Murder For Love

Nancy Drew Remembers (A Parody) by BOBBIE ANN MASON

"I shall write my memoirs," Nancy Drew declared. "That should put all those nasty rumors to rest."

As far as Nancy Drew was concerned, she was still the same attractive, golden-haired girl detective she had always been, but not everyone agreed. Chance remarks in River Heights had been troubling her, and her reputation had declined since Draco S. Wren had come to live with her. Nancy knew now that she owed the world an explanation. Besides, her hair wasn't really golden anymore.

"I will begin at the turning point of my career," she thought. "It was many years ago, but I remember it as well as I remember that picnic when Bess Marvin got ptomaine from the pear tart."

She sat at her carved-oak escritoire with the secret clue drawer and began to write the story of what happened many years ago when she was only thirty-nine or so and still had flawless skin.

A Pleasant Afternoon Tea

Nancy Drew felt troubled and defeated for the first time in her career (she decided to write in third person because she wasn't sure she wanted to sign a confession), although in the books she always triumphed over evil easily. The crooks wore hats pulled down low over their eyes, and they always had shockingly poor manners, making them easy to spot. But lately it seemed that her authoress was straying from the proper plots. As Nancy read about herself engaged in this or that adventure, she felt nostalgic for some of her old mysteries.

"The Mystery of the Ivory Charm, for example," she said to herself. "Now that was a satisfactory adventure."

Nancy had watched her roadster change to a convertible, and she read about herself on improbable airplane rides. "I was so much more comfortable in the old days," she said with a sigh. "Most of my best mysteries were within driving distance of River Heights." She missed her blue roadster. She wished she had a mystery like The Password to Larkspur Lane to solve, instead of her current problem.

Nancy was sitting by a cheerful fire in the tasteful parlor. It was a rainy afternoon, and she was all alone. Hannah Gruen had been called away to care for her sister, who was ill. This often happened in the books too. Nancy was working on a petit-point design of an Arctic amphibian, but impulsively she flung it into her Jane Austen work basket. "It's useless," she thought. "I will not rest until I solve this mystery! Even though there are no murders in my stories, I will have to face the fact sooner or later -my father was murdered!"

She decided to telephone Bess Marvin, now Mrs. Ned Nickerson, plump mother of four.

"Oh, hello, Nancy!" Bess greeted her. "It's good to hear from you. River Heights isn't the cozy city it used to be. We never seem to get together."

"Bess, I need your help," Nancy said quickly and firmly.

"Oh, Nancy, you sound like your old self again. Do I suspect another mystery?"

"I have something to discuss with you. It may be the most challenging mystery of my career!"

Nancy, with her usual persuasive and friendly manner, so well documented in dozens of her sleuthing tales, soon won Bess's promise to engage a baby-sitter and drive over from the Seascape Towers subdivision of River Heights.

Nancy took her worn copy of The Clue in the Old Album from the shelf. She remembered picnicking with Ned Nickerson in that book. Ned had been so devoted to her, but as it turned out, he preferred Bess's cooking. Bess had married him when he finally graduated from Emerson College. He was now a football coach, and Nancy was still good friends with him and Bess. Nancy never held a grudge.

Nancy had been the most attractive and popular girl River Heights had ever seen, as well as the most independent and resourceful. That was because she had lost her mother at an early age and had had to manage the household by herself, as the books always reported faithfully. And Nancy was expert at anything she tried-digging fence-post holes, parsing sentences, skinning rabbits, fixing radios, making lace. She made straight A's and had the loveliest fingernails in her class. She would have been a cheerleader if she could have taken time from her sleuthing.

"But from the time I got involved in that sorority smuggling ring, nothing has been the same," Nancy remembered. She prepared a cup of tea and then began to examine a small ivory igloo on the table beside her. When she apparently pressed a concealed spring, a blank-faced figure in a tiny fur-trimmed parka popped out of the igloo-much like a cuckoo from a clock. His right hand clutched a miniature harpoon dangling on a string. Nancy was so nervous-a fact that surprised her-that she almost spilled the tea, and as she juggled the cup in its saucer, the tiny harpoon fell from the figure's grasp and pricked the back of her left hand.

"Here any regular reader would expect that I have been poisoned," laughed Nancy to herself as she reassembled harpoon and hunter. However, she fell asleep instantly and was awakened two hours later by Bess Nickerson, sounding the door chimes. "What happened, Nancy? You look as if you've been drugged." Bess was wearing a parka with a fur edge, River Heights fashion that season. "Did I awaken you?"

