The Vanishing Statue

  Dear Diary,

  YOU MIGHT THINK RIVER HEIGHTS is a pretty average town: not too big, not too small, with enough new businesses popping up and strangers passing through to keep life interesting. But this year, the town is throwing our first annual Art Week. The River Heights Museum of Fine Art will have free admission after five p.m., and there’s going to be a parade and a new art gallery opening in East River Heights. The city hired artists to paint murals in the alleyways downtown. The streets are suddenly full of visitors with interesting outfits and even more interesting haircuts.

  I think all the arty visitors are inspiring the locals to be more creative too. Yesterday, George and I watched a woman spray-paint a huge golden dragon onto the side of the hardware store. My ordinary town already seems more colorful. I hope some of our unusual visitors take a liking to River Heights and decide to stay.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Mysterious Invitation

  USUALLY I’D BE HAPPY TO hear the latest River Heights gossip from one of my best friends, Bess Marvin. But not when she called my cell at eight a.m. on a Saturday, when I was trying to sleep in. I answered on the fourth ring, still half dreaming about a mystery in a haunted castle where the final clue was just out of reach. …

  Bess’s musical laughter startled me awake. “Nancy, I can hear you snoring! Wake up! You have to check your mailbox right now.”

  “Bess, it’s too early. The mail hasn’t even been delivered yet. Ms. Vandra comes at eleven on Saturdays.”

  “This is special mail, Nancy. Hand delivered by members of her staff.”

  “Staff? Whose staff? What are you talking about?”

  “Her staff. Gosh, I’d love to have people to order around. She probably sits on her throne all day just telling different people what to do. …”

  I groaned and rolled out of bed.

  “Bess, you’re not making sense. If you’d just give me a minute, I’ll go get the ‘special mail’ and figure it out for myself.”

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, pulled on a robe and slippers, and headed out into the chilly morning to check the mailbox. I put Bess on speakerphone and let her keep chattering away. I knew even if I told her to buzz off and let me sleep, she’d call back until I did as she said. Bess could be very persistent.

  “I’m thinking something chic and black with architectural elements. Or maybe a glamorous take on the tuxedo, with a sparkly cape! I can’t wait, Nancy. It’s going to be fabulous!”

  “All right. Slow down. Let me see if there’s anything in here. …” I rummaged around in the gloomy mailbox, keeping watch for spiders. At the back I found three small gold-colored envelopes. One was addressed to me: MISS NANCY DREW. The second was to my father, CARSON DREW, ESQ. And the third was for our housekeeper, Hannah Gruen.

  “Did you get the invitation?” asked Bess, unable to contain herself. “You did! You got it! Nancy, it’s the party of the year, and we’re invited!”

  “What are we invited to?”

  I tore open the envelope addressed to me. The invitation inside was printed in gold ink on thick, cream-colored paper; I had to tilt the paper at just the right angle in order to catch enough light to read it by.

  Please accept this invitation to a Celebration of the Arts next Saturday evening, March 18, at the Strickland mansion on Regent’s Hill Road, at six o’clock. Suitable dress politely requested. This is a one-time-only event. It will not be repeated.

  Regent’s Hill Road winds along the ridge on the north side of town. It’s mostly hiking trails and horse farms out there. I didn’t know much about the Strickland mansion, just that it was the home of a wealthy but reclusive widow who’d had something to do with the arts in River Heights years ago. Now, all of a sudden, I was being invited to a grand party at that very mansion.

  Before I had time to wonder about the reason for the invitation, Bess said, “So, our hostess is pretty eccentric. Nobody’s allowed to use her first name. She only answers to “Duchess” because her husband’s name was Duke. That’s just according to rumor, though. She hasn’t been seen in town for ten years, not since her husband died.”

  “So why would she break her silence now?”

  “No idea, but I’ll tell you one thing. That mansion must have the best view in all of River Heights. And I, for one, intend to savor that view. Maybe strike a few poses for the photographers, show off my fabulous gown … Remember that sculpture class I took last summer? With that cute TA?”

  “Oh, the infamous Sven Svenstein? You wouldn’t stop talking about him after he gave you that book on female performance artists.”

  “I’m going to ask him to be my date. What about you, my gumshoe friend?”

  “I’m definitely going, mystery or not!”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear. You go back to bed now, Nancy. I’ll see you later at the Slay Gallery opening. I have to hang up so I can start making my vision board. I haven’t even settled on a color palette. …”

  * * *

  Of course, once you’ve been out to the mailbox early in the morning and received a mysterious invitation, it can be very hard to fall asleep again. I gave up on returning to my dream of the haunted castle and wandered downstairs to the kitchen, where I found Hannah making coffee and whistling a merry tune.

  “Wow, look who’s up early! Are you hungry? I can make French toast. …”

  “Oh, yes please!” I exclaimed. Hannah’s French toast is heavenly, topped with a cloud of her homemade whipped cream and strawberries. Lately she’d been adding extra toppings like cinnamon and shaved Mexican chocolate, even a little chili powder. I loved her classic French toast, but her creative new flavors made my mouth water!

  “Hannah, did you see a stranger come by this morning to deliver some mail?”

