Chapter
One
HEADS UP, BESS!” George Fayne shouted, batting the ball.
“Hey, George, not so hard!” Bess Marvin yelled back. “We all know you’re a natural athlete. You don’t have to prove it with every shot!”
George, lean and tanned in her white bikini, grinned teasingly at Bess. “Do you think you could try to hit the volleyball, instead of worrying about breaking a fingernail?”
On the other side of the net, Ned Nickerson laughed. “I thought you guys were going to beat me, hands down. So what’s happened to your game?”
Nancy leaned back onto the beach blanket, her new blue bikini bright against the pale green cloth. The lake was calm, the sun warm, and she felt very lazy. She took another sip of root beer as her eyes followed the volleyball back and forth across the net. They’d all been playing until a few minutes ago, when Ned had challenged George and Bess to a game and was now wiping them out because Bess had dropped every other ball.
Nancy smoothed suntan lotion on her arms, smiling to herself. They’d driven up from River Heights just last night, Thursday night, but already it promised to be a great weekend. They were staying in a borrowed lakefront vacation house just a stone’s throw from the beach, and there was going to be plenty of time for relaxing. In the last few months she’d had one tough case after another, as word of her talent for solving impossible mysteries was rapidly spreading. But the last case, Recipe for Murder, had been one of the toughest, for she’d been up against clever, international spies. After that, Nancy was glad to take a breather from detective work—and from volleyball—even if it was just a short one.
Bess cupped her hands and called, “Hey, Nancy, why don’t you come on back to the game? If we had you, we could beat the Incredible Hunk.” She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and brushed the sand off her green swimsuit. It looked great, and she swore she felt five pounds slimmer in it—which was vitally important to Bess, since she was always worried about being five pounds overweight.
Nancy shook her head and lay down, pushing her red-gold hair out of her eyes and adjusting her sunglasses. “Nope, I’m on vacation,” she said, reaching for her novel. This vacation, she’d decided, she wasn’t going to read a single mystery or work a single crossword puzzle. She was going to give her overworked brain a rest. “Nothing could tempt me to stir from this blanket.”
“Miss Drew?”
Nancy blinked and sat up. Standing beside her was a man in a brown uniform with “Crown Courier” on the pocket. He had a letter in his hand.
“Yes, I’m Nancy Drew.” Nancy glanced up toward the house. The delivery truck was parked in the driveway.
The courier handed her the letter. “I was going to leave this at the house, but then I saw you down here.” He shoved his clipboard at her. “Sign, please.”
With a resigned sigh, Nancy signed. The brown envelope had her name and the words “Urgent” and “Extremely Confidential” written on it. Without saying anything more, the courier trudged up the hill toward the road.
Nancy turned the letter over in her hand. There was an uneasy feeling in her stomach that told her it had to mean trouble. For a moment, she was tempted to stick the letter in her beach bag and forget about it until next week. But the only way to banish the worried feeling was to read the letter right away.
“What was that all about? Who was the guy in the uniform?” Ned Nickerson dropped down beside Nancy, drying his brown hair with a towel, his bronzed shoulders glistening with sweat.
“A courier,” Nancy said. “He brought this letter.” Intently, she read it through. “Nancy Drew,” it said, “you are urgently needed to work on a most important and confidential case. Without your help, someone you know may be in serious trouble. It is imperative that you meet me at the HiPoint Drive-in Theater, at ten tonight. Come alone.” Without a word, she held out the letter to Ned.
Ned whistled softly when he’d finished reading it. “Someone you know?” He looked at Bess and George, now horsing around at the edge of the lake. “You don’t suppose . . .”
Nancy shook her head, her mouth set in a grim line. In the years she’d worked as a detective, there had been dozens of threats to her life—and to the lives of her friends. It was something she never took lightly. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s nothing. But I’ve got to find out.”
Frowning, Ned looked down at the letter. “I guess this means you’ll want to go back into River Heights tonight. But what about our vacation?”
Nancy made her voice light. “I’ll just have to take a few hours off.” She turned over onto her stomach. “Could you put some lotion on my back?” she asked in a muffled voice.
