The Stolen Relic [Nancy Drew Girl Detective 007] Read online

  “Unfair, George!” Bess protested. “If there were the slightest clue Nick was guilty, I’d admit it. I want to find Sasha as much as you guys do. But there’s no evidence pointing to him. I mean, being her ex-boyfriend shouldn’t be a crime.”

  I thought about Bess’s words. I was inclined to agree with her. The evidence? She was with Nick all day. No way could he have sabotaged the raft. He never even knew our plans.

  “You’re wondering about the dirt on Nick’s shirt,” Bess added. “And why he had a meltdown over it. Well, I can explain that. Nick is sensitive about Sasha dumping him, so he feels slightly crazed when anyone mentions her.”

  George frowned. Sometimes she just isn’t willing to cut her cousin any slack, and I could tell this was one of those times. “That still doesn’t explain the dirt on his shirt. Nick went ballistic over that, when no one had mentioned Sasha,” she said.

  “Nick takes his biking seriously, and he doesn’t like to fall,” Bess said. “Okay, maybe he has a bad temper. But he’s no kidnapper.” She looked at us pleadingly. “Look, guys, he’s got a rock solid alibi for today: me! What more can you ask for?”

  George opened her mouth to say something contrary when I cut in. Sometimes I have to redirect the cousins when their ribbing gets too serious. “Well, Bess, you’ll be happy to know I agree with you,” I said, smiling at her surprised face. “Everything you said sounds totally plausible to me.”

  Bess lit up. “I knew you’d see my point, Nancy,” she said, throwing George a look of mock scorn.

  “So let’s forget Nick for now,” Ned said. “What about the other suspects?”

  “You mean Missy and Margaret?” Bess said. “They couldn’t plan a crime if their lives depended on it! And why would they want to hurt Sasha, anyway?”

  “As I mentioned before, they could have accidentally caused something bad to happen, and then panicked when Sasha was hurt, and now they’re covering up,” I said.

  Bess nodded. “Possible. But did either of them know you went rafting?”

  “Margaret could have learned through Andy Littlewolf,” I said. “That is, if she came back to his store, and if Mr. Starflower mentioned our plans to Littlewolf. I tried calling Mr. Starflower before dinner to ask if he’d told anyone, but there was no answer.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs,” George said. She asked me to describe my conversation with Mr. Littlewolf again. “Mr. Littlewolf is looking like the prime suspect, if you ask me,” she added after I’d finished. “He was friends with Sasha, he clammed up when you asked him about her, and Mr. Starflower might have mentioned the rafting trip to him. And then you found his letter where she was in Canyonlands last.”

  “But we don’t know that he wrote it to Sasha,” I countered.

  “Still, it was from him, and that’s what’s important,” George said.

  I shrugged. It was also important who the letter was for, but George was right that Andy Littlewolf made a lot of sense as a prime suspect. “First thing tomorrow, let’s drive to his house in Monument Valley and see what’s up,” I suggested. “If he’s working at his store in Moab, we’ll have a perfect chance to check out his house for clues.”

  “Just clues?” Bess said. “I’m hoping we’ll find Sasha herself.”

  “I can’t believe this landscape,” George said as she steered the car over the parched desert plain on our way to Monument Valley. “It’s fantastic.” I had to agree. It was eleven in the morning, and we were the only car on the road. It was as if we’d entered an alternate universe where there were no people, just rocks. The weirdest kinds of rocks too—on plateaus and mesas stretching as far as the eye could see, in stunning shades of red, brown, and orange. Erosion had carved them into a zillion wild shapes more bizarre than the most imaginative man-made sculptures I’d ever seen.

  Ned interrupted my thoughts with a practical question. “What if Littlewolf is at home?”

  “When we stop for lunch, let’s call his store and make sure he’s there,” I said. “But don’t worry, Ned, I’ll find a way to sneak in somehow, even if he’s in his house.”

  Ned shot me a wry smile before pulling on a sweatshirt to ward off the freezing air-conditioning. “That’s exactly what worries me, Nancy.”

  I grinned. I love Ned’s concern, but let’s face it—my curiosity often takes me to scary places. If mysteries didn’t interest me, Ned’s life would be a lot more relaxed. But if mysteries didn’t interest me, I’d be a totally different person. And I’m guessing Ned would have a problem with that.

