Without a Trace Read online

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Safer,” I added. “She’ll have the job done in no time.”

  Harold Safer sighed. “Well, I’m glad she’s here, then,” he said, leading the way toward the kitchen at the back of his house. “If I don’t get that curtain hung soon, I’m going to go crazy. I thought this would only take a minute; I have to get back to my shop. Plus, that nutjob neighbor of mine keeps glaring at me from next door every time I go in my kitchen. Can you believe that? Just because someone decides to mess with his garden, he thinks I’m responsible. You should have seen him last night—he was out there weeding, and he shot me so many dirty looks I wanted to go take a bath!”

  We entered the kitchen. It was clean and spacious, the white walls decorated with framed posters from various Broadway shows. Large windows overlooked the back and side yards. Lying on the floor below the side window were a shiny brass curtain rod, a set of linen curtains, several bent nails, and a small pile of dust.

  “Yes, we heard about the zucchini problem,” I said. “That’s why we’re here, actually. We want to find out who really did it.”

  “Really? Good,” Harold Safer said, flopping down onto a barstool at the counter. “Because at this point I’m afraid to go outside!”

  I could tell he was being dramatic, but his comments reminded me that I needed to take this mystery seriously, even if my friends wouldn’t. Neighborly relations were at stake. If Mr. Safer was hanging a curtain that would block even a part of his precious view just because of Mr. Geffington, things had to be pretty bad.

  Just then Bess entered holding a small hammer and some other tools. “Here we go,” she said cheerfully. “This should work much better than that mallet. Come on, George, help me hold up the brackets.”

  As the cousins got to work, I sat down next to Harold Safer at the counter. “Do you mind answering a few questions?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Ask away, Nancy,” he said. “I have nothing to hide from you or anybody else, no matter what that close-minded, zucchini-obsessed neighbor of mine says to the contrary. I mean, his accusations were actually sort of amusing at first. Can you imagine me sneaking into his garden in the dead of night, wielding some sort of caveman club, and smashing away at his precious vegetables? Although it does bring to mind that old joke:What do you get when an elephant walks through your garden?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Squash!” He grinned with delight.

  “All right, then,” I said with a polite chuckle. I could see that, as usual, it was going to be difficult to get a word in edgewise once Mr. Safer started talking. “Did you see or hear anything unusual on Tuesday night?”

  “Not a thing.” He shrugged. “As I recall, I went inside that night after the sunset and listened to the cast recording of Fiddler on the Roof. It’s one of my favorites, so I had it turned up quite loud. In fact, I almost didn’t hear the doorbell when Mrs. Zucker and little Owen stopped by after dinner, collecting for the Anvil Day festivities. So naturally I wouldn’t have heard anything going on next door short of a cannon blast.”

  “I see,” I said. “And did you see the damage the next day? To the zucchini, I mean.”

  “No,” he replied. “As you know, I don’t open the shop until ten A.M., and I don’t get up much before nine most mornings. By the time I looked out the window, I suppose Bradley had already cleared up the mess. At least, I never noticed a thing—didn’t even know what had happened until he came ranting and raving into the shop later that day.”

  “He came into the cheese shop and accused you?” I asked.

  “Yes, can you imagine the nerve?” Mr. Safer looked insulted. “Luckily there were no customers in there at the time. Once I figured out what he was going on about, I told him I didn’t do it. But he just muttered something about taking legal action and stormed out. I can’t imagine why he thought I would do such a thing!”

  “I guess he thought you were mad about his tomato cages blocking your view,” I said.

  “What?” He looked honestly surprised. “Are you serious? But that’s so last month’s news! Once I realized he wasn’t going to move those cages—why do they have to be so tall, anyway? You’d think he wanted his tomatoes to try out for a revival of Little Shop of Horrors or something—I simply moved my chaise a few yards to the right, and voila! Uninterrupted sunset views once again.”