"Yes, I was probably drugged." Nancy was so used to that familiar trick that it hardly bothered her. "Here's the culprit." She produced the hunter in his igloo. "It reminds me of that Confederate soldier doll whose sword pricked me in old Mrs. Struthers' mansion."

"Oh, Nancy, we were so scared when you wouldn't wake up! And I thought your father would die!" squealed Bess, who still squealed habitually.

"Well, he did," said Nancy grimly. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean literally." Nancy had been Carson Drew's assistant, his confidante, his fair-haired daughter. She had looked after his ties and handkerchiefs and had arranged his appointments. He gave her his most important mystery cases. To ease her grief over his death, Nancy had thrown herself into various charitable amusements. She won the River Heights bake-off and captured a silver loving cup in a bowling tournament. During one week she had assumed a dramatic stage role when the leading lady became ill. Nancy learned her lines in an afternoon. She had similarly substituted in a trapeze act when a circus stopped in town. But none of these pastimes satisfied her. Recently she had gotten out her silver badge, resolving to return to her detective work with renewed energy.

"Shouldn't we sit down and talk?" said Bess. "I must remove this wet parka."

Nancy parked the parka on the hall tree, and they repaired to the parlor, where the souvenirs of Nancy 's cases were lined up on the mantel-the old clock, the Turnbull urn, the Paul Revere bell, the heirloom cameo, and several glossy mink pelts. The room had been the scene of many confidences between Carson Drew and his clients, and between father and daughter. Hannah Gruen had served a lot of cocoa and homemade cookies in that room.

Nancy got straight to the point. "Bess, I have reason to believe my father was murdered."

" Nancy!" Bess seemed shocked. "I thought you had given up mysteries."

"Mysteries are my destiny. And this one leads me into dangerous new territory."

" Nancy," said Bess warmly. "I feel you are much too preoccupied with the loss of your father. It's not good for you. And besides, as you say, it may be too dangerous."

"I think you understand, Bess, that my father meant everything to me. He was responsible for that premature career of mine-the glory of it, the brilliant girl detective following in his footsteps. He set standards that I had to live up to, and the resulting acclaim I received spurred me on. I cannot quit now, Bess. I cannot disappoint my fans, or myself, or my dear father's memory."

"I see what you mean," Bess murmured.

"And the most important mystery of my career is unfolding before me now. It has to do with my parentage."

"Your parentage!" exclaimed Bess, wide eyed.

"You know I never knew my mother," said Nancy.

"She died when you were three. All the books say that."

"All the same I can't remember her. Father told me very little about her. He was always evasive. What if she is still alive? What if some dread secret lurks in my past? She may have been murdered or kidnapped. Anything could have happened. And Father may have wanted to keep it from me. There may be a connection to the immediate mystery of my father's death."

"And you think he was murdered." Bess shivered. "Oh, Nancy!"

"Exactly. And here is my first clue."

Expectantly, Bess examined the ivory igloo. "Where did you get it?"

"It came in a parcel the day of Father's death. No return address. Only a label on the igloo-Nome, Alaska."

Nancy produced the packaging from her secret clue drawer. Big block print letters addressed Carson Drew. Nancy had examined the wrapping inside and out with her magnifying glass and found no clues.

"What connection do you make, Nancy, between this and your father's death?"

"I don't know. You see, I found it beside him when I found him slumped over, dead, right there where you're sitting -in that very spot, Bess. I paid no attention to the figurine until much later, and I was too distressed at first to imagine a connection."

Nancy showed Bess how the whale-hunter fit inside the igloo and popped out like a cuckoo. Bess pointed out the drop of fluid at the point of the harpoon.

"It's only a mild drug," Nancy said dismissively. "But my father may not have been able to survive a mild drug. Or perhaps he died of shock-from some unknown horror! The igloo could have reminded him of something. The doctors merely proclaimed heart failure. A vague diagnosis." "Are you going to notify the police?" "No, I prefer not to at present."

Danny Crew, the police chief who had succeeded her old friend McGinnis, was not disposed to listen to girl detectives of any age or reputation, no matter how many copies they sold.

"I should have known," groaned Bess.

"It is more complicated than a mere police case. It is a personal mystery. It has a philosophical dimension, you might say."

Bess produced her knitting and prepared to listen. She had never heard Nancy pursue a mystery from such an odd angle before.

"Bess, you are aware that for some years now my stories have not been faithful to my real-life adventures. You know yourself that your participation in my recent adventures has been dwindling."

"Well, with the children, I hardly have time to go exploring caves and chasing crooks as much."

