Portrait in Crime Read online

  “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.”

  Nancy, feeling the warmth of his muscular body behind her, had to force her mind back to listen to his directions.

  “And this is a jazz step,” he continued. “Three steps toward me, now bend back around my arm—like this.” He pulled her smoothly down into a dip. “Jazz is the best!”

  “What about ballet?” Nancy murmured, her head against his arm. His rock-hard biceps held her up effortlessly. It felt wonderful!

  “Ballet doesn’t have this freedom,” Sasha declared. “Jazz has wonderful emotion.” He spun her around until she was wrapped in his embrace, facing him. He held her that way for a moment before releasing her. “Jazz is made for a man and a woman.”

  They danced in the center of the empty hall, Nancy laughing at her inexperience. “You are wonderful,” he assured her, twirling her around. “You have natural grace. Are you sure you have never had a lesson?”

  “Just tap,” she explained, “and karate.”

  “Then we should be doing floor exercises, or leaps,” Sasha said.

  Nancy rolled her eyes in mock horror. “I don’t think I’m ready to roll around on the floor today,” she said. “Let’s stick to the basics.”

  Sasha’s face clouded. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  Nancy felt bad. She hadn’t meant to sound that way. “Of course I trust you,” she replied, keeping her tone light. As soon as she said it, she knew it was true. She did trust Sasha. It was her own feelings she couldn’t trust!

  “Then here is something very basic,” Sasha said. His strong hands grasped her waist. “Put your hands on mine.” He lifted her easily, high above his head, swinging around in a circle.

  “Basic ballet,” he murmured as he eased her back down, sliding her body against his.

  “Well,” Nancy began, her gaze locked on his, her head whirling. “We’ll certainly be a hit at the Lobster Tank if we try this maneuver there!”

  “Then we should,” he said, holding her tightly.

  Nancy swallowed hard. Sasha’s face was inches from hers. “Sasha, I . . .” she began.

  Sasha’s eyes searched Nancy’s, a troubled look on his face. He reached out and touched his finger to her lips. “Do not tell me you will never dance with me again, Nancy.”

  Nancy had a sudden urge to comfort him. She pushed it aside with difficulty. “Sasha,” she said, smiling despite herself, “thanks for the lesson.” She squeezed his arm and pulled away gently. “I think that’s enough for today.”

  • • •

  Nancy saw Sasha again in a couple of hours. Cynthia Gray had invited the young people to a preview of Christopher Scott’s show. Both new and old works were on display. A couple of New York’s major art critics had also been invited. Cynthia had hoped that all the publicity would tempt Scott to make an appearance, but there was no sign of the painter.

  Nancy spotted Bob Tercero talking with some very glamorous-looking women. He saw Nancy looking at him and smiled brightly.

  Nancy smiled back, but Bob didn’t see because he had already turned his attention back to his guests. Nancy circled the room alone, examining the Scott paintings on display. One was the large pink canvas she had seen earlier. Another was small, a seascape with boats, and Nancy’s favorite was a bold blue-and-white rendering of an empty beach, which had been painted a year earlier.

  Nancy’s attention was caught by this painting because it appeared to be very simple, just a beach, waves, and sky. But there was something magical about it, something that made her want to walk into the scene. The beach sparkled, the waves glistened, and for a moment Nancy was sure the water was actually moving. As she stood staring at it, Nancy understood for the first time why Christopher Scott was considered a great painter.

  She looked for Sasha, who had gone to get a soft drink, and saw him talking with George and Gary and a woman she didn’t know. The woman, dressed in a skintight red suit, couldn’t keep her eyes off Sasha. George spotted Nancy and excused herself to join her friend.

  “She’s the wife of someone important,” George said, referring to the woman in red. “Poor Sasha. She’s so boring!”

  Nancy smiled. “Well, then, we should stay far away from her, shouldn’t we?” Then she took a second look. The woman was resting her hand on Sasha’s arm. “She certainly seems interested in Sasha, though,” Nancy added under her breath.

  “Don’t worry, she’s much too old for him,” Ge
orge said. She grinned slyly at Nancy.

  “George!” Nancy was annoyed for a moment. She wished her friends wouldn’t tease her about Sasha.

  “Okay, okay,” George said. “Sorry. I promise I won’t mention either of you again this evening.”