  I blinked, trying to unwind his convoluted comments. “I see,” I said, when I finally figured out what he had just said. “Well, that’s all I can think of right now, then. I guess I’ll have to keep asking around and see if anyone else witnessed anything that night.”

  Harold Safer nodded. “Have you checked in with the people on the other side?” he asked. “I hear a young lady moved in earlier this week. I haven’t met her yet myself, but I’m dying to. I heard she’s the daughter of a fabulously wealthy European jet-setter. Possibly even some sort of minor royalty. Can you imagine? Right here in little old River Heights!”

  “We just met her,” I said. “Her name is Simone, and she’s very nice. But she didn’t say anything about royalty or the rest of it. She also didn’t see anything happen at Mr. Geffington’s the other night.”

  “Too bad,” Harold Safer said. “Ah well, I keep telling that insufferable Geffington that it was probably just raccoons after his zucchini anyway. Of course, he keeps insisting that it couldn’t have been, unless raccoons have learned to wield sledgehammers.” He rolled his eyes.

  I smiled sympathetically and glanced over at Bess and George, who were sliding the curtain rod into its newly hung brackets. At that moment Mr. Safer looked over and noticed what they were doing too.

  “Oh, wonderful!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands and jumping to his feet. “You girls are geniuses. I can’t thank you enough. You’ve saved my sanity, such as it is.”

  “It was no trouble at all, Mr. Safer,” Bess replied. “We’d better get going.”

  “I won’t hear of it! At least let me thank you girls with nice, cold sodas.” He was already hurrying toward the refrigerator. “Now, I won’t take no for an answer! Besides, I simply must tell someone about the revival of A Chorus Line I caught down in River City last weekend. . . .”

  I exchanged a glance with Bess and George. Obviously we weren’t going to be able to make a clean break of it this time. But I didn’t really mind. Sitting quietly while Harold Safer rambled on about his latest theater experience would give me a chance to think about the case.

  And I was starting to realize that this case really would take some thought. It might seem trivial on the surface, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy to solve. So far I’d turned up no witnesses, no clues, no motive, and no real direction for the investigation. On top of that, the scene of the crime had long since been cleared of any evidence that might have been there. How was I supposed to track down what had happened with absolutely nothing to go on?

  The clues are there, I reminded myself, as Mr. Safer served us sodas and chattered on happily. They always are. You just have to find them.

  That made me feel a little better. I sipped at my soda, going over what I’d learned so far. It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

  It was hard to stop Mr. Safer once he’d started talking. After describing the play he’d seen in astounding detail, he insisted on sharing the latest photos he’d taken of the sun setting over the river. Then he wanted us to listen to a new cast recording he’d downloaded off the Internet. George was actually sort of interested in that, though only the downloading part. She loves talking about computers with anyone who shares her passion for them, especially since Bess and I aren’t interested in them much beyond checking our e-mail or doing a little occasional research.

  Finally we managed to make our escape. Mr. Safer walked us to the door. “Thanks so much for stopping by, girls,” he said cheerfully. “I truly appreciate the help with the curtains. Not to mention your interest in the whole messy zucchini situation. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s ou
r own River Heights supersleuth, Nancy Drew.” He winked at me. “One of these days I’m going to write a musical about you, my dear!”

  I smiled. Mr. Safer has been saying that same thing since the first time I appeared in the newspaper for cracking a tough case. “Thanks for all your help, Mr. Safer,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Soon Bess, George, and I were hurrying down the sidewalk toward my house. “I wish we had time to talk to a few more people today,” I commented, glancing at my watch. “Talking to Mr. Safer has made me realize it really would be better to clear this up sooner rather than later.”

  “Yeah, I see your point,” George admitted. “Mr. Safer seemed pretty freaked out about all this.”

  Bess nodded. “He and Mr. Geffington have had disagreements before, but nothing like this. We’ve got to do something before things go any further.”

