“Not very well,” Melanie confessed. “But last night, when I told him that J.J. and I were finished, he didn’t react very well, either.”
That was odd, thought Nancy. She would have expected Spike to be ecstatic. She hesitated, unsure of how to phrase her next question. “Didn’t you tell J.J. that you were in love with another man?” Nancy challenged.
Melanie looked sharply at Nancy for a moment. “I guess somebody overheard us fighting, huh? We weren’t exactly being quiet about it.”
“And who is that other man, Melanie? The one you said you were in love with. It’s important that I know.”
“Why, it’s Curtis,” Melanie said at once, her eyes filling with tears. “That’s what I told Spike, too.” She heaved a heavy sigh and added, “I guess Spike’s always been sort of sweet on me.”
Just then George came back. “J.J. left town last night, all right,” she told Nancy. “At nine-thirty. He couldn’t have damaged that tombstone, Nan.”
Nancy looked at George and said excitedly, “George, it’s all starting to come together. Spike Wilson used to write songs, and he’s been in love with Melanie for years.”
“But, Nancy, Spike couldn’t possibly have killed Curtis,” Melanie protested. “Everybody knows he was out in the county hospital, way out on Route four fifty-nine. And he was all banged up—”
“Route four fifty-nine!” Nancy exclaimed. “Say no more.” Putting her hand on Melanie’s shoulder, Nancy added gently, “I’m sorry if anything we said today was upsetting, but you have to understand, we’re talking about murder.”
Melanie nodded and let out a big sigh. “I know,” she said softly. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
“Good,” Nancy answered. “Come on, George. We’ve got to visit the county hospital.”
• • •
“I’m convinced that Spike is the one who called Curtis the night he died,” Nancy said as she and George drove to the hospital.
Shaking her head doubtfully, George said, “But how could Spike possibly have left the hospital, put the poison in Curtis’s decanter, and come back—all with casts on his arm and leg?”
“All I know,” Nancy said, “is that people who commit murder can be highly motivated. You know that old saying, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way’? We’ve got to find out what that way was.”
Fifteen minutes later Nancy pulled into the hospital parking lot and stopped her car in an empty spot. “I wish I could look into the hospital’s file on Spike, but I’m sure all the records are kept confidential.”
“Where should we start, Nan?” George asked as they walked across the lot.
“Let’s try the cafeteria,” Nancy suggested. “People sometimes have time to talk when they’re there.”
The girls entered the hospital’s lobby, where a nurse at the reception desk directed them to a second-floor cafeteria. Walking with their trays of danishes and tea, Nancy saw a large table where three nurses sat, relaxing. One of them was reading the Maywood Morning Star.
Nancy nodded in their direction. “They look friendly,” she said quietly.
Approaching the table, George broke into a smile. “Okay if we sit here?” she asked.
“Sure, pull up a chair,” a thin, red-haired nurse told her.
After they sat down, Nancy glanced over at the newspaper. “Excuse me,” she said, feigning surprise. “Is that something about Tyrone Taylor?”
The nurse looked up from the paper and over at Nancy. “Didn’t you hear? He had a bad accident last night. Someone tried to kill him.”
“Wow,” Nancy said, reading the paper that the nurse pushed closer to her. “He’s Curtis Taylor’s nephew, isn’t he?”
Giving Nancy a look, one of the other nurses said, “You must be from out of town. Everyone here knows the Taylors.”
“We are. We were just visiting our uncle here in the hospital,” George fibbed.
“I’m a big Curtis Taylor fan, though,” Nancy added quickly. “I have all his records. In fact, didn’t I read that one of his band members was once here in this hospital?”
The red-haired nurse considered that for a moment. “She means Spike Wilson, right, Mary?”
“That’s right,” the nurse with the newspaper agreed with a nod.
“Really? Curtis Taylor’s drummer? Did you get to meet him?” Nancy asked eagerly.
“No, not me,” the woman answered, turning to her companions. “Who was his nurse? Was it Donna Johnson?”
“Boy, I’d love to talk to her,” Nancy said. “I wonder what he was really like.”
