Poison Pen (2 page)

Brenda glared at her. “But there are some things that shouldn't be kept secret, don't you agree?” she retorted.

“Like what?” Nancy asked, picking up her sandwich to take a bite.

“Like murder.”

“What? What do you mean?” Nancy demanded, her eyes open wide.

Brenda folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her lips. “I mean—when was the last time
you
got a letter from someone who's afraid they're going to be murdered?”

M
URDERED
?” Nancy repeated, feeling dazed. She put her sandwich down on her plate. “What are you talking about? Who's going to be murdered? Brenda, this could be serious.”

“It's nothing for you to worry about,” Brenda replied secretively.

“Brenda, are you saying that you got a letter from someone who fears for his or her life? Who is it?” Nancy pressed, leaning forward on her arms.

“None of your business,” Brenda retorted. “A reporter never reveals her sources. Anyway, I don't have time to discuss this right now—I have places to go and people to see.” She slid her chair back and stood up.

“Wait!” Nancy cried, but Brenda just smiled down at her and grabbed her purse.

“I'm sure I'll see you around town,” she said, and flounced away.

The three girls stared after her. Then Bess turned to George and Nancy and asked, “You don't think she's serious, do you?”

“It
would
be just like her to make up something like that,” George said, forking a tomato from her chef's salad. “Brenda will do anything for attention.”

“That's true,” Nancy said slowly. “I'm not sure what to think. Let's go over to the newsstand and check out this column of hers.”

Bess and George agreed. After finishing their lunches, the three girls wandered down to a newsstand on the main level. Nancy bought a copy of
Today's Times,
and the girls sat down on a polished wooden bench to read it.

“ ‘Tornadoes Ravage Chicago Suburb,'” George read aloud, peering over Nancy's shoulder at the headline on the front page. “That's awful.”

“Yeah. Some friends of my parents live in that town,” Bess commented. “They lost their garage.”

“They're lucky it was only the garage,” Nancy said soberly. “I mean, that's bad, but just think how much worse it could have been. Look at this photo.” She pointed at a grainy black-and-white shot of the ruins of a house. One wall was oddly intact, but the rest had totally collapsed.

“Twenty-seven families have been left
homeless,” George murmured, still reading the article. “Those poor people!”

“It's this weather,” Nancy murmured. “All this awful, heavy heat. Tornadoes breed in it.”

Bess blew out her breath in a long sigh. “Please, you guys, let's change the subject,” she begged. “All this stuff about tornadoes scares me.”

“At least there's no tornado watch set for River Heights yet,” Nancy said.

“Well, actually, there was one of those minitornadoes—what do you call them, microbursts—here last weekend,” George said. She pointed at some scaffolding set up near one end of the mall's main concourse. “Right over there. It barely touched down. Luckily for the mall, the only damage was to a skylight—oh, and the roof was ripped up a little bit.”

Bess looked as if she'd rather be anyplace but where she was right then. “I wish you hadn't told me that, George,” she said nervously. Then she gasped. “Oh, no! I just thought of something
really
awful! What if there's a tornado watch tomorrow night? They might call off the concert!”

“Well, there's nothing we can do about it,” Nancy pointed out. “Come on, let's read Brenda's column.” She flipped through the paper until she came to the Lifestyles section. “Here it is—'Just Ask Brenda.'”

Bess leaned in to get a better look. “Hey, that's a great picture of her.”

Nancy peered at the photo. Brenda had a sweet, helpful smile on her face. “I've never seen her look like that in real life,” she commented, laughing.

“Read us the first letter, Nan,” George suggested. “Let's see what terrible problems Brenda is tackling today.”

“Okay, here goes.” Nancy went on to read a long, whiny complaint about a neighbor's overgrown, unkempt lawn. “'I have asked her repeatedly to do something about her unsightly property, but she ignores me. What can I do?'” Glancing at Bess and George, Nancy told them, “The letter's signed, Ted Up.' “

“Whew!” George exclaimed. “What a boring letter! Are there any others?”

Nancy scanned the column. “Just one. It's from a girl who wants to break up with her boyfriend because the only place he ever takes her is the video arcade.”

“What's Brenda's advice?” Bess asked.

“Brenda says it's probably because the girl isn't very interesting,” Nancy replied.

George let out a low whistle. “Talk about unsympathetic!”

“Yeah,” Bess added. “I think this column would be the last place anyone would turn to if they
really
needed help.”

George nodded her agreement. “She was
probably making up what she said just now about someone being afraid.”

“If anything exciting ever does appear in this column,” said Nancy, tapping the folded-up paper in her lap, “I bet it will be right out of the overactive imagination of Brenda Carlton.”

Nancy got up from the bench and dropped the newspaper into a nearby garbage can. “Come on, guys, let's get out of here. I want to get home and see if I can talk Hannah into making something wonderful for dessert for tomorrow night.”

“But I never bought a pair of pants,” Bess objected.

“Oh, come on,” George scolded. “You already have at least ten pairs of pants at home that would look perfect with your new top.”

Bess considered for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do,” she agreed. “Okay.”