"Certainly. But even in the early stories you were always more preoccupied with the refreshments than with the mystery, so I hadn't expected you to keep up with the adventures. Actually, I must admit to you that I am scarcely consulted anymore about my adventures. The stories are make-believe, written in the manner of my early achievements. The royalties have been handsome, one cannot deny, but I have hardly deserved them."

At first, Nancy had related, with the help of newspaper clippings and various memorabilia from her stockpile of old clues, the tales of her teenage exploits to her patient authoress, who seldom interfered with Nancy 's telling. Later, Nancy 's adventures were full of loose ends. Crooks never confessed right away for one thing, and heiresses seldom invited her to tea at their mansions. In Nancy 's view, the Hardy Boys got some of the better adventures.

"What is a mystery, Bess?" said Nancy after a long pause during which Bess knitted ninety-nine stitches.

"Why, you always said it was the unrevealed coincidences of life."

In one case, Nancy had met a Mrs. Owen, and when she came home and found her father talking with a Mr. Owen, Nancy at once imagined that they might be a tragically separated husband and wife. Mr. Owen had a sad face, as if he might have lost a wife. And as it turned out at the end, Mr. and Mrs. Owen were happily reunited by Nancy Drew, who utilized coincidence to an uncommon advantage, and who, moreover, expected life to arrange itself in a series of interrelated coincidences. These coincidences were Nancy 's favorite features of mystery. They shot chills up and down her spine.

"Quite right, Bess," Nancy said as she remembered Mr. and Mrs. Owen. "But are all coincidences mysteries?"

"I don't think so, Nancy. Are you suggesting this mystery might better be left alone?" "A suggestion."

"Of course, Nancy, I do feel it might be better to let well enough alone. I usually do feel that way."

"Oh, Bess, you don't understand! The real mystery is why my sleuthing luck has failed. This is why I have my hopes pinned on this new mystery-in spite of its shocking nature." She buried her face in her hands a moment. "It must be age," she said. "I always denied it, but I get into my blue convertible, with my matching blue frock, and I follow leads, undaunted by danger. But nothing turns out correctly. It is all so disorderly. Oh, Bess, my mysteries are trite, unglamorous. Gangsters seldom chase my convertible these days. It was different in the roadster." "Don't feel bad, Nancy."

"I have been studying my books lately, trying to figure it out. The books show some things very plainly. For one thing, I always felt empty and sad at the end of each mystery because I hadn't begun the next mystery yet. Without a mystery I was nothing. That's how I have been feeling for years now-without the challenge of an old-fashioned mystery. I have been looking at the books to see if there are any clues to my father's death. There may have been a conspiracy from the beginning, a devious plot to throw me off the case with a semblance of a solution."

Bess, uncomfortable with Nancy 's profound questionings, now pursued the original mystery.

"What else have you learned about your father's untimely demise?" she inquired tactfully.

"There's this ivory igloo and the mysterious name of Draco S. Wren."

"What a strange name-like a code name. Or a vampire. Who is he?"

"A client of my father's. Dad was working on the case when he died."

"What do you know about him?"

"He lives in Alaska!"

"Oh, do you think he has anything to do with this ivory hunter?" Bess fingered the figurine dangerously, and she would have pricked her finger if Nancy had not rescued her in time.

"His name is in a file of current clients, so I call him a client," Nancy said. "The reverse may be the case, however, for in Father's bank statements there are several large checks made out to Draco S. Wren-a sum of over four thousand dollars paid just this year!"

" Nancy, it sounds like blackmail!"

"If this were a typical Nancy Drew teenage detective story, we would now be at about Chapter Five. Two distinct and separate mysteries have been introduced-the mystery of my father's death and the mystery of Draco S. Wren. There has been one mysterious message, half a dozen puzzling clues strewn my way by fate, one disastrous event, one maddening car chase (I did have trouble getting a parking spot yesterday), one adventure with Bess (saving you from the poison harpoon), and one bout with a rainstorm."

No one had ever explained why there were so many rainstorms in the Nancy Drew books, and so few wintry scenes.

"This Draco S. Wren sounds like a dangerous character," said Bess.

"His address is in the file, but I have not decided what I shall do about it. If I write to him, I may scare him away. It might be best to travel to Nome, Alaska, and do a little sleuthing. Could you and George pack a suitcase by tomorrow?"

"Really, Nancy, you can't still expect me to drop everything and join you on such short notice."

"Oh, I forgot about the offspring." Nancy was crestfallen. She brightened. "Shall we have some tea? Hannah has baked a sponge cake with orange butter frosting."