  “No, why?”

  “We just got these fancy invitations,” I explained, and handed over the one addressed to her.

  After she’d opened the envelope and read the invitation, I asked her, “Do you know anything about this Duchess person?”

  “All I know is that she’s very wealthy and was a big patron of the arts before her husband died. Your father will probably know more.” She paused, then added, “If I met the Duchess, I might say something silly and make her faint dead away!”

  I laughed. Hannah was one of my favorite people to talk to. She was always so warm and down-to-earth. I couldn’t imagine anyone not getting along with her.

  “I’d better get started on this French toast,” she said. “It will be my greatest masterpiece yet! Meanwhile, would you take this to your father for me?”

  Without waiting for my answer, Hannah handed me a tray with our silver coffee service. I propped the golden envelope against the mug where my dad would be sure to see it. This would be the perfect opportunity to learn more about the Duchess of River Heights.

  * * *

  Entering my dad’s study, I sang, “Good morning!” in my cheeriest voice. That wasn’t my normal greeting, but Bess’s enthusiasm was infectious. I, too, was imagining the perfect party dress. I couldn’t wait to meet artists and visitors from the big city, eat canapés, gaze at paintings, and talk about lofty ideas. And I assumed there’d be dancing.

  “Morning, Nancy,” Dad mumbled, hardly looking up from his paperwork. I filled his mug and handed it to him. He sipped greedily, closing his eyes. I’ll never understand his obsession with black coffee. I poured myself a mug, added plenty of cream, and took a sip. Much better.

  “Dad, something came in the mail for you. Don’t you want to open it?”

  “What’s that? Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know where my mind is this morning. Intellectual property law is a real rat’s nest. I hate to say it, but I may be in over my head with this case. It’s so dif
ficult to prove an idea is original or who thought of it first. Promise me you’ll always make sure you get the credit you’re due for your hard detective work. Don’t let anyone undersell your talents.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no one in River Heights who could solve a mystery as creatively as your daughter.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Dad chuckled and slit the golden envelope with an antique letter opener. “Anyway, I could use a break from these papers. … Let’s see what we have here. An invitation to the Strickland house! Well. I haven’t been invited there in years, not since I was a young man, even before I met your mother. I still remember two exquisite paintings the Stricklands had hanging by the staircase—portraits of two children smiling, but their eyes looked sad. All during dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Who were those kids? What had upset them? Who was the painter? I was too shy to ask. Hey, maybe you can find out for me, my darling sleuth.”

  “Who are the Stricklands?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Strickland threw fabulous parties to raise money for their favorite causes. They helped fund the construction of the River Heights Museum of Fine Art, and they bought nearly half the books in the public library. They were pillars of the River Heights art world, back when River Heights had an art world.”

  “How could one couple have such a big impact on the entire town?”

  “Money talks, Nancy. Most wealthy people think of art as a tool to make more money. But I don’t think that’s what drove the Stricklands. Duke Strickland made his fortune selling lace and ribbons, then cat toys, then bottled teas and tinctures. He was an innovator, River Heights’s very own Thomas Edison. Duke was a dear old man, and he was very generous with his money. His wife, the Duchess, filled their house with beautiful art and sculptures. She loved to invite art students to study her collection, and she’d give tours of the mansion.”

  “So what happened? Why did the Stricklands stop supporting the arts?”

  “Duke had a long, terrible illness. While he was in the hospital, the parties stopped and the donations dried up. All the wonderful artsy people who used to visit River Heights stopped coming. When Duke passed away—oh, it must have been about ten years ago—the Duchess was heartbroken. She’d just lost her husband, and not only that, but she must have felt that the artistic community she’d built over the years had abandoned her.

  “She disappeared from public life. She vanished into that big mansion and stopped speaking to anyone, even her own family. And gradually, all the artists moved away to big cities.”

  “Why did the artists leave?” I asked.

  “Big cities have more opportunity for artists. Without the Stricklands, River Heights couldn’t support the galleries and studios the artists needed to survive.”

  “So why would the Duchess open her home now?”

  “It does seem peculiar,” my dad agreed. “Maybe the River Heights Art Week encouraged her. Maybe she’s seen some of the new murals and the artists visiting town. Maybe she thinks River Heights is ready to bloom again.” Dad took a pensive sip of his coffee.

  “Now I’m really curious,” I said. “There’s no way I’m going to miss the Duchess’s party.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see her collection again? I wonder if she still has those haunting portraits. Too bad I won’t be able to see for myself. The trial for this case is a week from Monday, and it looks like I’ll have to spend the entire weekend beforehand preparing. You’ll have to pay extra close attention and report everything back to me afterward.”

  “You know I always do, Dad, but I’m sorry you’re not coming,” I said as I slipped out of the room, leaving him to his books.

  * * *

  I didn’t wait even five minutes before calling Ned. He’d been up for an hour already. I knew he liked to stay in bed and read every morning. I liked that he was studious and quiet, but I had to admit my boyfriend was a little nerdy.

  “Hey, Nancy!”

  “Ned! Have you heard about the Duchess’s party? It’s next Saturday, and I want you to be my date. If you don’t have an invitation, Dad says you can use his. What do you say? Are you free?”