The three girls picked up their shopping bags and headed out to the parking lot to Nancy's blue Mustang. Nancy was the first one through the doors that led from the mall out to the asphalt lot. Heat struck her in a searing wave, and she could feel perspiration bead on her brow.

Suddenly, from somewhere to her right, a sharp screech of rubber tore through the summer air, followed by the loud crashing of metal on-metal.

“What was that?” George cried.

Nancy was already running toward the noise. She didn't even turn around as she yelled back, “It sounded like an accident. Come on! Someone might need our help!”

A
S
N
ANCY SPRINTED
toward the sound, she could see a crowd gathering around two cars in the parking lot. One of the cars, a silver sedan, had apparently struck the other, a red sports car, on the left front fender.

As Nancy ran up, the driver of the sedan was just climbing out of her car. The woman was about forty, with short ash blond hair, and was wearing an expensive-looking linen suit. Nancy was relieved to see that the woman didn't appear to be injured, although she seemed to be shaken.

Nancy's eyes widened when she saw who the driver of the other car was. Brenda Carlton—and she looked furious.

“Look what you did to my car!” Brenda raged, pointing at her dented front fender. “Don't think you won't pay for the damage!”

“I'm so sorry!” the woman exclaimed. Her voice shook, and there were tears in her eyes.

The poor woman sounded as if she was about to break down. Stepping forward, Nancy asked, “Can I help? Is everyone all right?”

“Just barely, no thanks to her,” Brenda said, jerking a thumb at the blond-haired woman. “She steered right into me!”

“I tried to stop, really I did,” the other woman said shakily. “I kept pumping the brakes, but the car wouldn't—” She broke off with a sob.

“That's crazy!” Brenda declared. “You just weren't paying attention. Someone call the police!”

“I think someone already went to do that,” George put in.

“P-police?” The woman's voice quavered. “Oh, dear!”

“Don't worry,” Nancy told her, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her away from Brenda. “It's just routine. The police have to be informed so that they can make a report to your insurance companies. You look pretty shaken up,” she went on. “Why don't you sit in your car until the police get here? Here, let me help you.”

“Thank you so much,” the woman said gratefully. “I'm Mrs. Keating—Maggie Keating. I just don't know what happened,” she went on as Nancy led her to the sedan. “I couldn't stop. It was so frightening!”

“I'm sure it was,” Nancy said, trying to soothe her. “You should probably have your brakes checked.”

“Yes, I'll do that,” Mrs. Keating agreed.

Nancy settled Mrs. Keating in the driver's seat, then straightened up to find herself gazing into an extraordinary pair of eyes. One was a deep, vivid blue; the other was golden brown.

The effect was so startling Nancy nearly jumped. The eyes belonged to a muscular, handsome man of medium height, who was standing only a few feet away. He had curly, light brown hair and a square jaw. His face was creased by a slight grin as he stared, first at Nancy, then at Mrs. Keating. Then, turning, the man stepped back into the crowd and was gone.

“Nan, what's wrong?” came Bess's voice.

Blinking, Nancy turned back to her two friends. “Nothing, really,” she told them. “It's just that there was an unusual-looking guy here. He had one blue eye and one brown eye. . . .” She let her voice trail off. “I don't know why he seemed so odd, though,” she said at last.

“One blue eye and one brown eye? Sounds very unusual to me,” George commented. “Like a villain from a romance novel.”

“Or a hero,” Bess put in. “Was he cute?”

Nancy laughed. “He was pretty good-looking but definitely older. Close to thirty, I'd

“Nancy! I hope Ned doesn't hear about this,” George said in a mock disapproving voice. “I can't believe you're talking with strange older men in parking lots.”

“Here comes a patrol car,” Bess cut in, pointing toward the entrance to the mall parking lot. “Do you think they'll need us as witnesses or anything?”

“We should probably stick around, just in case,” Nancy said. She threw a quick glance at Brenda, who was now regaling the crowd with a dramatic, blow-by-blow account of the crash. “If the police don't get any story besides Brenda's, poor Mrs. Keating might end up in prison for life!”

• • •

“I don't believe this,” Nancy muttered to .herself the following morning. She had gone out after breakfast to pick up a copy of
Today's Times.
Now, as she scanned the opening sentences of “Just Ask Brenda,” her eyes widened in amazement. The column had certainly taken a turn for the dramatic since the day before.

Nancy's father Carson Drew had already left for his law office, but Hannah Gruen, the Drews' housekeeper, looked up from the plant she was repotting by the kitchen sink. A pleasant-faced middle-aged woman with graying brown hair and warm eyes, she had lived with the Drews since shortly after the death of Nancy's mother, when Nancy was
three. “What don't you believe?” Hannah asked.

Nancy was about to read to her from Brenda's column when the doorbell rang. “I'll get it,” she offered. Still holding her copy of
Today's Times,
Nancy went to the foyer.

“Hi, beautiful,” a warm male voice greeted her after she threw open the front door.

“Ned!” Nancy's heart leapt with pleasure as she took in her boyfriend's tall, broad-shouldered frame and handsome face. “What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be working?”