Unfortunately, Donna Johnson was still on her shift, but the nurses assured Nancy and George that she would be down for a break soon. After what seemed like forever, the red-haired nurse spotted Donna and called her over.
Donna Johnson had graying brown hair and bright hazel eyes. “Hi, everybody,” she said, walking over with her tray and sitting down.
“These girls were asking about Spike Wilson,” the nurse named Mary said.
It took Donna a minute to remember, but then she laughed and said, “Oh, what a character. The guy had a foot and a hand in a cast, and we still couldn’t hold him down.”
“Really?” Nancy said, acting as though she were a delighted fan.
“One morning I came in to check his blood pressure, and he was gone,” the nurse said. “He’d put pillows in his bed to make it look like he was sleeping. We searched everywhere for him.”
George had been listening with an expression of rapt attention on her face. “Where was he?”
“Beats me,” Donna said with a shrug. “When I saw him later that afternoon, he was sitting on his bed, acting as if nothing had happened.”
George fiddled with her empty cup, asking, “Wasn’t that around the time Curtis died?”
As soon as the words were out of George’s mouth, the older nurse turned serious. “Curtis died that very night,” Donna said. “Oh, that was terrible. Spike felt awful about it, too. Not only that, his leg was all swollen from his little adventure. We had to put him in a wheelchair and give him extra sedation just to get him to the funeral. He insisted on going.”
Nancy’s ears perked up. “Extra sedation? What did you sedate him with?”
“At that time we used to give liquid barbiturates. He’d been on them for weeks, what with the problems he had from his accident. Hey, where are you going?”
Nancy and George were already halfway to the door. “I forgot!” Nancy cried over her shoulder. “We’re supposed to meet some friends.”
As the two girls hurried out of the hospital, Nancy was filled with a sense of triumph.
“Yes!” she cried excitedly. “Spike could have poisoned Curtis’s decanter of bourbon with liquid barbiturates. Spike was clever enough to know how to con his nurses, too. All he had to do was get from the hospital to the mansion, pour the stuff in the decanter, return to his bed, then make the phone call that lured Curtis to his death.”
“It makes perfect sense, Nan,” George said, climbing into the car. “But how do we prove it?”
Nancy didn’t answer George right away. She pulled her key from her purse and started the engine, considering George’s question. She couldn’t believe what she was thinking, but it just might be crazy enough to work.
“I can see a wild plan forming in that brain of yours, Nancy,” George commented.
“True,” Nancy murmured. “Think of it, George. There’s no way to prove Spike’s guilt, not after five years. He’s got to confess to the crime himself.”
“But how can we ever get him to do that?” George asked.
Nancy tightly clutched the steering wheel. “Maybe we can’t get him to confess,” she said, “but I know someone who can—Curtis Taylor himself!”
Chapter
Fourteen
NANCY, HAVE YOU LOST your mind?” George fixed her brown eyes on Nancy in an uncomprehending stare. “What do you mean, Curtis can make Spike confess? I know you don’t thin
k Curtis Taylor is coming back from the dead.”
“Of course not,” Nancy said evenly as she drove down Route 459 back to Maywood. “But I do think we can take advantage of the rumors about his so-called return. After all, Spike never saw Curtis’s dead body. There must be some very small part of him that wonders whether those rumors could be true. That’s the part we’ve got to work on.”
With a sideways glance at George, Nancy said, “Remember those Curtis Taylor look-a likes we saw our first day here?”
George shot Nancy a look of surprise. “You mean you want one of those guys to pretend to be the real Curtis?” she guessed. When Nancy nodded, George leaned back in the passenger seat, letting out a long breath of air. “I wouldn’t have thought of that idea in a million years.”
“How about a billion?” Nancy teased, grinning. “Now let’s head for the other hospital.”
The girls reached the center of Maywood some time later, and Nancy turned onto the road that would take them to the Maywood Medical Center. Reaching the visitors’ lot, Nancy spied Louisa’s sedan and pulled into a space as close to it as she could find.