Bess could hardly conceal the hungry gleam in her eye. During the refreshments, daintily served on an embroidered napkin and a silver tea tray, Nancy was thoughtful. Bess concentrated on several pieces of the sponge cake.

Nancy gazed out the window at the unending rain. It was inconvenient that Bess couldn't drop everything and hop in the convertible to pursue a mystery. She turned from the window.

"Bess, this new mystery must be kept secret from my fan club."

"Of course, Nancy," said Bess, rousing herself from the ecstasy of the sponge cake. She put away her knitting and headed for the hall tree. "I have to get home now, but if I might give you a bit of sisterly advice before I leave-I've never really said this before, but, well, I do think you shouldn't be alone."

"What are you trying to say, Bess?" said Nancy pointedly.

"You know what I mean, Nancy," floundered Bess. "It has been ages since you went to a prom or a barbecue with a handsome young man. You need an admirer."

Nancy had not dated anyone since Ned Nickerson married Bess. Nancy, being generous to a fault, did not allow the union to poison her friendship with Bess. Ned had been helpful on mystery cases at times when Nancy needed someone to fetch a clue from a high crevice, but Ned wanted too little from life.

Nancy did not answer Bess. She continued to gaze out the window. Bess said she must hurry home, for the day was at a close. The children would be rampaging, and Ned would be home with his football, ready to devour a horse or two. Bess hugged Nancy good-bye and whispered a message of cheer.

Nancy Searches the Files

The next day Nancy searched her father's files and found nothing significant. Frustrated, she began to look for hidden compartments in her father's bedroom. She was expert at such quests, having explored many mansions for secret sliding panels and hidey holes. Her favorites were in The Sign of the Twisted Candles. Nancy recalled longingly the ecstatic feeling of tugging on the little knob which opened the hidden recess in one old attic she had searched. It surprised her that she might be finding such secrets in her own home.

The task occupied the day, broken by a short interval when she shared an attractive luncheon of crab bisque, fresh peas, and lemon mousse with Hannah Gruen. Hannah was eighty, but she still cooked and ran the vacuum.

"Now, Nancy," she said. "Promise me you won't go running off into danger again." Nancy had not told her the particulars, but Hannah never missed anything.

"I won't," promised Nancy. "I almost wish I could. Nothing exciting seems to happen anymore."

Looking through the mail, Nancy found a copy of her father's death certificate. She decided to store it with important papers in an old album in her father's safe. She opened the album, a worn red plush book with embroidered gold letters. The album reminded her of a coffin. Inside, she found several listings of births and marriages and deaths. She pored over them eagerly. She noticed the births and marriages of long-gone aunts and uncles, marveling that their deaths occurred on the next page. She could find no record of her mother's death. As she searched for clues in the antique album, the telephone rang. Nancy found herself talking to Draco S. Wren.

An Urgent Call

It was nine in the morning when Nancy rang up George Fayne. The telephone rang several times, with a frantic sound. Finally George answered.

"George!" Nancy cried exuberantly. "Oh, George. I thought you had already packed your gym bag for the day and left your room."

"I was bounding down the stairs when I heard the telephone."

"Listen, George, I think I am deliriously happy!" "Hypers, Nancy, this is great news. Have you solved the mystery?"

"Did Bess tell you about that?"

"Bess can't keep a secret-or whistle," said George. "Are we going to Alaska?"

"No. George. Listen-I'm in love."

" Nancy, you must be dreaming. Who's the dream fellow?"

"Draco S. Wren."

"Your mystery man?"

"Exactly."

"Bess is suspicious of him."

"I can take care of myself," Nancy said blithely. "I've managed to get out of dangerous scrapes before. But there's no danger."

"How did you meet him?"

"He came over yesterday to talk about something in relation to a case of Dad's, and I fell in love with him. It was quite natural and inevitable. He's perfectly handsome, as handsome as Dad, and his manner is somewhat like his-firm and taciturn but twinkling and warm beneath. He wears modest clothing and smiles enchantingly. He loves mysteries. He follows all my cases with devotion."

"That's wonderful, Nancy. What does he look like?"

"Draco S. Wren is of medium height with brown hair. He walks with short, hurried steps."

"You described a pickpocket to the police once in exactly those terms," George said.

"And my vivid description enabled the police to pick up the pickpocket instantly," Nancy pointed out. "But Draco S. Wren has excellent manners and a winning smile-hardly the ways of a pickpocket."

"Great."

"We stayed in the parlor till nearly eleven," Nancy confessed. "Hannah brought steaming cocoa and homemade molasses cookies, which we ate by the fire. It was thrilling."

"Did you solve the mystery?"

