“I thought the firefighters were investigating the possibility that the fire was caused by an arsonist,” I pointed out. “Isn’t that why there was police tape up around the store?”
Paige sighed heavily. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to print that in your article,” she explained. “The bookstore hasn’t been doing too well lately, and I didn’t want the bad publicity. But you’re right—the sheriff and the fire chief are investigating the matter. I hope it wasn’t arson and that the fire was accidental.”
I nodded as I made a few more notes, thinking back to what Ian had said about the sheriff and the fire chief finding the kerosene and frayed wire in the bookstore. Clearly Paige was in denial about the cause of the fire. “Ms. Samuels, if it was arson, do you have any idea who would want to torch your shop?”
“Please, call me Paige,” she said. “Oh, my. Absolutely not. As I said before, this is a very small town, and everyone here gets along.”
Hmm, I thought. Not exactly. I thought of Alice Ann, and how she didn’t seem to care much for either Lacey O’Brien or Paige. I still found it hard to believe that Alice Ann was behind the fire or the theft, but stranger things had happened. But I still couldn’t figure out what her motive would have been. And was it Alice Ann who’d been on the porch of our cabin? If it was, she sure knew how to cover up her feelings, as she couldn’t have been nicer to me when I got a room at the inn.
I caught Paige glancing at her watch, so I quickly moved on to the next topic.
“Did you call to tell her about the fire?”
Paige nodded. “After I’d spoken with the firefighters, I did call her to let her know what happened. We briefly discussed rescheduling the appearance for later in the year, after the store reopens.”
“And her husband, Rick Brown. Do you know him well?” I asked.
Paige shrugged. “Not really. Like I said, we went to high school together, but that was ages ago.”
“You do know that one of his sculptures was taken?” I said.
“I just heard about it on my way here,” Paige answered. She shifted in her seat and glanced at her watch again.
“For the life of me, I don’t have a clue as to who would be targeting Avondale’s fine arts,” she said. “Books and paintings and sculpture are important tourist attractions for us and add so much to our community. I do hope the police get to the bottom of this and fast.”
She paused, then said apologetically, “I should probably be getting back. I have so much cleanup work to do.”
“Of course,” I answered. “Just one last thing. Some people have theorized that the arsonist and the art gallery thief may be perpetrating crimes based on some of the plotlines in Lacey O’Brien’s books.”
Paige looked startled. “Really?” she asked. “You mean, like a copycat criminal?”
“Exactly,” I explained with a nod. “Do you think you could help me contact Lacey? I’d like to speak with her about her books, but I know she’s reclusive. I’d also really like to interview her husband about his art piece.”
Suddenly Paige’s face lit up.
“Did you happen to catch the names of the couple from your accident?” she asked.
I thought back to the police report the sheriff had filled out, wondering what this had to do with Lacey O’Brien.
“I think they were Richard and Cecilia Brown,” I told her. “Why?”
She leaned in and whispered, “Well, the couple that tried to run you down was none other than Lacey O’Brien and her husband!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Secret Door
I PULLED THE SLIP OF paper the woman had handed me earlier out of my pocket. It read:
555-0192
34 Crescent Lane
“Cecilia Brown is Lacey O’Brien?” I asked, incredulous.
Paige nodded. “Lacey O’Brien’s been her pen name since we were in high school,” she explained. “She always hated the name Cecilia Duncan. She was named for her grandmother, and Lacey thought it sounded old-fashioned. It didn’t help that most of the kids in school called her CeeCee, even though she despised the nickname. She almost always goes by Lacey these days, but it makes sense that she gave her real name to the sheriff.”
“But he acted like he didn’t even recognize her,” I said. I couldn’t believe that the sheriff hadn’t known that Cecilia Brown and Lacey O’Brien were one and the same person.
