High Risk (6 page)

Dr. Meyers lived in a pleasant, prosperous-looking neighborhood near the center of Mapleton. His house was only two blocks from 421 Beechwood, where Toby Foyle had lived, Nancy noted. She wondered if that fact had any significance.

A moment after she rang the bell, the oak front door of Dr. Meyers's house swung open to reveal a plump, pink-faced man with a fringe of gray hair around a shiny scalp.

“Dr. Meyers?” Nancy inquired politely. At his nod, she went on, “My name is Nancy Drew. I'd like to talk to you about one of your patients—Toby Foyle.”

At the name the twinkle in Dr. Meyers's blue
eyes faded, and his expression became serious. “Oh, yes, poor man,” he said. “I just read about his death in the paper. Shocking—and to think the killer is a local boy! What a tragedy. Come in, come in.”

Meyers led Nancy through the house and into a small, sunny backyard with a patio and wrought-iron garden furniture. He waved her to a seat and took one himself. “Now, how did you know Toby Foyle?” he asked curiously.

“Actually, I didn't know him,” Nancy said. “I'm a private investigator. I'm looking into his death, and I'm also interested in some—inconsistencies in his medical history.”

Meyers drew back, looking a little offended. “Inconsistencies—such as—” he prompted.

Nancy explained Ned's theory about Foyle having falsified his insurance claim. When she had finished, Dr. Meyers shook his head.

“I really shouldn't be discussing a patient with you, Ms. Drew,” he said. “But I suppose in this case it's acceptable. As for Mr. Foyle having falsified his trauma symptoms, it's my opinion that he did not. Otherwise I would never have signed his claim! It's difficult to verify these things, though,” Meyers went on. “He had a bruise or two—no detectable damage to the skull, according to my colleague at the hospital emergency room. But you can certainly have a head injury without a fractured skull. I can say that when I examined his eyes, his pupils were not contracting properly. He also complained of frequent headaches and double vision.”

“I see. Thank you, Dr. Meyers. You've been very helpful,” Nancy said. She gave the doctor her sunniest smile. “If I could just ask you one more question?”

Meyers smiled back. “Of course, my dear.”

Still smiling, Nancy leaned forward in her chair. She had to be alert for the tiniest suspicious reaction on Meyers's part. So far he hadn't betrayed any nervousness or worry, but the next question ought to shake him up a bit.

“Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of nine and ten?” she asked softly.

Meyers blinked. Then, as he realized what she was asking, his face flushed with anger. “Are you implying that
I
might have killed Toby Foyle?” he demanded. “That's absurd! Young lady, I'm a doctor. I preserve life, I don't destroy it! Anyway, the police have already arrested the killer. It's an open-and-shut case.

“However, if you really want to know, I have office hours on Saturday mornings. Yesterday I had a full roster of patients. The first one arrived at eight-thirty, and the last one didn't leave until well after one in the afternoon. I didn't leave my office at any time during that period.”

Nancy nodded. If Dr. Meyers was lying, it would be easy to find out by asking his receptionist, or checking with his patients from that day. But he sounded very sure of himself.

She rose to go. “Thank you again,” she said to the plump doctor. “I'm sorry if I seemed rude. It's just that I don't have much time. An innocent
guy will go to jail if I don't find out who really killed Toby Foyle.”

Meyers cleared his throat. “Well, then, I suppose I understand. No harm done.”

After he had shown her out, Nancy walked slowly to her car, thinking hard.

Maybe her accomplice theory was no good. Meyers, a doctor, was the most obvious choice of partner for a scam involving medical insurance. But it looked as if he couldn't have killed Foyle—though she still had to check his alibi, of course. If he was telling the truth, then perhaps Foyle's death had nothing to do with the insurance scam.

On the other hand, maybe the accomplice in the scam was someone other than Meyers, and
that
person and Foyle could have had a falling out. . . .

Nancy sighed. All her speculating was useless without some solid leads and evidence.

After climbing into her Mustang, Nancy took out her notebook and studied the address she had written down for Michelle Ferraro in West Mapleton. “You're next, Michelle,” she said out loud. “I hope you give me a lead.”

The building where Michelle lived turned out to be a dilapidated three-story structure with rickety wooden stairs running up the outside of the building to the apartments. Nancy scanned the rows of mailboxes on the breezeway wall until she found the name Ferraro. Michelle lived on the third floor in the rear of the building.

Nancy climbed the two flights of stairs to
apartment 3-R and knocked on the door. She could hear loud, pulsing rock music coming from inside. No one answered, so after a minute Nancy knocked again, harder.

The music suddenly stopped, and a girl's voice called, “Yeah, I'm coming. Hold on.”

In another minute the door flew open, and Nancy found herself facing a young woman of about twenty-three, with masses of brunette hair held back from her face by a leopard-print scarf. She wore a short, flounced skirt with leggings underneath. In her right hand she held a paring knife.

“Hi. Is Michelle Ferraro here?” Nancy asked, eyeing the knife a little nervously.

The girl scowled. “I'm Michelle.”

Nancy was startled. This definitely wasn't the blond girl she'd seen Foyle with at Conchita's. Could there be two Michelle Ferraros in West Mapleton? Or had Foyle been out with another girl that night? There was only one way to find out.

“Uh—I wanted to talk to you about Toby Foyle,” she began. But she got no further.

“So
you're
the one he was dating. Why, you little witch!” Michelle snarled. “I can't believe you've got the nerve to show up here.” Her eyes narrowed. “I ought to teach you a lesson.”

Michelle raised her hand, and Nancy saw a sudden glint of silver. Then Michelle lunged straight at her!