Ned poured some lotion into his hand and began to smooth it gently on her bare shoulders. After a minute he bent forward and kissed the tip of her ear. “How about if I drive you into River Heights tonight?” His voice was as soft and gentle as his fingertips.
Nancy sat up and leaned forward to kiss him back. “Thanks, Ned,” she said, grateful for his help and his deep, enduring friendship. Things weren’t always this comfortable between them. Ned sometimes felt that Nancy’s detective work got in the way, and more than once he’d said that he just couldn’t put up with it any longer. But she knew how terribly sad and empty her life would be without him and she hoped they would always be able to work out their differences, just as they had in the past.
“I’m worried about this meeting,” Ned said thoughtfully, still rubbing Nancy’s shoulders. “HiPoint Drive-in has been abandoned for years. It’s not a good place to be, even without some mysterious stranger stalking around. Why do you suppose somebody would want to meet you there, of all places?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “I might not take the risk if the letter didn’t sound so threatening. If George or Bess is in danger—”
“Yeah, I know,” Ned said. He dropped a kiss onto her shoulder. “Tell you what. I’ll take you in to pick up your car, then follow you as far as HiPoint Road. When you’re finished talking to whoever this is, you could meet me.”
Nancy rolled over and touched Ned’s face lightly. “Thanks, partner,” she whispered. “I really appreciate the help.”
“No charge,” Ned said, gently brushing her lips with his.
“Hey, you two, you know the rules. No kissing in public!” George pulled a red beach towel out of her bag and sat down. She shook her curly dark hair vigorously, showering Nancy and Ned with a spray of water.
Bess plopped down on the sand. “Speaking of kissing in public”—she laughed—“you’ll never guess who I ran into yesterday.”
Nancy hurriedly shoved the letter into her beach bag. There was no point in alarming Bess and George until she knew the details of the threat. “Who?” she asked lazily, putting her sunglasses back on.
“Why, none other than ace reporter Brenda Carlton, that’s who,” Bess said sarcastically. She reached for the suntan lotion.
“Kissing in public?” George hooted. “Whoever the guy is, somebody ought to cue him in to Brenda. She’s an accident waiting to happen.”
Nancy laughed. George had described Brenda Carlton to a T. She was always tooting her own horn about being the best investigative reporter at Today’s Times, the award-winning newspaper owned by her father, Frazier Carlton. But Brenda’s “investigations” always caused trouble.
“I don’t know how you can laugh about it, Nan,” Ned said, frowning. “She deliberately blew your cover when you were investigating that espionage case at Bedford High. And she managed to get you arrested on suspicion of murdering Mick Swanson, at Flash magazine. Remember?”
“Remember? How could I ever forget darling Brenda?” Nancy murmured, recalling the time Brenda challenged her to a detect
ive duel to solve the Harrington case. Before it was over, she’d nearly gotten them both killed with her clumsy bungling.
“So what’s this about Brenda kissing somebody in public?” George asked, lying back on the towel and pulling her straw hat over her face. “I want to hear more.”
“Last night I went over to Charlie’s,” Bess told her, “that new place on the south side. They’ve got this great guitarist, just in from out of town. But Brenda got there first and staked her claim on him—and believe me, she was making the best of it. She was practically sitting in his lap.” She sighed. “Too bad. He’s really a hunk. A gorgeous hunk.”
“Oh, yeah?” George asked, cocking up her hat. “Who is this guy?”
“Somebody named Mike McKeever.”
Ned glanced out at the lake. “Hey, isn’t it just about time for a swim?” he asked.
Bess nodded. “Yeah. Talking about Brenda Carlton makes me anxious. A swim would help me work it off.”
Nancy jumped to her feet. Whatever the ominous letter meant, there was nothing she could do about it until tonight. “Well, we can’t have Bess suffering from anxiety.” She laughed. “Come on, Ned, let’s race them!” With Ned close behind, she ran toward the water, leaving the letter behind.
