The Case of the Artful Crime (12 page)

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Shawn agreed.

Felice nodded. “Auguste wanted to come to the dinner to keep an eye on his paintings—can you imagine? I told him absolutely not. I'm afraid I told him I would be hanging Joseph's newest painting here at the restaurant, so don't be surprised if he shows up to guard it. Of course, now it won't be here, since we're moving the dinner to my house, but—”

Nancy felt she should warn Felice. “Listen, Mrs. Wainwright,” she said, “I'd be wary of Auguste Spaziente if I were you. He seems desperate to get that painting. If you tell your security people about him, they can make sure he's kept off the premises tomorrow night.”

“What? Do you think he'd steal the painting?” Felice asked, wide-eyed.

“Or maybe he's after the ruby,” Nancy said.

Felice smiled confidently. “No one is getting that ruby, my dear. My system is foolproof, and Auguste Spaziente is no one to worry about. He's just a pushy, greedy old man. But thank you for your concern.”

Shawn walked Felice to her chauffeur-driven limo, parked in front of the restaurant. “That was a close one,” he said when he returned. “I can't believe she almost canceled.”

“You're a pretty fast talker,” Nancy said.

A guilty look stole over Shawn's face. “You must think I'm a terrible liar. But I'm fighting for my life here, believe me.”

“Won't having the dinner at her estate be hard to manage?” Nancy asked.

Shawn shrugged. “It's the best way I can safeguard myself against anything going wrong. I'm going to hire all the waiting staff from a temporary service. That way, if someone here is out to get me, they won't be there. Plus, if they've put a bomb in the dishwasher, or whatever, it won't affect the dinner. And I would have had to close the restaurant to regular business on a Saturday night. Now I'll be able to keep the Arizona House open and make some more money.”

“Makes sense,” Nancy agreed. “By the way, have you talked to Loreen lately?”

Shawn shook his head, and Nancy told him about the message from Le St. Tropez on Loreen's tape.

“I don't think Loreen would sell me out like that,” Shawn said. “But I was wrong about Jack, so who knows?”

“Shawn,” Nancy said quietly, “I talked to Jack. There are a few things you should know.” Gently, Nancy told Shawn the accusation Jack had made against Shawn's father.

Shawn sat down heavily in his chair. “Do you know what? I'm not all that surprised. Dad always seemed to have a lot more money than Jack. As I got older, I often wondered why. I figured Jack spent all of his.”

“I'm sorry,” Nancy said.

“It's not exactly cheery news, but I'm not crushed. Dad and I were never close.” Shawn was quiet for a moment. “Did Jack tell you why he wanted the triangles from those pictures?”

“It wasn't Jack who slashed the paintings,” Nancy reminded him.

“You're saying there's a wild card in this pack,” Shawn said grimly.

“There's the man who slashed the paintings and there's Auguste Spaziente. Two wild cards,” Nancy said.

“Could you do me a favor, Nancy?” Shawn asked. “I'd like you to work here tomorrow.”

“No problem,” Nancy said.

Shawn looked relieved. “Leaving this place on a Saturday makes me very nervous, but I have to be at the Wainwright dinner. I'd feel better if you were keeping an eye on things.”

“I'll be here, don't worry,” Nancy said.

That evening, Nancy went up to her room early. The last few days had exhausted her. When she turned off the light, however, sleep didn't come easily. She couldn't stop mulling over the case. There was a thread here—something that tied the two Spazientes, Felice Wainwright, and the paintings together. What was it?

On Saturday morning, Nancy drove over to Le St. Tropez. She wanted to talk to Edward, the man who'd called Loreen. Perhaps she could find out how Loreen was connected to Le St. Tropez.

The parking lot was full. As Nancy was about to walk into the restaurant, she nearly bumped into Loreen, who was coming out the front door. “What are you doing here?” Loreen snapped.

“Meeting a friend for lunch,” Nancy replied. “What are
you
doing?”

“None of your business,” Loreen said, pushing past. Nancy watched as she got into her car and peeled out of the parking lot.

Inside the posh restaurant, Nancy asked for Edward, but was told he wasn't in. Disappointed, she headed home.