  Nancy and George moved around the room, listening to conversations, trying to pick up any new information about Christopher Scott.

  “Everyone is speculating about the show and wondering whether Scott will show up,” George said. “Seems like the whole town knows something’s up.”

  “I noticed that,” Nancy said slowly. “People are trading stories about the last time they saw him. You know, I think the most recent ‘encounter’ I heard about was from some woman who said she’d seen him in the supermarket last fall.”

  “Last fall!” George exclaimed. “That was almost a year ago!”

  Nancy nodded. She guided George over to a corner where three well-dressed men were talking about the painter.

  “I guess he can’t bear to be here without Nicholas,” one of them suggested. “I hear he’s vowed to give up painting forever.”

  “Just between us,” the second man said, “I don’t know if that’s such a tragedy. Christopher’s work has been slipping lately. The new paintings I’ve seen in the last six months are very dull. Look at what they’ve got here tonight! The only piece worth mentioning is that blue-and-white canvas, and that one was done almost a year ago, I think.”

  Nancy saw Cynthia heading toward the group. She was dressed in gray silk, with large diamond drop earrings hanging almost to her shoulders.

  “If he has given up painting, this is a final farewell,” the third man replied, “and we should see his unfinished work. As you know, Christopher was famous for starting a canvas and not finishing it for years.”

  Cynthia floated up to the group. “Are you having a good time?” she asked them. “What do you think of the new works?”

  The three men complimented the new paintings, and then the third man repeated his comment about Scott’s unfinished work.

  Cynthia bristled. “Christopher Scott is far from retired,” she assured them: “And as for his unfinished work, I can assure you he’s finishing everything now.”

  The first man stepped in smoothly and suggested something to eat, and the group moved away. Nancy thought back to her trip to Scott’s studio. She hadn’t seen a single painting, finished or unfinished, in the whole place! Scott’s work had simply disappeared—the Vanity and all the unfinished paintings he was so famous for.

  Sasha and Gary came over to join the girls.

  “You abandoned me,” Gary said, slipping his arm fondly around George. “But I forgive you. Can I get you a soda?”

  Nancy turned to Sasha and yawned.

  “How can you be bored with me?” he protested, grinning. “I haven’t even said anything!”

  Nancy laughed. “It’s not you at all,” she said. “I guess it’s been a long day.”

  “Well, a walk in the fresh air should wake you up,” Sasha suggested.

  “George?” Nancy said, turning back to her friend. She thought it might be wise to invite her to come along. But to her surprise, George and Gary had slipped away and were nowhere to be seen. Bess was across the room with Tommy, talking with a young painter outfitted in black from head to toe.

  “Why not?” Nancy agreed, since she couldn’t think of any good excuse. Besides, a walk on the beach sounded terrific. She and Sasha hopped into her car and headed for the ocean.

  When they got out of the car, Nancy gathered her full cotton skirt in one hand and slipped off her shoes. She picked her way over the sand, her feet sinking luxuriously into it with each step.

  Nancy reached the waterline and sat down, picking up handfuls of white sand and pouring them back out in little piles. The wind carried the tangy smell of salt and fish across the beach.

  Nancy leaned back on her hands and dug her toes in the sand. “You’re right,” she said, “I feel much better now.”

  She looked around her. The setting was romantic. The moon was high in a clear, dark sky. The waves crashed on the sand, slipping up the shore almost to where Nancy and Sasha were sitting.

  “This is perfect,” she said, smiling up at Sasha. He put his arm around her in response.

  This time Nancy didn’t pull away. She sat there, wrapped securely in his embrace, listening to the waves.

  At last Nancy took a deep breath. She had to make a decision, she thought for the millionth time, and it might as well be now.

  “I don’t know what to say, Sasha,” she began, afraid to meet his eyes. “I’m all confused. I don’t know how I feel about you, or how I feel about Ned. I hope you don’t hate me.”

  “Hate you?” Sasha asked.

  “Don’t stop me, I need to say this,” Nancy continued, keeping her eyes on the ocean. “Ned and I, we don’t have any vows, but we trust each other. We have a very good, long-standing relationship, and I feel disloyal to him when I’m with you.”

  “So why are you with me?” he asked quietly.