N
ANCY'S DETECTIVE INSTINCTS
took over as she saw Michelle come at her with the knife. She jumped to one side, turning in midair so that her back was against the wooden rail of the landing. Then, as Michelle hurtled past her, she grabbed the girl's arm and twisted it up behind her back.

Michelle gave a cry of pain. The knife dropped from her fingers, and Nancy kicked it off the edge of the landing. It skittered down the stairs, out of sight.

Now that the danger was past, Nancy's knees turned to water. That had been close!

“Let me go!” Michelle panted, struggling.

“I don't know what you think you're doing,” Nancy said angrily. “But attacking a person with
a knife is really dumb—especially when that person is a detective looking into a murder case!”

Michelle abruptly stopped struggling. “You—you're a detective?” she asked in a shocked voice.

“That's right. My name's Nancy Drew. I'm investigating the death of Toby Foyle. Maybe I should call the police in to talk to you.”

“No! Look, I didn't mean to hurt you, not really. I had the knife in my hand because I was opening some boxes with it, and I forgot I had it. That's the truth, I swear!” Michelle took a deep breath and went on in a calmer voice. “I thought you were someone else. I'm sorry—I was mad, that's all.”

I wonder what she does when she's really furious? Nancy wondered. From the comment Michelle had made when she first opened the door, it sounded as though she thought Nancy was the “other woman.” Maybe Toby had been two-timing her, and Michelle had found out. Was that a motive for murder?

Nancy released Michelle's arm, watching the girl warily. But all Michelle did was rub her wrist and look sulky.

“So who
did
you think I was?” Nancy asked in a conversational tone.

Michelle dropped her gaze to the floor. “No one. I mean, it has nothing to do with your investigation. Look, I don't understand why you're here. I thought they already know who did it. That's what the papers said.”

“They haven't proved anything yet,” Nancy said. Then she had an idea. Michelle might be
willing to tell her a lot more if Nancy made her think she wasn't a suspect in the murder.

“In fact, I'm helping the prosecution put its case together,” Nancy fibbed. “I'm trying to eliminate all the surprises—you know, make sure the defense doesn't come up with any witnesses or facts that we can't account for.”

Michelle nodded slowly. “I see,” she said.

“May I come in?” Nancy asked her.

Michelle moved aside and gestured for Nancy to go into the apartment. Nancy stepped through the door and looked around.

The place was messy and cramped. A huge, apparently new home entertainment center dominated one wall: the teak cabinet held a big color television set, a VCR, and expensive-looking stereo equipment, including a compact disk player and a cassette deck. On the floor lay two speakers, which had obviously just come out of their shipping boxes. Shreds of brown cardboard from the boxes littered the carpet.

I wonder where Michelle got the money to pay for all this stuff? Nancy thought.

“So what do you want to know?” Michelle asked.

Nancy pulled out a spiral pad and pen. “I've already got your name and address. Just let me jot down your employer's name and a number where we can reach you during the day if we need to,” she said briskly.

“I'm a salesperson at Karsh's,” she said. She gave Nancy the switchboard number.

Nancy knew that Karsh's was a local department
store. She also knew that salespeople didn't generally make enough money to buy lots of expensive stereo equipment all at once. Her interest was piqued. She'd have to follow this up. If Michelle had some unexplained income, that could point to her being Foyle's accomplice in the insurance scam!

Nancy took a seat. “Okay. Now, start by telling me how well you knew Mr. Foyle,” she said. “I understand you dated?”

“Yes, that's right.” Michelle twined her fingers in her leopard-print scarf. “But I, uh—I broke up with him a few days ago. He was, uh—kind of boring. I mean, he was nice, but . . .” She trailed off.

“I know what you mean,” Nancy said with a bubbly laugh. But she was thinking, That's a lie. When she'd seen Toby Foyle in Conchita's on Thursday, he hadn't looked like a guy who'd just been dumped. He'd appeared to be having a good time with the blond girl, whoever she was. Also, from what Mrs. Godfrey had said about Michelle calling several times a day, she doubted the girl had really been bored with Foyle.

No, I don't think Michelle dumped Toby, Nancy mused. If anything, Toby dumped
her
for the blond girl. That would certainly fit the theory about Michelle wanting revenge.

Nancy pretended to make some notes, then paused and said casually, “Now, I'd just like to ask about your whereabouts on Saturday morning.”

Michelle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would that matter to you?” she challenged.

“Oh, believe me, I'm not accusing you of anything,” Nancy said quickly. “We're only trying to make sure that there are no other possible suspects. We don't want the defense to try to cloud the issue at the trial, you see.”

“Hmmm,” Michelle said. She didn't seem convinced. “Well, since you ask, I got up early and went into Chicago to do some shopping. I was out until about three o'clock.”

“I see.” That was no alibi. Nancy made some more notes on her pad. “I'm sure we can verify that with store owners in Chicago if we need to. I just have one more question, if it's okay with you. Mr. Foyle was recently in a car accident, as I'm sure you know. He received some money in compensation for his injuries. Now, my question is—”

Nancy was interrupted by an angry exclamation from Michelle. “What injuries?” she said. “He came out of that accident without a scratch. And what money? He sure didn't spend any of it on me.”

“I see.” Nancy scribbled some more. Her thoughts were racing. Michelle's outburst had sounded honest—unlike most of the other things she'd said. If that was so, Michelle hadn't known about Foyle's insurance scam. She could still be the murderer, Nancy realized. But if she was, her motive was jealousy and had nothing to do with the scam.

Of course, there was still the blond girl to consider. Maybe she had worked with Foyle to fake the insurance claim. Nancy let out a sigh of frustration. Unless I get some leads on who this mysterious blonde is, she thought, I'm batting zero on the accomplice theory.

“Thanks for your help,” Nancy said, getting up. “May I call you if I have any more questions?”