Paige shrugged. “He probably didn’t,” she said. “Most folks in Avondale have only heard of her as Lacey O’Brien, the local mystery writer, and don’t know her personally. Aside from her close friends and people who grew up with her, not many local residents would recognize her. I only know her real name is Cecilia because of our high school days. So it’s no surprise the sheriff didn’t know who she was. He’s only been in office a few years, anyway.”
I glanced back down at the slip of paper. What luck! As crazy as it sounded, almost getting hit by a car was turning out to be my best break of the day. I was all but guaranteed an interview, or at the very least, a meeting with the famous author later that afternoon.
For now, I had one more place to visit in town—the art gallery.
“Thank you again for your time,” I told Paige. “The story should be in both the online and paper edition of the River Heights Bugle tomorrow morning.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I’m happy to help. And thank you for looking into the fire. If it was arson, I’m eager to find out who’s behind it.”
“Me too,” I assured her. “And I won’t stop investigating until I do.”
Paige offered to pay for our coffees on her way out, and I headed to the ladies’ room.
On my way there, I realized someone was in the booth right behind ours. Oddly, he or she—I really couldn’t tell—was hunched down in their seat and seemed to be hiding behind a large menu. But I was able to glimpse a shock of curly brown hair with a streak of gray.
“Alice Ann?” I asked tentatively.
She lowered the menu and seemed surprised to see me there. An empty coffee cup and a plate with the remains of a slice of pie sat on the table in front of her. Since I hadn’t seen her come in, I figured she had been there the whole time Paige and I had been talking, which meant she had likely heard our entire conversation. And considering she was my number one suspect—maybe my only suspect—I wasn’t thrilled that she was pretty much spying on us.
“Nancy!” she replied a bit too cheerfully as she jumped up and grabbed her check from the table. “I didn’t know you were here.”
She waved the bill in front of me as she headed for the cashier.
“In a hurry!” she cried. “I’ve got to get back to the inn!”
I walked out the door, shaking my head. In addition to being one of the town’s biggest gossips, it seemed Alice Ann was also an expert eavesdropper. Or was it more than that? I thought back to the wallet incident on Saturday. Was it possible that Alice Ann was really shadowing me? I was glad that my stay at the inn would keep her close to me.
I headed outside, and after quickly checking directions on my phone, I realized I could walk the few blocks to the art gallery. I glanced behind me a few times on the way just to be sure Alice Ann wasn’t tailing me. I was fairly confident I was on my own, but I felt jumpy all the same. I couldn’t shake my suspicions about that woman.
The Clancy Tate Gallery was cool and bright, though the scene that greeted me was anything but cheerful. A thin, tight-lipped man in a dark turtleneck and thick glasses with tousled hair was standing in front of a desk in the corner, having a heated argument with a woman in a blue suit standing opposite him.
“Mr. Tate, please, I ask you not to raise your voice!” she implored him. “I assure you that it won’t help the situation.”
The man sat down in his chair abruptly and slumped back, looking completely dejected.
“I’m ruined!” he wailed.
“Now, now, Mr. Tate,” the woman replied in a clipped voice. “There’s no need to be
so dramatic.”
The man stood back up and squared his shoulders proudly before he addressed her again.
“Excuse me,” he began softly. “But you’ve just come into my gallery and informed me that my insurance policy lapsed three days ago, and that no one from your agency had the decency to send me a renewal notice. So for the last three days—including the day before yesterday, when a valuable piece of artwork was stolen from this gallery—I have had absolutely zero insurance coverage! Which means that I am solely responsible for the cost of the piece! And you dare to accuse me of being overly dramatic?”
He was shouting loudly by the end of his brief speech.
The woman retreated sheepishly.
“I do apologize, Mr. Tate,” she replied. “Perhaps I should come back tomorrow so that we can discuss this further.”
She turned to leave and saw me standing near the entrance.
“And I see you have a customer as well, so I’ll be out of your hair now,” she said as she quickly darted past me and out the door.
The man sighed loudly.
“Thank goodness that vile woman is gone,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
Suddenly he seemed to notice me standing there.