  Nancy hugged her legs. Why was she? she asked herself. Finally, she turned to face him.

  “Because I have fun with you. I’m happy being with you,” she said, feeling vulnerable. “And I don’t know what it means or what to do about it.”

  Sasha laughed and squeezed her affectionately. “Look at me, Nancy,” he said, tilting her chin toward him with his finger. “Relax. Don’t worry about this. You have time to make up your mind.”

  Nancy smiled gratefully. Sasha, suddenly shy, cast around for something else to talk about.

  “What’s that?” he asked suddenly, pointing to a dark object in the sand.

  Nancy followed his finger. “This?” she asked, picking it up. “It’s a horseshoe crab.”

  Sasha was dubious. “It looks like a prehistoric bug,” he said.

  “They are a little scary looking,” she agreed. Seeing the distasteful look on Sasha’s face, she grinned. “It’s just the shell, silly.”

  It was getting late, Nancy realized, and it was time to go home. The two of them walked back to the car hand in hand. Nancy felt at peace. Sasha was right, they did have all the time in the world.

  “You want some music?” Sasha asked, opening the glove compartment to look for a tape.

  “There’s a tape in already,” Nancy replied.

  Sasha pulled out a tape from the slot. “Do you know what it is?” he asked, turning it over. “There’s no label.”

  Nancy shrugged, her eyes on the road. “Put it in and see.”

  Sasha pushed the tape in. There was a quiet hiss. Then suddenly a distorted voice floated out of the speakers.

  “If you don’t want to end up like Scott,” the voice warned, “you’ll stick to the murder and stay away from the Vanity!”

  Chapter

  Eight

  SASHA EJECTED THE TAPE in alarm. “I remember when this was supposed to be a nice, safe mystery,” he said grimly.

  “It does get weirder and weirder,” Nancy agreed. She filled Sasha in on her conversation with Bob Tercero and the comments she’d overheard at the party.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked. “We can’t just let this guy keep threatening you.”

  “It’s the first threat,” Nancy said, trying to think it through.

  “What about the note you got at the dance club?” Sasha reminded her.

  “The note seemed to me to be an attempt to help, some kind of a clue.”

  Sasha looked doubtful. “So you think they are from two different people?”

  “That’s the problem,” Nancy admitted, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel. “They could be from two different people, but I doubt it. Both messages refer to Scott’s murder, and nothing else we’ve uncovered so far has anything to do with murder.”

  “But why would the same person try to help you once, and then threaten you the next time?”

  “That’s what we have to find ou
t. What made our mysterious tipper change his or her mind about our investigation?”

  After assuring him she would call him the next day, Nancy dropped Sasha off and headed home.

  She was back to murder, Nancy realized as she climbed into bed, and back to Nicholas Scott. Every time she decided she was finished with Nicholas, something pointed to him again. Unless . . . unless, Nancy thought excitedly, maybe she’d misunderstood the first note.

  Maybe someone was trying to tell her that Christopher Scott was murdered! Sitting up in bed, Nancy tried to reason this out.

  If Christopher Scott had been murdered, who would be leaving clues for Nancy? The killer? It didn’t seem likely. But if it was just someone who knew too much and was scared to come forward, why would that person leave a threatening note?

  Why would anyone kill Christopher Scott? And when would it have happened? He had been working the day Nicholas died, so he would have to have been killed between then and Nicholas’s funeral.

  “But if Christopher was killed,” Nancy said out loud, “what happened to the body?” She stared into the darkness. She knew that murder was hard to cover up. Bodies didn’t vanish without a trace.

  And then there was the question of motive. The bad guy, as Sasha put it, seemed to be Bob Tercero. But why? He should want Christopher alive and working. He made money from Christopher’s paintings, and he really seemed to want Nancy to find Christopher.

  All right, so maybe it was ridiculous to think Christopher had been murdered. The whole case just didn’t make sense! Nancy thought, tossing restlessly.

  This last clue, the warning on the tape, definitely tied the missing Vanity painting to the mystery. Nancy would have to find the red-haired model and the painting, she vowed, and the sooner the better. She’d get to work on it first thing in the morning.

  With that, she finally fell into a troubled sleep.

  • • •

  The next morning Nancy met Bess and George at breakfast with Aunt Eloise.