Still, try as she might, she couldn’t push the questions out of her mind. Who was in trouble? Was it one of her friends? And what kind of danger was she walking into tonight? She shivered in spite of the warm sun. There were dozens of things she’d rather be doing this evening than meeting an anonymous letter-writer after dark in a deserted drive-in movie.
• • •
Nancy parked under the single, feeble light at the drive-in theater and turned off the ignition. It was reassuring to know that Ned was parked only a few blocks away, waiting for her and worrying about her safety. “Be careful,” he’d said when he took her to pick up her Mustang. “This could be dangerous.”
Dangerous or not, the deserted theater was certainly spooky. It seemed to echo with the soundtracks of all the old horror movies she had ever seen. The place looked empty, and Nancy didn’t see the other car—a sleek black Lincoln parked in the shadows of the tumbled-down concession stand—until she had scanned the lot carefully. She studied the car, frowning. Where had she seen it before? If it belonged to the person who had written the letter, why wasn’t there any sign of life?
As she waited, goose bumps began to rise on her arms, and a shiver went across the back of her neck. Wow, this place really gives me the creeps, she thought. Maybe I’d better make sure I’m locked in. Without taking her eyes off the empty Lincoln, she reached over to lock the passenger door.
But it was too late. The door was already opening. A tall, shadowy figure slid into the seat beside her and wrapped one strong, black-gloved hand around her forearm. A man’s rough, gravelly voice broke the silence.
“I assume that you’ve come alone, Nancy Drew. I wouldn’t want anyone to see us together.”
The gloved grip tightened. Then, softly, the mysterious stranger laughed—a harsh, frightening laugh.
Chapter
Two
NANCY STARTED. THAT voice—in a flash, she knew the identity of the mysterious figure. It was Frazier Carlton, editor of Today’s Times, Brenda Carlton’s father!
“Mr. Carlton?” Nancy asked.
The man glanced into the backseat. “You are alone, Miss Drew?”
“Of course,” Nancy snapped, annoyed. “What’s all this about? Why all the mystery? If you wanted to talk to me, wouldn’t it have been simpler to meet for lunch somewhere?”
“It might be simpler,” Mr. Carlton agreed calmly, “but somebody might have seen us together.” He was wearing a dark jacket and a dark turtleneck sweater—obviously an outfit designed to fade into the shadows. “I must impress upon you the importance of keeping the details of this case absolutely secret. No one must know that we’ve talked, except for the people you might need to work with you on the case.”
Nancy took a deep breath. “Maybe you’d better begin at the beginning,” she suggested.
Mr. Carlton leaned back in the seat. “I suspect that my daughter,” he said grimly, “is involved with somebody who may be after her money. I’m afraid she might be in for some serious trouble.”
Brenda? So that was who the letter had referred to—George and Bess weren’t in trouble at all. “That’s terrific!” Nancy exclaimed. And then, embarrassed, added, “I mean, that’s terrible. Where’s your evidence?”
Mr. Carlton cleared his throat. “My daughter is a great reporter and a wonderful girl,” he said slowly, “but she isn’t exactly the world’s best judge of character.” He grinned ruefully. “Sometimes she . . . well, she doesn’t look before she leaps. This time she’s jumped into a relationship with somebody who really worries me.”
“Oh,” Nancy said, remembering what Bess had told them that morning. “Are you by any chance talking about the guitarist at Charlie’s?”
Mr. Carlton looked surprised. “Gossip gets around fast, doesn’t it?” He shook his head wearily. “Yes, that’s the one,” he went on. “McKeever, his name is. Mike McKeever. Brenda met him a while ago on vacation in Miami Beach. Seems he was playing in a club down there—and he followed her back here.”
Nancy nodded. “I see.” But the fact that Brenda’s new boyfriend was a performer didn’t automatically make him a bad guy. “But I don’t see,” she added, “what makes you think that he’s after Brenda’s money.”
Mr. Carlton drew his dark eyebrows together in a way that reminded Nancy of Brenda. “I’ve been a newsman for almost forty years, Miss Drew. I’ve got what they call a ‘nose for news.’ I’m used to operating on blind hunches, and those hunches are usually right on the money.”