That wasn't a total waste of time, Nancy told herself as she drove. Now she had proof that Loreen was still in touch with someone at Le St. Tropez. Unfortunately, she hadn't found anything to connect Loreen with Spaziente's paintings.

As Nancy dressed for work late that afternoon, she thought about the paintings again. The landscapes were the common thread that linked all her clues together. Auguste wanted them. So did Felice, who had two of Spaziente's paintings hanging in her house at the moment. And the paintings had been slashed at the Arizona House, the scene of many mishaps.

Remembering her visit to the art class, Nancy thought about Joseph. He had dashed off the winter painting in a single morning. Nancy had a feeling that art was not his passion. After that bungled bank robbery, he'd probably be more likely to go for a prize like the Dragon's Eye Ruby.

Nancy frowned. Joseph had taken part in a bank robbery where an elaborate security system had been outsmarted. If he were out of prison, he might very well be at Felice's mansion tonight.

But Joseph was behind bars. Only his paintings made it out the prison doors. What did that mean?

Nancy arrived at the Arizona House by six. “Hi, Elliot,” she greeted the nervous young cook as she punched her time card by the back door.

“Oh, Nancy,” he wailed. “I'm losing my mind. Shawn has made me the new dessert chef. This is my first night, and you won't believe who is out in the dining room.”

“The president of the United States,” Nancy teased.

“Harold Brackett,” Elliot said. “It's very generous of him to give us all these chances, but three strikes and we're out.”

“Don't worry, Elliot,” Nancy said absently. “Everything will be fine.”

Out in the dining room, Nancy spotted Brackett sitting alone, writing on a pad. The critic waved and smiled when he saw her.

“Hello, Mr. Brackett,” Nancy said, walking over to his table. “How are you?”

“Just fine,” he replied. “Tell me, have you got a painting by Joseph Spaziente hanging here?”

Nancy's heart thumped. How was Brackett involved in all this? “No. Why do you ask?”

“My friend Auguste Spaziente told me I must see
his nephew's work while I'm in town,” Brackett said.

“Oh,” Nancy said, frowning. Something told her not to reveal any more information. “No. I haven't seen the painting.”

Anne Marie rushed over to take Brackett's drink order, and Nancy excused herself.

“Hi, Nan,” Bess greeted her as Nancy walked into the front of the restaurant. “I'm on my way down to the ladies' room. Come along and tell me what's been going on.”

“Okay, but just for a second. I can't be off the floor too long.” Nancy went downstairs with Bess and filled her in on the case. While Bess listened, she fussed with her French braid. “This stubborn piece of hair keeps popping up,” she said, spritzing it with a small plastic pump bottle of hair spray.

A rap came on the bathroom door. “Bess, you've got coat customers,” Lee called.

“Be right there,” Bess said, running out the door.

Looking at the mirror ledge, Nancy saw that her friend had left her hair spray behind. Dropping it in the deep pocket of her apron, she left the bathroom.

At the top of the stairs, Nancy was met by a flustered Anne Marie. “Have you seen Harold Brackett anywhere?” she asked. When Nancy shook her head, Anne Marie explained, “I sent Lee to look in the men's room, and he's not there. When I got to the table with his drink, he was gone.”

“That's strange,” Nancy said. “He didn't say anything to you?”

“Nope,” Anne Marie said.

Just then, Lee came in the front door. “I saw Brackett dash out the front door as I was coming upstairs from the men's room,” he said. “He was in such a hurry that this piece of paper fell from his notepad. I ran after him, but he was already in his car and zooming past me when I got to the parking lot.”

“May I see the note?” Nancy asked.

“Sure,” Lee said, handing it to her. “It looks like he was just doodling.”

“Oh, no!” Nancy studied the paper. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was high-quality bond with a slight grain running through it.

“What's wrong?” Anne Marie asked.

“Nothing,” Nancy said, not wanting to alarm them.

“Well, I'd better get back to work,” Anne Marie said, turning toward the dining room. “I've already lost one customer tonight.”

“And I have a party of four waiting to be seated,” Lee said, following Anne Marie.

Clutching the paper, Nancy leaned against the wall. The paper contained doodles, with the number four written over and over. Then a line of question marks followed. And the name “Wainwright” was scrawled across the bottom with exclamation points after it.

