Hidden Pictures Read online

  Susan let out a huff of breath. “It was in Beverly’s contract when she donated the photographs to the museum.” Susan seemed very unhappy about this. “She wanted to be able to come visit the collection in private, at night, whenever she wanted. But I don’t see why you need any of this information for your article.”

  “Every detail helps,” I said. If Beverly was one of the few people who knew the combination to this door, then it was looking more and more likely that she had something to do with all this. Especially if she had specifically asked to be able to visit the museum privately, at night. I was about to try and ask Susan to open the door one last time, when she told me it was time to leave.

  Susan ushered me over to the door back into the DeSantos exhibit and held it open for me.

  “I’m glad you’re writing about the exhibit, and I’m really not in any position to turn down free publicity. But please do not try to get into this hallway again,” she warned me as I stepped back through the doorway. Susan pointed toward the far end of the exhibit, where a crowd of people was still gathered. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to do here, or what you’ve gotten yourself involved in. But in my opinion, you should be much more careful.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked her. But she had disappeared back into the staff hallway and closed the door.

  I did a quick survey of the exhibit space, focusing specifically on the ceiling. Just like Susan had said, there were three cameras dotting the room. I approached the closest one and looked up at it. It looked identical to the one in the staff hallway, and it too had a steadily blinking red light. Susan had said there wasn’t anything suspicious in the video cameras’ footage, but I wasn’t sure that I believed her. There was something strange about the video camera itself, though I wasn’t sure what it was exactly.

  Eventually I spotted Bess and George standing near the crowd of people, and I made my way over to them.

  “No luck,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out the combination.”

  Bess and George turned around to face me, and to my surprise they both looked incredibly worried. George had her brows drawn together, and Bess was fiddling with the ends of her hair.

  “Nancy!” said Bess. “Thank God you’re back.”

  “What?” I said. “Why do you say that?”

  Instead of answering, George just grabbed my hand and began dragging me farther into the crowd of people. “There’s something you need to see,” she said, sounding very serious.

  As George and I began making our way through the crowd, I noticed that everyone was turning back to look at me. As soon as they each saw my face, they either pulled away from me, or else leaned over to their neighbor and began pointing at me and whispering.

  “George?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  We were at the front of the crowd, and I could finally see what everyone had been looking at. It was another photograph of Shady Oaks in the 1940s, but it wasn’t the one that contained the image of Grace or the one with Jacob. There was someone new trapped within the frozen world of a DeSantos photograph. Me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Overexposure

  GEORGE AND BESS WERE STANDING just behind me as I stared at my own face, impossibly walking through the background of an old photograph.

  “Is that me?” I asked, even though it clearly was. “How is that possible?”

  Bess was next to me and shaking her head.

  “That’s what we were asking,” said George. “And you clearly aren’t missing. You’re standing right here.”

  I looked more closely at the photograph. It looked similar to the images of Grace and Jacob. The image of me matched the texture and tone of the rest of the photograph, and it was once more a full-body image that made it appear as though I was walking through the background of a Shady Oaks of the past.

  Unlike the images of Grace and Jacob, however, there were a few more details I could notice in my own picture. In the photograph, I was wearing my raincoat. At first I assumed the picture of me must have been taken today. But then I noticed my cable-knit sweater, only just visible beneath my jacket. So the image must have been taken yesterday.

  There was also, I noticed, a strange line running down my torso. It was fuzzy and I couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked like maybe something had gotten between myself and the camera lens.

  “Nancy?” asked Bess. “What does this mean?”

  We were still surrounded by people, and they were all still looking in my direction. So I nodded in the direction of the museum’s front door, and the three of us headed outside.

  We stepped out the door, and it was now fully cloudy. It had also started to rain a little, and George and I pulled our jacket hoods up over our heads. Bess pulled out her polka-dotted umbrella and held it over the three of us. We were standing just to the side of the museum, but with the rain, I felt confident no one was going to hang around and listen in on our conversation.

  “I think the photograph is a warning,” I said. “Whoever is behind all this has to be improvising now. I think whoever kidnapped Grace and Jacob wants me to stop investigating. Or I’m going to be next.”

  “That sounds really bad,” said Bess. “Do we stop investigating?” Both she and George looked concerned by the idea that I might be the next target, and I could tell that Bess in particular was remembering being kidnapped herself, not too long ago.

  “Actually,” I said, “this might be a good thing.”

  George’s eyebrows shot up and Bess’s eyes widened. “Nancy,” said George. “How is this possibly a good thing?”

  “The only reason someone would send us a warning was if we were on the right track,” I explained. “I still think I’m right about that door in the museum. And now I know how to get back there. I just have to ask someone for the door code.”

  “Ask who?” asked Bess. “Who knows it besides Susan?”

  I smiled. “Beverly DeSantos.”

  * * *

  Bess, George, and I began walking downtown, in the direction of the diner and the Bean and Briar Coffee Shop and all the other stores we had walked by while in Shady Oaks. As we walked, my friends tried to convince me that talking to Beverly DeSantos was a bad idea.