  I heard crackling on the line. Ned probably had a bad connection. That, or he’d rolled over on his phone.

  “Nancy? Nancy, I can’t go! I’m being kidnapped!”

  “Who is it this time?” I asked. “Smugglers? Jewel thieves? A disgruntled magician?”

  “The kidnapper … is your father. He hired me to help research intellectual property law for this new plagiarism case. I’ll be buried in law books all week. I can’t go to the party. I wouldn’t be any fun.”

  “Oh no, Ned! I’ll have a word with Dad. He’ll have to give in. This isn’t just any party! And who knows? Maybe a mystery will pop up.”

  “With artistic types, there’s always a mystery. Last night, I was reading about a Renaissance printmaker called Albrecht Dürer who sued another artist for carving duplicates of his wooden printing blocks. The court ruled that the man could go on making the duplicate blocks as long as he didn’t include an artist’s monogram. After that, Dürer started printing a warning at the front of all his books. I have the quote right here.

  “It says: ‘Hold! You crafty ones, strangers to work, and pilferers of other men’s brains. Think not rashly to lay your thievish hands upon my works. Beware! Know you not that I have a grant from the most glorious Emperor Maximillian, that not one throughout the imperial dominion shall be allowed to print or sell fictitious imitations of these engravings? Listen! And bear in mind that if you do so, through spite or through covetousness, not only will your goods be confiscated, but your bodies also placed in mortal danger.’ ”

  “Mortal danger! That’s strong stuff.”

  “Artists have to be crafty to protect their work. It’s much easier to steal an idea than to make one up yourself,” said Ned.

  “Promise you’ll try to join us at the party, at least for a little while?”

  “I promise I’ll try.”

  “You work too much, sweet Ned,” I said, making sure he could tell I was pouting.

  “You work too much, Detective Drew.”

  “That’s not true! I’m attending this party strictly as a civilian. A civilian who wants to dance with her cute boyfriend.”

  “I’m sorry, Nance! I promise I’ll take you dancing another time.”

  “Fine, but I am determined to enjoy myself at the Duchess’s party, sans date if I have to!”

  “You’ll make the best of it. You always do.”

  “I’ll miss you!” I said before hanging up.

  I could smell a golden, toasty aroma wafting up from the kitchen. My French toast was ready. As I got to the table, Hannah laid a final sprig of mint on top of a voluminous mound of soft pink cream.

  “Raspberries,” she said, grinning ear to ear.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Masked Dancer

  THAT AFTERNOON, BESS AND I met at the new gallery, located in a large concrete building tucked away in an old strip mall at the far fringes of East River Heights, nestled between used car dealerships and tire shops. The storefront had two huge picture windows printed with bright pink vinyl letters that read SLAY GALLERY. We’d been invited to the grand opening and a special performance later that day by two artists who called themselves the Goddess Collective. Bess led me around to the back of the building, where an unmarked gray door led to a warren of artists’ studios.

  Sven Svenstein, the art student Bess had met, had suggested we visit his studio before the gallery opening. He told Bess he’d give us a sneak peek at his installation in progress. George (my other best friend, and Bess’s cousin) had said she was too busy to join us, but I think she just didn’t want to. She’s never approved of her cousin’s crushes, and Sven was a particularly odd one. Bess told me the last time they all hung out together, Sven and George had gotten into a huge fight about whether technology made art better or worse. Since then, George had been trying to avoid anywhere Sven might
show his face. But she’d agreed to meet us later at the gallery opening.

  Sven was gangly, pale, and thin, with intense gray eyes and a shock of white-blond hair. He always dressed in colorful leotards and refused to walk normally. Some days he only skipped; other days he walked on tiptoes or backward, bumping into people on the street. Sven did not say goodbye to anyone. He preferred to simply disappear, catapulting out of sight the minute you were distracted. When Bess and I had seen him perform at the college a few weeks ago, she’d fallen madly in like with Sven’s gray eyes and his ability to make himself the center of attention. I could understand that. Bess could be quite dramatic herself. Maybe they were a good match.

  Given that my date was unavailable, I was thinking of going with George. She’d also gotten an invitation but immediately lost it in the chaos of her room.

  When we got to the studio door labeled with Sven’s name, we knocked, but no one answered. I tried the knob and the door swung open, revealing a cavernous concrete space scattered with old telephones, printers, fax machines, paper shredders, and other broken electronics. In the center of the room, Sven had built a giant pyramid of TV sets. The TVs were all showing sections of a different image—the arms, legs, and torso of a faceless man in a bright yellow jumpsuit. The TV where his face should’ve been was running old Tom and Jerry cartoons. I noticed that the televisions didn’t have screens except for the head. What at first looked like an image was actually a three-dimensional sculpture positioned inside each of the sets. The construction was clever enough, I thought, but what was it trying to say?

  I’d moved closer, trying to find a clue as to the meaning, when the hand in one of the sets suddenly waved.

  I jumped, but Bess giggled as the TV playing cartoons rose slowly to reveal a very real and three-dimensional face grinning back at us. That wasn’t a sculpture inside the pyramid—it was Sven!