“But a hunch—”
Mr. Carlton held up his hand. “This guy doesn’t strike me as the kind who’d give up a well-paying job for love. And that’s exactly what he did when he followed Brenda back here. Charlie’s doesn’t pay a living wage, and Brenda’s paying for all their dates. Furthermore, he got really angry when I asked an innocent question about his family. And when I tried to trace the license plates on his motorcycle, I found out that the bike they were from had been junked. He’s driving on phony plates. I have a feeling—a father’s intuition, maybe—that this attraction of Brenda’s will come to a bad end.” A note of deep concern had crept into his authoritative voice. “And I’m convinced that you’re the only one who can help her!”
“Me? Help Brenda? Not a chance.” Nancy shook her head firmly. “You know, Mr. Carlton, that Brenda and I aren’t exactly the best of friends. She would never accept—”
“I understand that,” Mr. Carlton said urgently. “And if I’m wrong, Brenda must never know that we’ve talked! If she thought I hired you to investigate her boyfriend, she’d never speak to me again!”
Nancy thought of all the times she’d vowed to close Brenda’s reporter’s notebook for good. And bumbling Brenda was dangerous enough when she was on the periphery of a case—what would it be like with her right in the middle of one? But still, Nancy had never wanted her to get hurt. And Mr. Carlton was obviously very worried, to have gone to all this trouble.
“Let’s get this straight,” Nancy said. “You want me to protect Brenda from herself—and from this guy, if he’s what you think he is. Is that right?”
Mr. Carlton nodded. “That’s it exactly.”
Nancy laughed a little. “Considering how impulsive Brenda is, I’d say that’s a pretty big order.”
“That’s why you’re the only one who can handle it,” Mr. Carlton said, looking at her intently.
Nancy nodded. Mr. Carlton was right. It certainly wasn’t her standard assignment. It would definitely be a challenge. But maybe that was exactly why it appealed to her.
“I probably ought to have my head examined, Mr. Carlton,” Nancy said, sighing, “but I’ll take the case.”
• • •
“I still think you’ve got to be c
razy, getting involved with Brenda Carlton,” Ned told Nancy as they parked outside Charlie’s the next night. “She’ll drive you bananas in about thirty seconds.” He reached for Nancy’s hand as they walked toward the club.
Nancy sighed. “I have the feeling I’m going to regret it,” she said. “But I can’t resist a good mystery, and Mr. Carlton is convinced that something funny’s going on.” She grinned. “Thanks for agreeing to help, Ned.”
“The things I do for love,” Ned replied with a laugh, opening the door for her. The small club was standing room only, and everybody’s eyes were glued to a small stage in the corner, where a handsome young guy with dark, curly hair was perched on a stool, expertly playing a guitar. The room was filled with the sounds of jazzy blues, and everyone was listening intently, not saying a word. The audience was mostly young people—Nancy saw only one person who looked over fifty, a man with gray hair and a gray beard.
“Well, that’s Mike McKeever,” Ned said, pointing to the guitarist.
“No wonder Brenda’s got a thing for him,” Nancy said, half under her breath. Mike McKeever had a brooding, sultry look about him that spelled attraction. Then she saw Brenda, sitting alone at a table on the far side of the crowded room, watching the stage almost hungrily. She was dressed in a skintight white top and white slacks, and her dark hair cascaded dramatically around her shoulders.. There was an intent gleam in her dark eyes as she tapped her plum-red fingernails against her glass.
Ned chuckled. “Looks like she’s got it real bad for the guy. She can’t take her eyes off him.”
As he spoke, the music ended and people started to talk again. The performer put down his guitar and stood up. Nancy and Ned watched as he made his way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd to the corner where Brenda was waiting with a greedy smile. He bent down to whisper something into her ear. Her hand came up to his head, her fingers twisting in his dark hair as she pulled him toward her.
“I’d say you’re right, Ned,” Nancy agreed.