  “I’m supposed to meet Ned in an hour to go to the movies,” I said as we reached the sidewalk in front of my house. We all paused in front of Bess’s car, which was parked at the curb. “But maybe we can pick up on this sometime over the weekend if you guys aren’t busy.”

  “Sure,” Bess agreed for both of them. “Oh, and if you’re going out with Ned, you should wear that lavender blouse you never wear. It really brings out the color of your eyes. And don’t forget to put on lipstick! I keep telling you, it really makes a difference.”

  Bess is always trying to convince both George and me to take more interest in clothes and makeup—two subjects that interest her a lot and us not much at all. I like an occasional shopping spree as much as the next girl, and I enjoy wearing nice things on special occasions, but most of the time I just can’t be bothered thinking too much about stuff like that. As for George, she’s been a tomboy since the day she was born. If Bess hasn’t turned her into a fashion fiend by now, I don’t think it’s ever going to happen.

  “Okay, I’ll attempt to look human if at all possible,” I told Bess, with a playful wink at George. “See you guys tomorrow.”

  We parted ways, and I hurried into the house. Dad was nowhere to be seen, but our housekeeper, Hannah Gruen, was fixing dinner in the kitchen. Hannah has been with us since my mother died, and I think of her as part of the family. She appears brisk and efficient on the outside, but underneath her no-nonsense exterior lies a heart as ample as her considerable girth.

  “Oh, there you are, Nancy,” Hannah said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You just missed a phone call. The young lady sounded rather upset! Her number is on the pad.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried to look at the notepad next to the phone. Simone’s name and phone number were written there in Hannah’s neat cursive. “Oh! That’s the new owner of the Peterson place. We met her this afternoon. I wonder what she wants?”

  Figuring there was only one way to find out, I dialed the number. Simone answered, though she sounded so upset that I almost didn’t recognize her voice. “Nancy!” she cried when I identified myself. “I am so glad to hear from you. As you know, Pierre and I have met almost no one here in River Heights yet, and I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “What is it, Simone?” I asked anxiously. The worried crackle in her voice told me that something was wrong—very wrong.

  “It’s my Fabergé egg,” Simone replied. “I walked into the living room and noticed that it’s gone!”

  A Stolen Heirloom

  Five minutes later I was back on Simone’s porch, ringing her doorbell. When Simone answered the door, her face looked flushed and she was frowning.

  “Oh! It’s you,” she said, her scowl fading slightly. “Come in, Nancy. I thought you might be the police. I called them right before I called you.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” I said tactfully. I decided it wouldn’t help anyone to mention that Chief McGinnis of the River Heights Police Department doesn’t always bother to hurry unless the crime is something that might land him a headline in the Chicago papers. “In the meantime, do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “Of course.” Simone gestured for me to follow her inside. “Come in, I’ll introduce you to Pierre’s friends. They can help me explain it all.”

  I followed her into the living room. It didn’t look much like a crime scene. Having been there just a few hours earlier, I didn’t notice anything out of place.

  With one exception, of course. The glass case on the mantel that had held the Fabergé egg was open and empty.

  “You didn’t clean things up after you found the egg missing, did you?” I asked.

  Simone shook her head. “We haven’t touched a thing,” she said. “The egg seems to be the only thing that interested the burglar. Nothing else in here appears to have been disturbed.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  At that moment I heard voices from the direction of the kitchen. Pierre walked into the room, followed by three other young men.

  “Nancy!” Pierre exclaimed as soon as he spotted me. “I’m so glad you are here. Please allow me to introduce my friends: This is Jacques, and Thèo, and René.”

  He gestured to each young man in turn. Jacques was tall and slender, with light brown hair and an attractive face that had a slightly melancholy expression. Thèo was shorter, with dark hair and broad shoulders. René had sparkling green eyes, and hair as dark as Thèo’s but much curlier.