  I was suddenly distracted by the sight of a rock on our left that looked exactly like a Mexican sombrero.

  “I can see why this town coming up is called Mexican Hat,” Bess said, scanning the map. “These rock shapes are hilarious.”

  “Monument Valley starts around Mexican Hat, doesn’t it?” George asked. “I think that’s what the map said when I studied it earlier. Anyway, I know we’re pretty close.”

  Last night, getting ready for our trip, I read about Monument Valley in my guidebook. A number of Hollywood Westerns had been filmed there, especially John Wayne movies. There was a small museum at Gouldings, a hotel run by the Navajo, that told visitors all about the history of moviemaking in Monument Valley. But I doubted we’d have time to see it. Finding Sasha was our goal.

  Ned checked his watch. “Hey, it’s almost noon, and I’m getting pretty hungry. I don’t want to search Littlewolf’s house on an empty stomach.”

  “Let’s stop for lunch at Gouldings,” I suggested. “We have to get directions anyway to his house.” I explained to my friends what Gouldings was—a Navajo-run hotel with a cafeteria, museum, and gift shop. Bess perked up at the word shop.

  “I’m not hungry yet,” Bess said with a sly expression. “I think I’ll build up my appetite first by shopping. I can be quick. I’ll check out the store while you guys get directions to Mr. Littlewolf’s. Oh, and don’t forget to call his store to make sure he’s there, and not here.”

  We stepped inside the Gouldings building, high on a bluff that overlooked the craggy Navajo land. The views were amazing, and I felt as if I’d been there before—maybe from watching Westerns.

  “Here’s the gift shop,” Bess said brightly. “Meet you in the café.”

  The phones were occupied, so we all joined Bess in the shop. I was mesmerized by all the cool Navajo crafts. I headed for the counter to check out the jewelry, then stopped in surprise.

  A gray-haired woman in a long Mexican-style skirt was talking to the salesgirl.

  I stopped in my tracks. Wasn’t that Margaret Powell?

  I came closer. It was Margaret, and she was holding up a turquoise ring for the salesgirl to examine. Sasha’s.

  “I’m interested in selling this ring,” Margaret said. “How much will you take for it?”

  11. Kidnapped

  I elbowed George. “Do you see who I see?” I asked her.

  “Yup,” George said, looking shocked.

  “I’m going to ask her about that ring.” With Ned busy checking out arrowheads and Bess trying on moccasins, I approached the counter, followed by George.

  “Hello, Margaret,” I said. She spun around.

  “Oh hello, Nancy, George,” she said, nodding at us. She closed her hand around the ring to hide it. “Nice to see you both here. What brings you to Monument Valley?” She plastered a smile on her face, but I could tell she didn’t mean it.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing, Margaret,” I said.

  “Well, I’m here on business, you see,” Margaret said, lowering her eyes sheepishly.

  “What do you have in your hand?” George piped up.

  Margaret giggled. “Ah, nothing! As I said, I’m here on business.”

  “Margaret, you’re holding Sasha’s ring. I saw it,” I said.

  Her smile disappeared, and her fist sprang open. The turquoise stone shone in her palm. “What do you mean, ‘Sasha’s ring�
��?” she asked with a puzzled frown. She held the ring close to her face, as if staring at it might give a clue to the real owner. “What makes you think this is Sasha’s?”

  “Because I saw it on her finger the other day at Arches,” I answered.

  “You did?” Margaret said, fingering the beads on her necklace. “Well, I had no idea this ring was hers.”

  I looked at Margaret doubtfully. She was covered in silver and turquoise Navajo jewelry. It was hard for me to believe that she hadn’t noticed Sasha wearing that ring. “You and Missy spent an afternoon with Sasha in Canyonlands. You must have noticed her ring.”

  “Uh, well, now that you mention it, Nancy, I do remember Sasha wearing something like it,” Margaret said, holding the ring up to the window light. “But how can you be sure it’s the same one?”

  I thought about Margaret’s question. Of course I knew it was Sasha’s ring. It was the same size, oval shape, and color, with the identical filigree pattern on its silver frame. Plus, Margaret’s own daughter had been wearing it, and knew that it was Sasha’s. “Margaret,” I began, “I saw it on Sasha’s finger. It’s pretty eye catching. Definitely it’s the same ring. But anyway, where did you get it?” I didn’t want to reveal that I knew Missy had been wearing it. I wanted to test Margaret, to see if she would acknowledge that.