“Oh, excuse me,” he apologized, a dazed look on his face. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I replied. “Are you Clancy Tate?”
He grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”
“My name is Nancy Drew,” I introduced myself. “I’m on special assignment for the River Heights Bugle, investigating the recent Avondale crime spree. Would you have a moment to answer a few questions about The Bride of Avondale for my article?”
“Would I?” Mr. Tate asked. “If your article can help get the statue back, then I’ve got all the time in the world.”
We sat at a glass-topped table, and once again, out came my notebook.
“When did you first notice that the sculpture was missing?” I asked.
“I was the only one here. One of my co-workers had the day off and another called in sick.” Mr. Tate paused and then went on. “Lacey O’Brien’s fans were in town for her signing at the bookstore. I guess a few of her ‘super fans’ know she’s married to the sculptor Richard Brown, so they came flooding in to see one of his most beloved works. It’s not a large piece—in fact, it’s rather delicate—but the detail and intricacy is meticulous.
“We had about twenty more people than usual sign the guest book on Saturday. At one point, I must admit, I did go in back to look for a sepia photograph of Moon Lake by Ethan Jenkins, another of our local artists.” He took a deep breath and continued. “After that, I was busy making a sale of a few posters to a woman from Louisiana. When I realized the statue was gone, I called the police immediately, and they were here within minutes. But it was too late. The thief was long gone—it could have been anyone.”
“May I see the guest book?” I asked. I didn’t think a thief would actually sign in, but I still had to check.
“Go right ahead,” Mr. Tate replied. He handed me a thick, oversize leather book and opened it to the most recent page.
I scanned down the list of names and addresses. A few were locals, but most of the addresses were from neighboring towns. Ian Garrison . . . the sheriff’s nephew? Arnold Edwards . . . was that the man in the apron talking to Alice our first day? But one name stood out more than the others: Alice Ann Marple.
Hmm. If Alice Ann was the thief, she was either the dumbest thief in the world for signing the book or incredibly shrewd.
“Do you mind if I take note of these names and addresses?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” Mr. Tate replied. “Like I said, if your story helps get that statue back, I’ll be in your debt forever. And you know what they say about publicity—it’s never a bad thing, at least in the art world. Do you want me to make a copy of that page for you?”
“Nope, I’ve got it,” I replied. I used my cell phone to take a photo of the register before I handed the book back to him. I started to put my notebook away, when Mr. Tate cleared his throat.
“There’s one thing I forgot to mention, and it involves Lacey O’Brien. But I can only tell you off the record. It would be a security risk for me if you printed it in the paper.”
I was immediately intrigued.
“Of course,” I assured him. “From now on, everything you say is one hundred percent off the record.”
“There’s one other way to get into the gallery. Only a few people know about it. I mentioned it to the police, and they’ve concluded that’s probably how the thief came in and exited.”
“Go on,” I prodded. I sure wished Bess and George were here. I could have used some extra eyes and ears.
“The gallery actually shares space with a mystery writers’ retreat and workshop,” he explained. “As a wealthy local artist, Richard Brown has always been a huge investor in and supporter of the gallery. A few years ago Lacey had the idea to fund a dedicated writing space for fledgling mystery writers. She and Richard didn’t want their names attached to it, since she so closely guards her privacy. But Lacey still believes beginning writers should get a break, especially mystery writers.”
Gee, I thought. That didn’t sound like someone who thought she was better than everyone in town.
Mr. Tate went on. “Anyway, Richard proposed closing off the back half of the gallery that faces Oakwood Lane and turning it into the writers’ space. There would be a separate entrance, and Lacey would rent the space from me. She and I are the only two people with a key to the door between the gallery and the writers’ space.”
My mind raced as I quickly processed the new information.