  “Nice to meet you all,” I said as the boys greeted me politely. “Welcome to River Heights. Sorry you had to arrive at such an unfortunate moment.”

  “Actually, they had already been here a little while when it happened,” Simone said. “They arrived just a few minutes after you and your friends left.”

  “Yes, and we feel just awful about it all, as we feel we are partly responsible,” Jacques said earnestly in lightly accented English.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Thèo shrugged. “It is because we forgot to lock the door.” His French accent was much stronger than Jacques’s, but his voice and expression were equally worried. “Pierre, he offered to show us the town. We were all very eager to see it, and so we hardly took the time to put our luggage upstairs or lock the doors.”

  “Yes, it’s my fault.” Pierre sighed loudly. “Simone, she is always telling me to lock the doors. It may be a small town, but there are bad people everywhere. But I just cannot remember. This town—after Paris, it seems so . . . so good.”

  I sighed. “Trust me, we get our share of crime even here in sleepy little River Heights.” Sometimes it seems we get much more than our share, in fact. But I didn’t bother to try to explain that. Simone, Pierre, and their friends already felt bad enough.

  “Well, I shouldn’t have left you all here so soon after your arrival,” Simone said. “I was just so eager to get the supplies for our party tomorrow night. I didn’t want to put off the shopping too long.”

  The French guys all spoke up at once, reassuring Simone that she was in no way responsible and that the fault was all theirs. Meanwhile, I looked around the room more carefully. I stepped toward the fireplace, being careful not to touch or bump into anything. The last thing I wanted to do was mess up the crime scene before the police arrived. But I was still having trouble believing that nothing else had been touched.

  “These bracelets,” I spoke up abruptly, interrupting whatever the others were saying. I pointed to the jeweled pieces that Bess had admired earlier. They were lying on an end table along with a few other knickknacks. “Simone, they look valuable. Are they?”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Simone replied. “I mean, those are real diamonds and pearls, so they must be worth a little something. They have sentimental family value to me; that’s why I display them here.”

  “Why wouldn’t the thief grab something like that on the way past?” I whispered, speaking more to myself than to the others. “It would be easy enough to slip them in a pocket or something. . . .” I glanced around and saw other valuable items—figurines, oil paintings, glassware, and more. Why only take the egg?r />
  “That is a good question,” René said, having heard my comments. “Perhaps we startled the thief upon our return.”

  “When did you return, exactly?” I asked. “Please, could you tell me everything that happened—how long you were out, when you discovered the theft, and so on?”

  “Well, of course,” Pierre said, though he looked surprised at the request. I guessed that meant that Simone hadn’t told him about my reputation as a detective. “My friends arrived about fifteen minutes after you left, as Simone said. We showed them around the house, then Simone left almost immediately to do the shopping. My friends took their bags upstairs, then we went out to walk around the neigh-borhood. We were gone about an hour, maybe a little more. When Jacques and René returned to the house together, Simone had just come in and noticed the egg missing. Thèo and I were still outside looking at the river, and we rushed in when René called us, and then heard what had happened.”

  “That’s right,” Simone said. “I noticed that the egg was gone right away, because the sun was slanting in through the window and hit the open door of the case to make a reflection.”

  “I see.” I thought about that for a moment. “And was the case locked before?”

  “Yes,” Simone said. “And the case is bolted to the wall. But it wouldn’t have been difficult for the thief to find the key. I only kept it tucked under the clock there.” She pointed to a clock sitting on the other end of the mantel.

  I stepped a little closer to the fireplace for a better look at the clock. As I did so, the adjoining den came into view through an open doorway. I saw that a table in there was overturned.

  “Did the thief do that as well?” I asked, pointing.

  Pierre nodded. “He must have,” he said. “See? The table was near the back door. We think he heard us coming back from our walk and in his rush to get out he knocked into the table.”

  “Yes, and if René didn’t always talk so much, perhaps we would have heard the crash,” Thèo added with a twinkle in his eye.