Portrait in Crime (6 page)

It looked as though she was on the wrong track, she had to admit to herself. She had been asked to find a missing painter and a missing painting, not to investigate a death. Looking back, Nancy wondered all of a sudden if the note saying that Nicholas was murdered had been written to send her in the wrong direction.

Sasha came over and sat next to Nancy. “Will you come by later to see our rehearsal? It should end around four-thirty or five. After that I can give you a dance lesson.”

Nancy nodded absently.

“Are you thinking about the accident?” he asked sympathetically.

Nancy shook her head. “I'm thinking about the connection between Christopher and Nicholas,” she said. “And about Bob Tercero. I'm tempted to think that he's pushing me in the wrong direction.”

“So you think he is the bad guy? He is trying to keep you from finding Christopher?” Sasha asked.

“I don't know,” Nancy said. “He was actually pretty helpful when we were talking about Christopher. After all, it would hurt the gallery enormously if Christopher doesn't turn up. And a lot of Bob's job involves working with the Scotts. The thing that is so confusing is the way he talks about Nicholas.”

“Speaking of strange reactions,” Sasha said, “Megan was very sure that the
Vanity
does not exist.”

Nancy nodded. “You're getting good at this,” she said.

“A compliment from you about my detective work?” Sasha asked. “That means a lot to me.”

Nancy blushed, deciding to ignore his remark. “Back to Megan,” she began. “Does her reaction mean she
has
seen the painting and was just covering it up? Or was she being sincere? Maybe it's true that Christopher Scott painted nothing but landscapes.

“But if there is no
Vanity,
then Bob Tercero made it up. And why would he do that?” Nancy asked, frustrated. As the boat pulled into the dock, she decided to pay another visit to the gallery manager.

Nancy, Bess, and George headed back to Eloise's house to shower and change. They made turkey sandwiches for lunch before heading over to the Nisus Gallery to talk with Bob Tercero.

When they walked into the gallery, Bess took George on a quick tour.

“Look at this. Isn't it beautiful?” Bess asked George, gazing at Christopher Scott's large pink canvas.

George shrugged. “It's too pink for me,” she replied.

Bob Tercero came into the room.

“I thought I heard familiar voices,” he said. “You're back sooner than I expected.”

Nancy introduced George to Bob. He led them down the hall into his office, one door before Cynthia's.

“Is Mrs. Gray here?” George asked.

“No,” Bob replied. “She's seldom here.”

“We came back to fill you in on our trip to the Scotts' place,” Nancy cut in. She watched Tercero carefully, waiting for his reaction to her next comment. “We found out there is no
Vanity
painting,” she said.

Tercero looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about? Of course there is.”

“Not according to Megan Archer,” she said.

“Who?”

“Megan Archer, Nicholas's girlfriend,” Nancy replied. “Haven't you ever met his girlfriend?”

The confusion on Tercero's face cleared. “Oh, right, the new one. She's been in town only a few months,” he said, dismissing her. “Don't pay any attention to her. She doesn't know anything. Of course there's a
Vanity.”

“Megan seems very sure you're wrong about that,” Nancy persisted. “There's no sign of it at his studio. In fact, there's no sign of a working artist anywhere in the house or the studio.”

“The
Vanity
exists,” Bob repeated, a tolerant smile on his face. “I not only bought it, I was there when Chris was painting it.”

Now it was Nancy's turn to look taken aback.

“You still don't believe me?” Tercero asked. “Wait, I have proof.” He took a binder out of his desk and began paging through it. “This is Scott's catalog,” he explained. He turned the binder around. “Here. This is a picture of the
Vanity.”

“Look at that!” Bess exclaimed. “It really does exist.”

On the page was a photo and a description of the
Vanity.
The picture showed a canvas of a girl in a white nightgown seated in front of a mirror. Long red curls cascaded down her shoulders, obscuring all but the side of her face.

Nancy looked at Bob. “You were there when he was painting it?” she asked. “So why did you tell me you didn't know who the model was?”

Bob seemed startled by the question. Then he shrugged. “Well, I didn't really
know
her. She was a model, a professional from New York. I know that much,” he explained. “She was dating Nicholas.”

“You have no idea where we could find her?” George broke in.

Bob seemed faintly alarmed. “No, I have no idea where you could find her. Listen, forget it and her, okay? The painting's not that important. Really,” he said earnestly. “It would have been nice if you found it, but I don't want you to waste your time. The important thing is to find Christopher. Once you do that, I'll ask him about the
Vanity
myself.”

Bob Tercero was up to some trick, Nancy thought, annoyed. Suddenly he had become adamant that the painting was unimportant and was refusing to help her find the model.

“Well, if you think it's not important, then there's no point in looking for it,” Nancy said,
standing up. “After all, you were the one who asked me to find it in the first place. We won't take up any more of your time with it.”

“Find Christopher,” Bob repeated. “I promise you, Nicholas told me he was working on a painting the day of the accident. There must be some trace of it somewhere.”

Nancy and her friends left the gallery in silence. So far, Nancy thought, she knew only two people who had been involved in the Scotts' personal lives. Now she knew of a third person, the red-haired model. Nancy decided she was going to find the girl. Maybe she'd get some answers from her.

“What a creep!” Bess exclaimed when the girls were back in Nancy's car.

“He's definitely hiding something,” George agreed. “But what?”

“I'm not sure,” Nancy said thoughtfully. “He wanted me to look for Chris and the painting, only he doesn't want me looking too hard. And then there's the question of Nicholas being murdered. Maybe the girl in the painting could help us. It seems she knew both Bob and the Scotts.”