  “Don’t you think Beverly DeSantos is behind all this?” asked George.

  “Yeah,” said Bess. “I thought she was our number one suspect.”

  I shook my head. “I just have a hunch that it isn’t her,” I said. “Why would she donate all those photographs to the exhibit just to sabotage the museum later? Plus, I’m beginning to think that the interview Beverly did got blown way out of proportion. I don’t think she really meant that she hated her family. I’m thinking she just didn’t want to be famous.”

  “But do we have evidence for any of that?” asked George. “It sounds like you’re just guessing.”

  I stopped walking. George was right; I was mainly just speculating about all of this. That wasn’t how I preferred to solve mysteries. Normally, I would want to find a lot more evidence before jumping to conclusions. But I had a gut feeling about Beverly, and I felt like I should trust it.

  “I am guessing,” I said. “But regardless, Susan is never going to tell us the combination. The police think this is all a publicity stunt, and Susan said that they already went through her security footage and didn’t find anything. Grace was the museum’s only employee, and she’s missing. The only other person who knows the combination is Beverly DeSantos. So I have to ask her.”

  Bess and George both looked at me and eventually agreed. I could tell that they were skeptical about this plan. But luckily for me, they were also great friends who were willing to trust me and my ideas, even the ones that made them both nervous.

  “All right,” said Bess. “So how do we find Beverly DeSantos?”

  That was a good question. I had no idea where Beverly lived. But Shady Oaks was so small, and Beverly was such a local celebrity, that I felt confident most people living here must know. The only questio
n was whether they would be willing to tell us.

  “By asking around,” I said. “We’ll ask anyone from Shady Oaks that we come across. Let’s start with shop owners and employees.” I gestured toward the row of shops and stores ahead of us, and Bess and George nodded.

  We started with the Bean and Briar Coffee Shop, followed by the local grocery store, a pet store, and the post office. We didn’t have much luck. Once we began asking about Beverly, no one seemed to want to speak to us.

  The owner of the local grocery store, wearing a heavy white apron around his stomach, even said that he wouldn’t tell us anything because he didn’t want to be the next person to disappear.

  “Do you really believe Beverly DeSantos is kidnapping people, though?” George asked him.

  “Yes,” said the man seriously, before ushering us out of his store.

  After we were back outside, George turned to Bess and me and said, “I think everyone in this town is terrified of Beverly DeSantos.”

  “It sure seems like it,” said Bess.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But let’s keep going. All we need is one person who is willing to talk to us. C’mon, let’s try this place next.”

  We walked up to the arts and crafts store I had noticed when we first got into town, the one with a large portrait of Christopher DeSantos in the front window display. It was one of those places that allows you to make your own ceramic mugs and plates and then decorate them yourself.

  The door chimed as we stepped inside. It was a small shop, and up at the front was an even smaller lady. She was an older woman, with gray hair brushed up into a loose bun, and looked as though she was barely five feet tall. She was wearing large, round glasses and was peering up at us from behind the front counter. “Welcome,” she said, smiling at us kindly.

  We smiled and waved at her. “I’ll go talk to her,” Bess whispered to us. Bess was excellent at charming people, and I hoped this woman would be no exception.

  George and I spent a few minutes silently looking around the shop. The shelves were lined with mugs, bowls, plates, and other dishware. Some of them were hand-painted in all kinds of colorful hues, while others were decorated with photos of babies and smiling family portraits. Lining one of the walls was a series of plates featuring photographs of the same two dogs. They were both mastiffs and they looked incredibly large.

  “Those are my dogs,” said a voice behind us. I turned around to see Bess and the older woman. The woman was gesturing toward the plates. “I made those myself. Do you like them?”

  I nodded enthusiastically, even though I thought they were maybe a little odd. “They’re great,” I said.

  George was standing next to me and had yet to answer the question. I quickly elbowed her in the side. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, they’re really nice.”

  “We can also transfer images to mugs or refrigerator magnets or anything else you’d like,” said the woman. “The process is very simple. Or you can paint all kinds of pottery items, if you prefer. Are you interested in making something today?”

  George opened her mouth, about to answer the woman’s question, but luckily, Bess cut her off. I was certain that George would have said no, that she wasn’t interested, and I was glad Bess didn’t give her that chance.

  “Perhaps another time,” said Bess quickly. Then she turned to me and George and said, “Mrs. Park has agreed to tell us where Beverly DeSantos lives, since we’re such big fans of hers.”

  “Oh!” I said. “Yes, thank you.”

  Mrs. Park began walking back over to the front counter. I followed her while Bess and George hung back.

  “Just as long as you promise to only walk past the house,” Mrs. Park said over her shoulder. “Please don’t bother poor Beverly. She hates the attention. She’s very private, you know.”

  “Of course,” I said. I turned around, and Bess and I made eye contact for a moment, both clearly feeling guilty about this lie. Bothering Beverly was exactly what we planned to do. I just had to hope our meddling would eventually benefit Beverly DeSantos more than it would hurt her.