A place just for writers? Mystery writers? Even though Lacey didn’t want anyone to know the space was her brainstorm or that she was paying for it, I wonder if she ever dropped in as her “former self,” Cecilia Duncan. Most people probably wouldn’t guess that their writing mentor or coach was the bestselling Lacey O’Brien. It was as if she was hiding in plain sight.
Whoa—besides Mr. Tate, Lacey was the only person with access to the gallery through the secret entrance. But why would she have stolen her own husband’s sculpture? Was it some sort of strange publicity stunt? As Mr. Tate had said, no publicity is bad publicity in the art world—or the world of publishing.
“Who owns The Bride of Avondale?” I suddenly asked Mr. Tate.
“Lacey does. I put it on exhibit to coincide with her book signing.”
“Wait a minute, the sculpture that was stolen was one of Lacey O’Brien’s, and she’s the only one—other than you—who has access to the gallery through a secret entrance?” I asked.
At that moment a crash sounded from a back room. Could Lacey be in the writers’ room now?
A voice called out, “Sorry, Uncle C. I was standing on a stool in the supply room and lost my balance.” Into the gallery walked a girl with a familiar-looking face.
“Mandy!” I said. “What are you doing here?” It was the girl who was with her friends the other day, standing outside Paige’s Pages after the fire.
Mr. Tate asked, “Do you two know each other? How can that be?”
Mandy looked at me quizzically at first and then had a “lightbulb” moment of recognition. “Hey, you’re the person who was asking me and my friends Carly and Rachel all about the bookstore.”
“That’s right. I’m Nancy Drew. I’m writing an article about the recent crimes in Avondale and have been interviewing Mr. Tate about the theft of the statue,” I explained.
“Well, my uncle C is totally clueless about it,” she said. “But I think someone is definitely lifting their ideas from Lacey O’Brien’s books—just like I said the other day. And my friends and I think it might even be Lacey O’Brien.”
I might not have thought Mandy knew what she was talking about the other day, but right now we were on the same page.
CHAPTER NINE
Framed
I RAN OUTSIDE AND CALLED George, quickly
updating her on what I had discovered. “What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t buy it,” George said. “It’s just too, I don’t know . . . convenient.”
I agreed. I didn’t actually believe Lacey had stolen the statue either, but clearly she had to be considered a suspect.
George continued, “Since the statue was just on loan to the gallery, Lacey doesn’t have a real motive for stealing.”
“You’re right,” I said. “The motive question is definitely a problem. But that doesn’t change the fact that she had ample opportunity.”
“But it’s all so obvious,” George replied. “It’s almost as if someone chose stealing the sculpture because it would make Lacey a prime suspect.”
“Exactly! Lacey’s being framed, just like the character Lucy Luckstone in her novel Framed.”
“That makes sense,” George answered. “Kind of. Do you think she’s also being set up with the fire? Who would want to frame her, Nancy?”
I kept walking down the street and noticed the Avondale Library. I sat down on a bench in front to continue our conversation.
“I understand those crimes could be connected to Lacey and her books, but what about the intruder at our cabin, and the canoe, and me almost being run over?” I asked her.
Nothing answered me.
“Hello? George? Are you still there?” I asked.
George spoke. “Nancy, when were you almost run over? Are you okay? See what happens when Bess and I aren’t around to chaperone you?”
Oh no . . . I’d never told them about my near accident. “I’m fine. Really. But because of it, I’m hoping to get a face-to-face meeting with Lacey O’Brien.”
George laughed a bit on the other end of the phone. “Only you, Nancy, only you could have that happen. But nice work. If you need us to come back to Avondale, just say the word.”
We hung up, and I walked back to my car. Instead of first calling Lacey, I decided to drive right to her house. Maybe by surprising her I would get more information. Or perhaps a confession?
I used my phone’s GPS to navigate from town back to Moon Lake and 34 Crescent Lane. Lacey and Richard’s cabin was set back from the road, covered, it seemed, by giant oaks and pine trees. I pulled into the long driveway and in two minutes was knocking briskly on the front door.