"I've learned some things. He does live in Alaska, and he apparently has been getting money from Dad. He wouldn't tell me why, but he says he has no intention of soliciting funds from me."

"Still sounds mysterious."

"He said he would tell me more today. This afternoon we're going for a spin. Isn't that exciting?"

"It's nice that you have no suspicions of him."

"Oh, no. You know that with my sharp eyes and powers of observation, I am an instant judge of character." Suddenly Nancy remembered something. "Oh, George, I think I've seen this handsome man before! He was at Father's funeral!"

"You don't say!" George gave a low whistle.

"I believe I glimpsed him once behind the lilies. He was wearing a black leather jacket, broad-brimmed hat, and a purple bandana-yes, it was he, indeed. I remember his glistening brown hair. Funny he didn't mention he was there. Anyway, he told me that he and Dad had had some private business together and that he wanted to explain it to me, but that he would like to get to know me better so that I would trust him. He has such trusting eyes-not dark, piercing eyes such as criminals have. He was very much interested in my work. Why, I regaled him with Nancy Drew stories until half past ten!" "Did you ask about the ivory igloo?" "No. Not yet. I'm sure if he sent it, it wasn't with ill intentions. I did ask him if he knew of any enemies my father might have had, and he knew of none."

"Well, Nancy, as long as he isn't a vampire, I'll be interested to meet your new friend, but he sounds sneaky. And I'm disappointed we're not going to Alaska."

"He is mysterious, I admit," Nancy said. "I'm eager to learn more, but I was my usual shrewd self, preferring to observe rather than hurry. I must confess, however, that I feel as thrilled as I usually do with the first five clues of a new mystery!"

Nancy replaced the telephone receiver and lapsed back into her reverie. George had always been skeptical of love. Nancy, too, had wasted little thought on romance. All Ned had cared about was dancing and-Nancy flushed-stealing a kiss in the moonlight. Bess was welcome to him. Ned hadn't the slightest understanding of her calling.

Now as Hannah and Nancy had breakfast together, Hannah observed Nancy 's preoccupation. "You've hardly touched your food, dear," she admonished as Nancy picked at her Omaha omelette with blueberry muffins and homemade strawberry jam and fresh creamery butter. "You aren't going to get carried away by that mystery man, are you? If your dear father were alive-"

"Oh, Hannah, lovely Hannah, I'm not in danger. I must confess that I am in love."

As Nancy dwelt more on the subject, the more rapturous she became. She explained it all to Hannah, who understood and with tears in her eyes said she hoped her foster daughter would find the happiness she deserved since losing her dear parents.

"Hannah," said Nancy soberly. "You have told me about my mother when she was alive. Can you tell me more about her death?"

Hannah seemed startled but she soon composed herself. "I think I've told you all I remember-about the night it happened, about the funeral. You were just a little thing in a romper suit."

"I remember only that she gave me my first magnifying glass. I remember looking at her face through my magnifying glass. Her smile was hideous and large, and it made me laugh."

"Yes. She gave you that just before she died. I remember her saying 'Take this, Nancy, and use it to pursue crooks to justice! Let no footprint escape!' What a glorious deathbed speech!"

"Hannah!" Nancy sobbed. "I'm an orphan!"

"Don't feel bad, Nancy," said Hannah. "I'm an orphan too."

"But you're eighty."

"I think so, Nancy, but there's always a certain emptiness you feel. I've felt it for a long time."

"Have you, Hannah?"

"Oh, for many years."

Revelation

Draco S. Wren arrived that afternoon, wearing his purple bandana and glistening hair. He was a striking figure, dressed like an adventurer out of the Old West. He took Nancy for a drive in a large touring car, a kind Nancy recognized from one of her old books. She sat beside him dreamily. For once she was not at the wheel, skillfully maneuvering her smart machine while notorious gangsters gunned along behind her. The touring car glided through the sleepy countryside. The scenery seemed old and beautiful, as if untouched by trucks or time. Nancy thought she recognized the old Turnbull mansion with the hidden staircase from long, long ago. She drifted along on a cloud, receding into her past. Draco S. Wren's amiable chatter reminded Nancy that she was deeply in love with this gentle-eyed stranger. She drew closer to the stranger, feeling as if a particularly puzzling mystery was about to be solved, with a stimulating climactic flourish.

Eventually the touring car drew up before a country inn.

"This is a surprise for you," smiled Draco S. Wren, straightening his bandana. "I didn't know if you knew there was still a Lilac Inn."

Nancy was thrilled. "It's just like the old Lilac Inn in my mystery! It burned down."

"This is a restoration of the original Lilac Inn," said Draco S. Wren. "I happened to hear about it this morning."