“Wait until Bess and Louisa hear about what we found out today,” George said as she followed Nancy through the hospital’s entrance.
At the reception desk the girls were informed that all visitors to Tyrone Taylor had to be cleared by his staff. After telling the nurse their names, the girls waited as she punched in a number on her phone.
“Miss Marvin?” the nurse said into the receiver as Nancy and George suppressed a giggle. “There’s a Nancy Drew and a George Fayne here to see Mr. Taylor.”
“I guess Bess is back to being Tyrone’s personal assistant today,” George whispered, leaning close to Nancy.
A moment later the nurse hung up and told Nancy and George, “You can go up. It’s room four-oh-six.”
Just as they stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, Bess appeared, waiting to greet them. “Hi, you two,” she said warmly. “Tyrone is much better today. Wait until you see. But, Nancy, Louisa and I didn’t have much luck with our investigating this morning. None of the crew members we talked to saw anything unusual backstage last night. And no one knew anything about J.J., either.”
“It’s okay, Bess,” Nancy said with a smile. “George and I found out everything we need to know. We’ll tell you all about it in Tyrone’s room. We want him to hear, too.”
Stepping into room 406, Nancy was surprised to see Tyrone looking as well as he did. Although there were a few red patches on his hands and neck, and his face looked slightly pale, the singer looked almost totally healthy. Bess, Louisa, and a guard wearing a Greenwood security uniform were also there.
“Hey,” Tyrone greeted them with a weak smile. “How’d you like the show last night? How about that light show?”
“Someone almost turned the lights out on you, Tyrone—for good,” Nancy replied, looking concerned.
At that, Tyrone’s face darkened. “Yeah, so Bess was telling me. Any luck finding out who?”
Nodding, Nancy said, “I think we’ve got our man.”
“Who? Who is it?” Tyrone asked anxiously, raising himself up on his elbows.
“Spike Wilson,” Nancy said levelly.
Tyrone looked at her in surprise, then lay back against the pillows, shaking his head sadly. “But how . . . why?”
Nancy and George quickly recounted their discovery that the song “Melanie” hadn’t been written by Curtis, telling the others all they had pieced together about Spike during their conversation with Melanie at the estate.
“Let me get this straight,” said Bess, who was leaning against the windowsill. “You think Spike hated Curtis for stealing Melanie away from him.” Next to her, Louisa was shaking her head in disbelief.
George nodded. “Right. Even though she and Spike were never really together.”
“Unbelievable!” Tyrone exclaimed. “My uncle was so good to him, too.” A bitter look came into his eyes. “I’d like to—”
“He’s not going to get away with it, Tyrone,” Nancy promised. “But I’ll need a little help from you in order to nab him.”
Tyrone gestured to his hospital bed. “I don’t know how much help I can give,” he said apologetically.
As Nancy and George explained their plan, Tyrone raised his eyebrows. “You really think you can get one of those impersonators to convince Spike that he’s Uncle Curtis and get Spike to confess?” he asked dubiously.
“That’s crazy,” Louisa said, but from the smile curving her lips, Nancy could tell she was intrigued by the idea.
“It’s our only chance,” Nancy told them. She fumbled in her purse until she found the miniature tape recorder she usually kept there. “And if all goes well, we’ll even get his confession on tape.”
Tyrone looked from Nancy to George, to Bess and Louisa, then shrugged and reached for his address book in the drawer of the hospital room’s bedside table. “Norman Rhodes, Marv McCoy, and Jeff Ryan,” he told her, flipping open the book to the right page and handing it to Nancy. “You can use this phone by the bed here.”
Nancy dialed the first impersonator’s number. Norman Rhodes was unavailable due to a prior commitment, according to the message on his phone machine. Marv McCoy lived in St. Louis. He said he could be there in a couple of days, but Nancy didn’t have that much time. She crossed her fingers, then dialed the last number, which was local. She hoped Jeff Ryan was her man.
“Hello? Jeff Ryan speaking.”
“Jeff, my name is Nancy Drew. I’m calling about a special assignment for today and tonight, impersonating Curtis Taylor. But I have to warn you, there may be some danger involved. What you’re doing could help us to catch a murderer.”
