Mrs. O’Hara turned toward her, eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, Nancy! The judge has shot himself!”
Chapter Six
The next time Nancy looked at her watch, it was four forty-five, and the judge’s body was being carried out the front door. Mrs. O’Hara had been mistaken. Jonathan Renk had not fired the weapon himself. A neat round hole in the window behind him made it clear that he had been shot from outside. And proof of Carson Drew’s innocence had died with him.
The house and grounds were swarming with police. Nancy felt as if she had been there for days. She had told three different officers what happened in minute detail. She had also been fingerprinted to eliminate her prints from the others in the room, even though it was obvious the shot had come from outdoors.
Her announcement that the judge had been planning to admit his part in the frameup had been met with raised eyebrows. The police had only her word for it, and that wasn’t enough considering the situation with her father. Discouraged, she stopped trying to convince them after a while.
Now the pace of activity had begun to slow. Nancy sat near the bottom of the staircase and tried to sort out her feelings.
She had gone through her ordeal alone. Her father was in court. Ned was out job hunting.
She’d had to be the professional Nancy Drew and react to the emergency—checking for a pulse she knew would not be there, getting the police, trying to calm Mrs. O’Hara, answering the same questions again and again.
That phase was over. She could be plain Nancy Drew for a few minutes and feel the pain of her loss. Her uncle Jon was dead, a friend she had known all her life. And even though he’d proven himself to be less than admirable during his last few days, at the end he had shown himself to be a friend of the Drews, ready to do anything to clear Nancy’s father. Her head lowered, her arms wrapped around her knees, Nancy let herself grieve for Jonathan Renk.
Finally the mournful chime of his grandfather clock reminded her of the time. She had work to do, a case to solve. And with her father’s accuser dead, she was back to square one.
But first there was a nagging question to deal with. How was it that her uncle Jon had been shot immediately after he had decided to come clean? It was as if his murderer had been right there with them. Was it possible—?
Nancy got up and peeked into the library. Two men in shirt-sleeves were talking in a corner. Behind them a police photographer hopped around taking pictures, his flash attachment flaring. Nancy backed away and headed for the kitchen.
Mrs. O’Hara was resting in her room next to the kitchen. She was stretched out on her bed, eyes closed. Her television was on with the sound turned down.
“Mrs. O’Hara, how are you feeling?” Nancy asked gently.
The housekeeper opened her eyes and gave a weak smile. “Better, lass. Are they done? Have they taken him away?”
“Yes. Do you feel like talking?”
“Aye.” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up. “It’s time I pulled myself together. There’s so much to do. There are the funeral arrangements to start—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve called Hannah, and she’s on her way here. She and my dad will help you.”
Dad. Nancy had been almost glad he hadn’t been home. She didn’t want to be the one to have to tell her father about the murder of his old friend. Giving the news to Ann and Bess had been bad enough.
“Mr. Carson would do that? Help with services for the judge?” the housekeeper was asking. “Even after everything—”
“Of course. He thought the world of Uncle Jon. Mrs. O’Hara, have any workmen been here recently? Perhaps someone from the telephone company?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with our phones.”
“No strangers at all?”
“Not a one, until that crowd of reporters showed up yesterday morning. Pesky bunch. One of them had the brass to follow the cable TV man right in the back door. I told him what I thought of him, that I did. The repairman, too, until he told me who he was and what he wanted.”