“But how do we find her?” Bess asked. “The picture won't help. You can barely see her face.”

“Modeling agencies,” George piped up. “Didn't you hear him say she was a professional model?”

Bess practically jumped with excitement. “We're going to modeling agencies!” she exclaimed.
“You always hear stories about girls walking into those places and becoming superstars!”

“Well, let's try calling first,” Nancy suggested, keeping a straight face. “I don't know if we have time to go into New York City and pound the pavement.”

Seeing Bess's disappointed face, George patted her cousin's shoulder consolingly. “Let's stop by Jetstream,” she suggested to Nancy. “I know they have a Manhattan phone book in their office.”

“My aunt has one, too,” Nancy said. “Sorry, George, no time to see Gary.”

“Oh, well, I tried,” George said, and laughed at herself on the way back to Eloise Drew's.

“George, you look up the numbers,” Nancy suggested. “I'll start calling.”

“What are you going to say?”

“That I'm looking for a redhead,” Nancy replied. “Someone who has experience modeling for painters. I'd guess that's pretty unusual for a professional model.”

“It's a long shot,” George said. “What if they want details, like what you're paying?”

“I read somewhere that models make thousands,” Bess warned.

“Bess, George, I'm not hiring the girl!” Nancy exclaimed. “I just want to find her.”

As she made call after call, Nancy realized George's skepticism made sense. Over and over she was told: no redheads, no portrait sittings.

Finally she got the booking agent for the Unique Agency on the phone. A red-haired model was no problem, she was told. Then Nancy explained she wanted the model for a painter.

“No way!” the agent yelled. “We don't work with painters anymore. The last time we sent a girl out to pose for a painting, we never saw her again!”

N
ANCY CAUGHT HER BREATH
. A missing model? She pressed the woman for details.

“No,” the woman said, laughing. “She wasn't a redhead. She was Nigerian. She was posing for some young hotshot painter in Manhattan, and last I heard, they were married. But the real reason we don't work with painters is that they tie up our models for long periods of time. We can make more money on shorter assignments.”

Seeing Nancy's disappointed face as she hung up, Bess suggested, “I could do some calling, Nan.”

Nancy shook her head. “I think we have to find another way.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, no!
Is it really four-thirty? I promised Sasha I'd go and watch his rehearsal, but it's almost over.”

“Brush your hair and get out of here quick,” Bess teased. “You don't want to be late!”

Nancy threw Bess a withering look but did gather her things and jump into their rental car.

The dance institute was housed for the summer in an old school that the Hamptons Cultural Society had taken over. It had been renovated, and now it contained a stage, auditorium, and rehearsal and dressing rooms.

The auditorium at the institute was empty when Nancy walked in. She'd missed Sasha's rehearsal, she thought, sitting down heavily on one of the chairs. She was doing it again—getting so involved in a mystery that she was missing out on everything else!

As Nancy sat there, Sasha's partner, Marina, walked into the room. Marina was a young ballerina from the Soviet Union who had come to the institute with Sasha.

At first Nancy had thought that the lovely black-haired dancer might be in love with Sasha and might resent Nancy because of the attention Sasha paid to her. But later she had decided she was wrong about Marina. Marina's first love was ballet. The two Soviets danced together beautifully, but that was all. When it came to Sasha, Marina was all business.

“Hi, Nancy,” she called. “Looking for Sasha?”

Nancy nodded and Marina's lithe body disappeared into the back.

A few seconds later Sasha walked into the auditorium, wearing black tights and a white T-shirt. The strong muscles in his arms were flexed as he held each end of a towel that was thrown around his neck.

“Sasha, I'm sorry I'm late—” Nancy began.

Sasha shook his head, waving away her apology. He took her arm lightly. “Ready for that dance lesson?” he asked, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“I'm hardly dressed for it,” she protested, laughing.

His eyes surveyed her with approval. “Nice lightweight shirt, loose cotton pants,” he said. “Take off your sandals and you'll be perfect.” He looked into her eyes. “I'm not letting you get away, Nancy Drew.”

Phew! Nancy thought, every time she was with this guy, she couldn't think straight!

Sasha led her into a rehearsal room and put on some music. Then he sat in the middle of the dance floor. “Come on,” he invited. “We'll warm up so you don't pull any muscles.”

Nancy sat on the floor beside him, obediently following his orders. As she stretched, she felt her body relax.

“I thought ballet dancers warmed up at the barre,” Nancy said, pointing to the long polished wood rail running along one mirrored wall.

“We do, but unless you are experienced, the barre is not going to get you very warm.

“I wasn't going to give you a real ballet lesson,” Sasha continued. “I have learned some great modern dance and jazz moves from some of the American dancers here. I was going to teach you little pieces of each.”

“You mean I won't get to float around in pointe shoes and a tutu?” Nancy said, pretending to be disappointed.

“No,” Sasha replied, taking Nancy seriously. “You need years of training for that. Have you ever taken ballet?”

Nancy shook her head.

“Then we will stay away from the barre and stick with something fun. Now, breathe out,” Sasha directed. “Just like in aerobics. Don't bounce when you reach for your toes. Close your eyes and just
stretch.”

When Nancy had loosened up, Sasha pulled her to her feet.

“Let's dance.” He came up behind her, showing her how to move her arms. “This gesture is from modern dance,” he explained. “It's from a piece by a famous choreographer. It's very sensuous.”