"The lilacs are blooming, too!" There was a lilac grove, with flowers ranging in color from white to deep purple. Nancy told Draco S. Wren some lilac lore she had learned when solving the lilac mystery. "They are not to be confused with larkspurs, which figured in another of my mysteries."

"Lilacs become you," he said as he framed her face against a backdrop of lilac blossoms, damp with a recent light rain.

"Oh, Draco S. Wren!" Nancy gushed, then felt embarrassed. She was Nancy Drew, daring girl detective. She had to be calm and collected.

Inside the inn, Draco S. Wren pinned a lilac sprig from the centerpiece to Nancy 's shining golden hair. Tea arrived, with a trolley of jam biscuits, lady fingers, charlotte russe cream puffs, almond torten, walnut meringues, raspberry trifle, and assorted other delectables, in addition to dainty, trimmed cucumber and salmon sandwiches.

"This is just like my books!" Nancy exclaimed, delighted, and barely giving a thought to Bess. "Isn't it a charming and thoughtful gesture when life goes as it should?"

As they gaily consumed the delicacies, Draco S. Wren began to speak of the serious matter he had so far kept from Nancy.

"I have come to consult the great Nancy Drew about a mystery," he said. His zircon ring flashed a reflection on his gleaming teeth.

"You are a man of mystery," Nancy said sweetly. She was flattered and giddy.

" Nancy, do you remember anything of your mother?"

Nancy was startled at the question and aroused by the coincidence. "She died when I was three. All the books say so."

"Are you sure?"

Nancy 's heart leapt up. "I never beheld a death certificate with my own eyes. But I was told of her magnificent deathbed speech. Father wouldn't allow me to attend the funeral."

"Did you ever wonder about her?"

"Yes! Just this week. Do you bring news of my mother? Is she alive after all?" Nancy clapped her hands gleefully. The gesture was surprisingly out of character.

"No, I don't believe she is, I'm sorry to report. But there is something puzzling about her identity. You must apply your sleuthing abilities to several clues I have."

The mention of clues was as appetizing as the cinnamon tea loaf Nancy buttered. She listened eagerly. The atmosphere of Lilac Inn was almost intoxicating.

"What would you say, Nancy, if I told you that your mother didn't die when you were three, but that she ran away to the Alaskan territory?"

"But that seems unlikely. Why should she run away? She had a small child-myself-to care for. We were a contented household. Hannah Gruen was even then an ever-faithful servant."

"Your mother was in love with another man, I am told."

"But how could that be? She was married to Carson Drew, my father." Nancy was truly puzzled.

"I have proof-from various hotel records-that she went to Alaska for a time. And there is a certain note, written on her own perfumed and monogrammed stationery."

Draco S. Wren produced a frayed letter. The note said, "Dear Carson, I am leaving you for another man. His name is Andy C. Wren. We are going to Alaska. Do not try to catch me. Good-bye forever. Bon-Bon."

Nancy recognized her mother's nickname. She was stunned speechless, a rarity. She reviewed her exploits. Could her mother have met foul play at the hands of Felix Raybolt in disguise? A cold, scheming kidnapper he was. Or Alonzo Rugby and Red Busby? A cowardly pair. Or Tom Stripe. She surveyed her repertoire of crooks. The note had been forged, no doubt. Burglars had often entered the Drew home trying to get their hands on Nancy 's clues. They could easily have swiped the monogrammed stationery.

" Nancy, I can see you have put your pretty thinking cap on. I knew you would enjoy this mystery."

Nancy 's mind was whirling as she pieced facts together rapidly. She could hardly finish her baked Alaska.

"Eat heartily, Nancy. There is more." Draco S. Wren took a baked Alaska and more tea. "Let me tell you about a woman named Candy Wren. You recognize the name, of course."

Nancy nodded. Who could fail to recognize that famous personality? Candy Wren's face had once been in the newspapers daily. She was photographed with wealthy playboys and noblemen. And Candy Wren was a popular author of children's books, as everyone knew. "Then you are related to the famous late Candy Wren? Or late famous?"

"She was my mother," said Draco S. Wren. "She rarely frequented our Alaskan frontier home. She was always away on personal appearance tours in her furs, and she left me with nursemaids. She sought the bright lights of the cities but sent me souvenir soaps from hotels. My father, too, neglected me. He was rarely there, for reasons you will soon guess. I grew up a virtual prisoner of the nursery, for it was too cold to go out and play. Alaska was a crystal tundra. I so longed for a true family that I resolved to set upon a quest for a long-lost sister I had heard of. When I was very young I was told about her-about how beautiful and brilliant she was. Her golden hair was described to me so often by my Inuit nannies that I began to confuse her with the princesses in the fairy tales. My childhood was so lonely that I promised myself that if I ever found this beautiful sister I would care for her and give her everything I had."

