shirt I tried on the last time we were in Peterson's? If it's on sale, will you pick it up for me?”

After lunch, Nancy headed off to pick up the developed film. The photos were clear and sharp, exactly what Dirk would need to check Mike's ID. With the pictures tucked safely into her purse, she stopped at the phone company. There
she talked to an old friend of her father's, Mr. Conrad, who was a supervisor.

“I wonder if you could trace a phone call for me,” Nancy said. She had jotted down the number of the motel and the number of Mike's room. “The call was made from this number, about ten-thirty this morning. I'd like to find out the number the person was calling. Can that be done?”

“Sure, it can,” Mr. Conrad said confidently. “No problem at all.”

He sat down at a computer and began to enter the numbers Nancy had given him. Almost instantly, the screen was filled with a long listing of numbers.

“Here we are,” Mr. Conrad said, pointing to a row of numbers. “The call was made to Batesville. Here, let me copy the number for you.”

Nancy stared at the screen, her mind racing as she began to put the pieces together. They had found the ticket stub from the Batesville County Fair, and Brenda had said that Mike played there. The phone call was one more link to the town, which was only a three-hour drive from River Heights. When she and Ned finished in Silver Hills, Batesville ought to be next on their list.

Nancy stood up and took the slip of paper the
supervisor handed to her. “Thanks, Mr. Conrad. I appreciate your help.”

“Nothing to it. Tell your dad hello for me, will you?”

Nancy got into her car and drove home quickly. It was already nearly four on the East Coast, and she wanted to catch Dirk Bowman before he left.

Dirk sounded pleased when Nancy told him about the picture and the thumbprint. “If we've got anything at all on this guy,” he told her, “I'll pass it along to you. But there's a hitch. I've got to get to a meeting that's going to tie me up the rest of the day. How about putting the stuff on the wire at nine tomorrow morning? That way I'll be here to get the ball rolling.”

“Great,” Nancy said. She put down the phone and then picked it up again, to dial Mr. Carlton. He listened quietly while she reported the events of the morning. But when she got to the part about Brenda's visit to the motel, he made a sharp, unhappy noise. And when she told him about Brenda's ticket, and about the lipstick message on the windshield, he sounded almost angry.

“Sometimes I just don't understand my daughter,” he growled disgustedly. “How anyone so bright could act so
dumb
 . . .”

Nancy coughed. “I've got the feeling we're on
the right track,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I need to send the photos and the print to Fort Lauderdale. Can you help?”

“Sure,” Mr. Carlton said. “There's a facsimile machine in the copy room on the second floor of the
Times,
down the hall from my office. I'll tell my secretary that you'll be there to use it and she's to see that you're not disturbed.” He hesitated, and then added cautiously, “But use the back stairs, just to be on the safe side.”

“You're right,” she agreed. “I wouldn't want to run into Brenda.” To tell the truth, Brenda Carlton was the
last
person she wanted to see.

• • •

Wednesday morning, Nancy made her way up the back stairs of the
Times
building, looking over her shoulder to be sure that no one saw her. It was early enough that Brenda was probably still in bed, but she wasn't taking any chances. Mr. Carlton's secretary was expecting her. She led Nancy to the copy room and showed her how to operate the facsimile machine, only one of several pieces of copying equipment in the room.

“Mr. Carlton instructed me to wait outside and not let anybody else in,” she said, going to the door. “If you need any help, just call me.”

“Thanks,” Nancy said, glancing at the machine, which looked like a combination copier and answering machine. “I think I can manage.”

Nancy put the thumbprint into the machine
and turned it on, punching Dirk's telephone number on the keypad. The machine began to
whirr
quietly, and the print fed through the machine, while Dirk's telephone number and the word
transmitting
appeared on the digital display. Less than thirty seconds later, the print was completely transmitted to Fort Lauderdale, over fifteen hundred miles away. Next Nancy fed in the first two photos, one after the other.

Outside in the hallway there was a buzz of conversation. Mr. Carlton's secretary was speaking firmly to someone.

“The copy room is being used right now. My orders are to make sure that everyone stays out.” There was a pause.
“Everyone.”

But the other person wasn't taking no for an answer. “Listen,” the voice snapped, “my father's the boss here. He owns the place. So if I want to use that copy machine, I
will
and that's that.”

Nancy spun around, the third photo in her hand. Brenda was coming into the room—and there was no other way out!

B
RENDA BARGED THROUGH
the door, slamming it behind her. When she saw Nancy, her mouth dropped open in astonishment, and anger flared in her eyes.

“What are
you
doing here?” she snapped.

Thinking rapidly, Nancy gathered up the photos, standing between Brenda and the machine so that Brenda couldn't see what she was putting into her purse. She turned around.

“My father needed some confidential documents transmitted to New York,” she said smoothly. “Your father offered to let me use the facsimile machine.”

“Huh,” Brenda grunted. Her eyes narrowed. “But what I really want to know is what you were doing hanging around Mike's motel yesterday,” she demanded, blocking Nancy's way to the door.

“Mike's motel?” Nancy asked innocently. She pretended to think for a minute. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I
did
see you yesterday out on Ridgeview Road, didn't I? Dad sent me out to Mason's Office Supply to pick up some envelopes.” She frowned as if puzzled. “You know, the
weirdest
thing happened after that. Somebody came along and smeared lipstick all over the windshield.”