  Mrs. Park pulled out a pen and a piece of paper from underneath the counter. She began writing down the address and a few quick directions with a shaky hand. “Beverly grew up here in Shady Oaks, you see. I’ve known her since she was a small girl,” she said. “People here are so hard on her. Everyone always assumes the worst. She really doesn’t deserve it.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t,” I said. I was surprised that I actually meant this. I didn’t think Beverly deserved all the hostility she got, though I wasn’t completely sure why.

  Mrs. Park finished writing and handed the slip of paper over to me. “Here you are,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I told her. “You’ve really helped us.”

  Mrs. Park nodded at me and smiled. I turned away from the counter and headed back toward Bess and George.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s head over to Beverly’s house and—”

  Before I could say anything else, Bess called out, “Riley!” She said it loud enough to drown out what I was saying, and when I looked at her, I could see she was looking over my shoulder and waving.

  I turned around and sure enough, Riley had just walked into the store. With the photographic warning, it was clear someone was watching the investigation. And I really wasn’t sure who I could trust. I certainly couldn’t tell anyone else that I was about to visit Beverly DeSantos, and for a moment I was worried about sneaking away from Riley long enough to go through with my plan.

  “Hey, guys!” called Riley. “I saw you from outside.”

  She began walking toward us. “George,” I whispered quickly. “Show Riley the dog plates.”

  “What?” said George, looking confused. “Why?”

  Before I could answer, Riley was already standing next to us. For a moment, George didn’t say anything. I nudged her shoulder.

  “Um,” said George. “Riley. Come look at these cool dog plates with me.”

  It wasn’t the smoothest distraction ever. Bess and I both smiled as if nothing was wrong, and even though Riley looked a bit skeptical, she eventually said, “Okay. That sounds… interesting.”

  George and Riley headed in the direction of the wall of plates, and I pulled Bess farther away from them.

  “I have to go visit Beverly,” I whispered to her. “But I don’t think we should tell anyone.”

  “Got it,” Bess whispered back, and gave me a serious nod. “But please be careful. I’ll make up something to tell Riley.”

  “Thanks, Bess,” I said.

  I stepped back outside. It was raining steadily now, and I pulled my hood up over my head. I looked over Mrs. Park’s directions, which were fairly simple, and headed off to find Beverly DeSantos.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Some Better Lighting

  THE WALK TO BEVERLY’S HOUSE was the farthest I’d had to travel since arriving in Shady Oaks. It still wasn’t too far, though, and it took me a little over twenty minutes to get there. The rain was falling heavily enough that it was pooling in the creases of my raincoat and falling in thick droplets off the edge of my hood.

  At first I thought that I had somehow misread the directions and ended up in a place where there wasn’t a house at all. Where Beverly DeSantos’s house should have been, all I could see were towering hedges. They came all the way up to the edge of the sidewalk and were thick enough that I couldn’t see through them. There was a small break in the middle of these bushes, though, and it was only when I peeked through this gap that I could see the house hiding behind them.

  I walked past the hedges to the long driveway and up toward the front of the house. It was a large, modern-looking house that appeared nearly flat from this angle. The house was made almost entirely of windows. But heavy curtains covered them all so no one could see in—or out. I wondered why anyone would buy a house with that many windows if they only intended to cover them all up.

  As I got closer to Beverly’s fr
ont door, I began to feel more and more nervous. What if my hunch about her was actually wrong? Why hadn’t I found a way to bring Bess and George along with me? Was it possible that I was walking up to the house of a kidnapper alone?

  Standing in front of the large front door, I took a deep breath. I just had to trust my instincts. I raised my hand and knocked three times.

  Almost immediately I heard someone shuffling around inside. I could hear whoever it was come up to the door and then stop without opening it. I had to assume it was Beverly, and I also had to assume she was looking out at me through some kind of peephole, or maybe with the help of a security camera.

  After a moment, the door slowly opened. But it opened only a little. Beverly DeSantos probably didn’t get many visitors, and it seemed like she didn’t know how to react.

  “Hello!” I said, trying my best to sound cheerful. “My name’s Nancy and I’m a reporter. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

  I was smiling wide, and I hoped it didn’t look too fake. Beverly looked out at me from behind her door. Her expression implied that I had said something very strange, and I had the sudden feeling she did not believe anything I had just told her.

  “Questions about what?” Beverly asked, still half-hidden in her doorway.

  “Years ago, there was an article published about you and your grandfather,” I said, thinking quickly. “It made a lot of his fans upset. But I believe the article twisted your words, and now I want to write a new piece that clears your name.”

  There was a pause as Beverly seemed to be considering my words. Then she pulled away from me. “No,” she said. “I don’t answer questions about my grandfather anymore.”

  She leaned away from the doorframe, and I got a quick glimpse of the inside of her home. It was relatively simple, but the one thing I noticed was that the walls were covered in photographs. I didn’t have enough time to get a good look at them, but they appeared to be family portraits. There was also one large photograph, hanging just behind Beverly’s head and over the fireplace. It was of Christopher DeSantos and what appeared to be a young Beverly. They were both laughing.