"What is your theory about the disappearance of the sister? Was she kidnapped from the cradle?" Nancy recalled such a case involving twins.

"No. It is more complicated. And I'm surprised you haven't guessed the solution."

"I recall that Candy Wren perished in an unusual accident a few years ago. Was your lost sister in the accident?" Nancy probed for clues and connections.

"No, her daughter was not with her. Candy Wren disappeared off the Mediterranean coast following a mysterious boat explosion. Alas, the bulk of her fortune-and mine-was with her. A small, carved chest of jewels."

Nancy recalled the many lost jewel boxes she had recovered. "Do you suspect that your mother is still alive and that the jewels have fallen into unscrupulous hands?" Nancy thought fleetingly of pirates and deserted islands.

"No, Nancy. I know that she is dead and that the jewels are lost in the briny deep. Fragments of the box found floating along the coast of Corfu proved that long ago."

"Of course, a diamond embedded in a wayward barracuda is not an unfathomable coincidence," Nancy ventured, thinking of a glorious yachting cruise.

"I'm not trying to solve the mystery of the boat explosion. And the jewels are lost. My search is for the long-lost sister. What do you make of these clues?"

Nancy tried to summon all her wits, but her mind was clouded over. A dangerous blackmailer had once had her cornered like this, but she had aroused herself in the nick of time. "Think of the name Wren, Nancy," said Draco S. Wren with a meaningful look. For a second, he seemed to leer.

"Candy Wren was your mother, and she must have been related to Andy C. Wren, whom you mentioned earlier in an unlikely attachment." Nancy spoke slowly, a crease on her brow. "That is partially correct. Think of that clue, Nancy. Your mother ran away to Alaska with Andy C. Wren. Andy C. Wren, I now reveal, was married to my mother, Candy Wren." Draco S. Wren paused, watching Nancy intently. When he saw no flicker of comprehension in her blue eyes, he added, "Wren was her married name. She didn't migrate to Alaska as a Wren." He paused again, seeming to study Nancy. He seemed annoyed with her. In exasperation, he said, "I'll give you another clue. Her nickname was Bon-Bon." He seemed to lunge slightly toward Nancy as he said this.

"But surely you refer to mere coincidence?" Nancy gave an elaborate shrug. "Certainly Mother would not have-It must have been Bushy Trott!" she exclaimed suddenly, remembering a particularly nasty crook. "That criminal was a misfit his whole life. When he imprisoned me in the attic with that tarantula it must have been in revenge for what my father must have done to him for what he must have done to my mother. He could have abducted her and planted the note. The deathbed speech was a ruse and a clue! My mother knew I would solve the mystery of her tragic fate!"

Draco S. Wren threw up his hands. "But, Nancy, I have proof that she went to Alaska because she loved another man! I even have the minibar of Ivory stamped Ice Palace Hotel to prove it!"

Nancy could feel the wheels spinning in her mind. "There must have been a secret passage!"

Draco S. Wren seemed stunned by Nancy 's remark. "Well, Nancy, this will stir your imagination. I have a locket here containing a lock of your own hair. My mother gave it to me on one of her rare trips home. I was thirteen."

The significance of the number thirteen did not escape Nancy. The lock of hair was unmistakably blond. "So?" she queried nonchalantly.

Draco S. Wren stared silently into Nancy 's eyes for several long moments. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Bon-Bon. Candy. Bon-Bon. Nancy, don't you understand that you are my long-lost sister? Candy Wren was your mother too."

The revelation was unthinkable, not to mention absurd. "But my mother was married to Carson Drew," Nancy said. "And Candy is a common name."

"They are one and the same!" Draco S. Wren declared triumphantly, bouncing a lemon bon bon on the table. "Candy ran away to Alaska with Andy C. Wren and had a second child- me. Hadn't you guessed the meaning of my name?"

Nancy averted her gaze. As she looked around the room, Lilac Inn seemed suddenly antiquated. The lilacs had disappeared.

"How can Candy Wren be my mother as well as yours?" she asked distractedly. "She was a children's author."

"There is even more. Carson Drew, not Andy C. Wren, was my real father."

Nancy tossed her golden top. "But you are relating nothing but coincidences-a whole set of coincidences which, obviously, have no meaning." Rainy tears threatened to burst through the dreamy cloud of her afternoon. The beautiful stranger before her was still a stranger, although perhaps there was a resemblance to her father in the determined set of his jaw. She remembered that her first impression linked him to her father.