Nancy could hardly believe her eyes. The
i
in “Wainwright” was bent back. The
n
was sharp. It was Auguste Spaziente's handwriting.

Harold Brackett must be Auguste Spaziente in disguise!

Or was it the other way around? Or maybe both were simply disguises.

What did the number four mean? Did it have something to do with the fourth painting? Felice had told Auguste that it would be at the restaurant. He had come looking for it, disguised as Brackett!

And now he knew the painting wasn't here. He was surely on his way to the Wainwright estate.

Nancy wasn't sure what Auguste had planned. But she suspected that the paintings were a way for Joseph to get information to his partner in crime. One Spaziente was a bank robber. The other was an imposter. These men were not collectors or creators of fine art.

They were after a bigger prize—the Dragon's Eye Ruby!

Nancy dropped a coin in the restaurant pay phone and punched in Felice Wainwright's phone number. She had to warn Felice that she could be in danger.

Click . . . click . . . bzzzt.
A strange noise came over the line. Nancy dialed the operator and was told that Felice's line was being checked for problems.

“Bess,” Nancy said, stepping over to the coatroom and scribbling a number on an Arizona House business card. “Here is Felice's number. Keep trying to call it. Tell her not to let Auguste or Brackett into her house. It's really important.”

“Okay. What's wrong?” Bess asked.

“I'll tell you when I get back,” Nancy said, dashing out the front door.

It was quarter to seven when Nancy pulled up the
drive of the Wainwright estate, where she was stopped by a uniformed security guard holding a walkie-talkie. “I'm Nancy Drew,” she told the guard. “Mrs. Wainwright knows me. I need to talk to her.”

The guard spoke into his walkie-talkie. Finally, he waved Nancy in.

As Nancy continued up the long drive, she was astounded at the transformation of the place. With the help of a party rental shop, Shawn had done an amazing job. Tiny white lights strung from poles twinkled festively in the early evening twilight. White tents sheltered tables lavishly spread with food, and crystal glassware sparkled on each table.

Nancy saw Shawn, dressed in his chef's whites, directing a small army of waiters and waitresses he'd hired just for the occasion. He didn't notice her, and she had no time to talk with him. She continued driving to the house.

The butler, Conrad, answered the door. “Come in, Ms. Drew,” he said politely. “The guard informed Mrs. Wainwright that you were coming. Please wait in the foyer. She's in the drawing room, talking with a gentleman at the moment. She'll be with you shortly.”

“A gentleman?” Nancy asked. “What did he look like?”

“I couldn't say, miss,” Conrad answered primly as he walked out of the foyer.

In contrast to the hustle and bustle outside, the mansion was calm and still. As soon as Conrad was
gone, Nancy hurried to the drawing room, where she'd met Felice the other day. Nancy peered through a crack between the high, sliding doors.

Inside, Felice was talking with Harold Brackett! Felice looked like a princess in her strapless gold gown. Her blond hair was swept sleekly back and held with a gold bow. Brackett's back was to Nancy.

“I'm so glad you want to purchase both paintings,” Felice said. “Shawn Morgan sent you to the right place. You can make a check out to Joseph Spaziente, and after the auction you may take the paintings.”

“I'd like them right away,” Brackett said, an edge in his voice.

“All I'm asking is a few more hours so that my guests can view these paintings,” Felice said.

“My dear woman, I want the paintings right now,” Brackett said in a low, cool voice.

Nancy heard Conrad coming back. Quietly, she slipped through the opening in the door. Felice and Brackett seemed engrossed in their conversation and didn't notice her.

“That's out of the question,” Felice said.

“I'm sorry it has to be this way,” Brackett replied, his voice full of menace.

This is getting scary, Nancy thought. I'm contacting security. She was about to slip back out the door when a sudden sharp cry from Felice stopped her.

Brackett had pulled a gun from his pocket! Felice's hand flew to her mouth as she stared at it in horror.

Nancy sucked in her breath. She had to do something. A small shelf near the door held antique leather-bound books. The bookends were a pair of sculpted marble parrots. Using one hand to ease the books onto their sides, Nancy slid a parrot from the shelf. It felt heavy and solid in her hand as she moved closer and closer to Brackett.