“Danger is my middle name,” Jeff told her. “As long as the price is right.”
Nancy rolled her eyes, then quickly checked with Tyrone, who assured her money wouldn’t be a problem. Then she made arrangements for Jeff to bring a guitar and meet her and her friends at Louisa’s in an hour.
“Jeff does a dynamite imitation of Uncle Curtis,” Tyrone said after Nancy had hung up. “He’s really good.”
“Well, let’s hope so,” Nancy said, leveling a serious gaze at him. “Because this time he’s got to be good enough to fool a killer.”
• • •
Jeff Ryan got to Louisa’s just a few minutes after Nancy and her friends returned from the hospital.
“The first thing we have to do,” she told Jeff as they all settled in the living room, “is to teach you this song.” She gave him the music to “Melanie” and played the cassette of Tyrone singing it.
“That song stinks,” Jeff said bluntly. “Why don’t you pick a different number? Curtis had so many good ones. This is a dog.”
“I know,” Nancy said with a smile, “but it’s got to be this one.”
Shaking his head in dismay, Jeff Ryan took out his acoustic guitar and set to work as Nancy, Bess, George, and Louisa all listened, pacing around the room. Jeff was a quick study and in less than an hour could sing and play the song well.
Louisa was bringing a plate of cookies into the living room just as he finished playing the song through perfectly. Nancy noticed an almost haunted look come over her face.
“My goodness, he looks and sounds exactly like Curtis Taylor,” Louisa said.
Next Nancy told Jeff about the case, and about her plan, telling him exactly what to say when he called Spike. There was a hint of skepticism in the actor’s blue eyes as he said, “Sounds weird, but if you think it’ll help catch a bad guy, I guess I’m game.”
A few hours later Nancy announced, “I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be to call Spike.” She was confident that Jeff knew his lines and that he knew enough to improvise if he needed to. “Okay, get ready everybody,” she said.
Nancy dialed Spike’s number on the living room phone and handed the receiver to Jeff. Then she went into the kitchen, where Louisa handed her the extension she’d alrea
dy picked up. Nancy put it to her ear and listened as the others stood by.
“Hello?” Spike’s voice said over the line. A silence, and then again, “Hello?”
“Hello, Spike. Guess who this is?”
Another silence.
“Don’t you recognize my voice? You ought to.”
“What the—?”
“You tried to kill me, Spike. But you failed. I’m still alive, and now I’ve come back.”
Nancy held her breath, listening. To her, Jeff Ryan’s rough voice sounded exactly like Curtis’s. But would Spike be able to tell the difference? Would he go for it?
“Whoever you are, you’ve got a lot of nerve,” Spike sputtered angrily. “Why, I ought to just call the—”
“Go ahead. Call the cops, Spike. That’d be just fine. I’m sure they’ll be real interested to hear all the gory details.”
“You’re not Curtis,” Spike said, his breathing coming hard. “Curtis is dead.”
Nancy heard Jeff Ryan chuckle. “Hey, Spike, the coffin was closed at my funeral, remember? That’s just the way I wanted it. I had to disappear for a while. Until I found out who was trying to kill me. And now I know.”
Spike’s voice was shaky as he asked, “Why should I believe you?”
“Believe this, then.” Ryan began to sing softly:
“Oh, Melanie, Melanie, Melanie.
You are the only one for me.
You left me, and now you’re with him.
Someday he’ll be gone, though,
And your heart I’ll win.”
There was an incredibly long silence. “Spike?” Jeff Ryan said at last. “Spike? You still there?”
“Where’d you get that song?” Spike gasped.
“You mailed it to Melanie from the hospital, didn’t you, Spike?” Jeff Ryan told him. “Only I happened to get the mail that day. I’m the only one who knows that song exists. Except you, of course.”
After another silence that seemed to last for hours, Spike said, “What do you want from me?”
“Meet me at midnight, at the gully. You know where I mean. And you’d better be alone, Spike. Understand?”