"Dad sent me money all my life for my upbringing," Draco S. Wren continued, lapping at his tea. "I think he felt that you would eventually find out about me, with your uncanny sleuthing skills."

"I was never even suspicious," moaned Nancy, crestfallen. Her sleuthing abilities had lapsed. She had even neglected to bring her magnifying glass with her. But, rallying, she remembered that she had one clue left to refute this stranger's bizarre theory.

"Did you send my father a parcel recently?" she asked accusingly.

"A parcel?" queried Draco S. Wren guardedly. "Yes, if you mean a little ivory igloo?" "Why did you send it?"

"Because he was my father, and I knew he would admire it. It was an old museum piece, an exquisite carving. I do hope you have kept it." Draco S. Wren crammed his mouth full of strawberry jam biscuits.

Nancy then informed Draco S. Wren-in her most even tones-of her knowledge of the ivory igloo. It was Draco S. Wren's turn to be mortified. He insisted that he never knew about the poison in the harpoon, but he was not surprised, since it was an old piece and might have been used for purposes of iniquity sometime in antiquity.

"Yes," Nancy said. "You realize, of course, that you might be held responsible in some way for Father's death, if the facts were known about that ivory whale-hunter in his igloo." For a few moments she felt she had returned victoriously to her proper role-Nancy Drew, girl detective.

Nancy looked at Draco S. Wren intently. "You see the resemblance, don't you?" he said, grinning. "Here, look at this." He took a miniature leather album from his leather jacket and removed two faded photographs. "This is a picture of me at age three. And here is a picture of you at age three. They could be the same child except for your curls and lace."

Nancy stared in disbelief at the two pictures. One showed a short, fat, dark-haired boy, the other, a slim, golden-haired girl. The resemblance escaped her, but she could not deny the conviction of Draco S. Wren's words. And there was no questioning the fact that both young noses were cute buttons.

"What is your favorite color?" said Nancy faintly.

"What is yours?" Draco S. Wren countered coyly.

"Blue."

"Blue? Why, that is my favorite color!"

Nancy stared long and hard at Draco S. Wren, this clever stranger who had stolen her heart. His stories were preposterous but irrefutable. Her intuition had never failed her, and her intuition still told her that here was a truthful and good man.

Draco S. Wren looked back at Nancy. His eyes were definitely not beady, nor dark and piercing. He said, in heartfelt tones, "I must confess, Nancy, that when I met you, I wished desperately that you were not my sister, for I would have fallen in love with you in a moment."

"And I did fall in love with you," said Nancy uncharacteristically.

Resolution

In the end, Nancy Drew bowed to her duty. She pledged to be loyal and true to her brother, to take care of him as she had her father (choosing his bandanas carefully, and giving him new appointment books for Christmas), and to make up for their lost childhood. Nancy promised to protect him from any question that should arise concerning a certain ivory gewgaw. She told Bess that the fluid had been analyzed and found to be whale oil. Nancy let it be known that Draco S. Wren was her long-lost brother but refused to divulge the details, so the aflair encouraged prominent newspaper headlines and casual gossip. Some said Draco S. Wren was a fraud, falsely claiming a share in Carson Drew's legacy, like the impostor prince in another story about a jewel box. Others maintained quite a different story.

Draco S. Wren moved into the fashionable three-story brick Drew residence and established a law practice in River Heights. Nancy continued to solve mysteries, helping Draco S. Wren on his cases as she had once assisted her father. Nancy continued as the champion of her fan club, addressing its monthly meetings with her "Eye Openers." Her younger fans were loyal, and she sold lots of copies, but the grown-ups talked behind her back. Nevertheless, Nancy 's larkspurs continued to win first prize in the flower show year after year, and she still danced in the River Heights talent show.

"I don't think this will do," Nancy said with a sigh as she finished writing. "I have tried to tell my true life story. But my life didn't turn out as it was supposed to."

She wondered if she should have mentioned the servant girl. And the fact that Draco S. Wren had now disappeared, taking all Nancy 's priceless souvenirs from her mysteries. Nancy felt bereft. A real brother would not have acted that way. She thought now that some of his brotherly kisses reminded her somewhat of Ned Nickerson's busses. And recently Draco S. Wren's eyes had started to pierce darkly.

"I suppose with some revision-" She paused in thought. The emptiness she felt was not the same emptiness Nancy Drew, girl detective, usually felt as her story drew to a close and she wondered what mystery was in store for her next.