  By now, Bess and Ned had wandered over. I waited, bursting with curiosity to hear if Margaret would tell me the truth. If Margaret lied about Missy having it, I would know I couldn’t trust anything else she told me.

  “Where did I get it?” Margaret repeated in her wispy voice. “Why, Missy gave it to me. She owes me money for all the horseback riding and spa treatments she’s been doing at Red Horse Ranch.”

  Hmm. Honest so far.

  “So she gave you the ring instead of money?” I asked.

  “She had a cash flow problem,” Margaret said. “Don’t ask me why—her father gives her plenty of money. But anyway, she couldn’t pay me back with cash, so she suggested I sell the ring.”

  “Did she tell you that it wasn’t hers to sell?” George asked.

  “Oh no,” Margaret said gravely. “She said the ring was a gift from a Navajo friend, and it was probably worth a bundle of bucks. She said I was better off with the ring than with cash—that it was worth far more than the money she owed me. So here I am, trying to sell it.”

  “I think you’d better give the ring back to Sasha’s parents,” I told her. “It really belongs to them—that is, until Sasha comes back.”

  Margaret knit her brow. “Oh, do you think I should do that? Okay.” Turning to the salesgirl, she apologized for bothering her over nothing. “I’ve changed my mind about the ring, sorry.” She turned to leave, but I stopped her. I wasn’t quite finished.

  “You know that store called Littlewolf’s Antiques?” I asked her.

  “You mean the one in Moab near the Ranger Rose?” she said. “I was there yesterday.”

  “Yes, I... uh, noticed you there,” I fudged. I didn’t see a reason to mention that Earl Haskins had actually been the one to see her. Since she didn’t know him, she might just get confused and not focus on my questions.

  “You did?” she asked with a puzzled frown. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Oh, I just popped in quickly. Everything looked too expensive. I’m sure you didn’t notice me because you were talking to Mr. Littlewolf. Were you shopping too?”

  “Not exactly,” Margaret said. “I was trying to sell him this ring. Selling it to Andy would have been so much more convenient than coming down here.”

  “Why didn’t he buy it?” I asked.

  “Because he only buys antiques, except for a few Hopi pots and kachinas,” Margaret said. “So he directed me here instead.”

  “Do you want the Starflowers’ phone number?” I asked. “I’m sure they’d be very happy to have Sasha’s ring back.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Margaret said as I jotted down the number on some scrap paper. After sticking it in her purse, she thanked me and drifted off to inspect the rugs and baskets, while we four hurried down the hall to the café.

  “So what do you think of Margaret’s story?” Ned asked after we were seated. “Does it make any sense?”

  “Actually it makes a lot of sense.” I couldn’t believe I’d just said that Margaret made sense, but in this case it was true. I paused for a moment, while we ordered lunch, then added, “At least Margaret didn’t lie about Missy giving her the ring. If she’d been in on Missy’s scam, Margaret might have lied to protect her. Instead, she freely admitted that Missy had given it to her to sell. I think that shows the Powells didn’t team up to take the ring.”

  Our order of Navajo tacos arrived, and we ate for a few minutes in silence while we thought about the case. George said, “Still, the fact that Margaret told the truth about Missy having the ring doesn’t prove that they didn’t hurt Sasha for some other reason.”

  “But why would either one want to hurt her?” Bess wondered. “Margaret is way too spacey to be capable of organizing a kidnapping. And Missy is totally self-absorbed.”

  “They may not have deliberately hurt her,” Ned said. “They may be covering up an accident, like Nancy said.” I shot Ned an appreciative smile. I like it when he remembers my theories. Still, I tried to reconstruct in my imagination what might have happened at Canyonlands if the Powells weren’t guilty. Sasha would have gone to investigate the noise, and someone nabbed her in the cave—maybe because she’d interrupted a theft. The Powells, who weren’t exactly the sharpest pencils in the pack, didn’t notice clues that would help the police. That scenario felt right to me. More and more, Andy Littlewolf made sense as my prime suspect.

  After lunch, I made two phone calls, one to Mr. Starflower, who told me that he had mentioned our rafting trip to Mr. Littlewolf, and the other to Littlewolf’s Antiques, where I got a voice mail saying that the store was open today, and Mr. Littlewolf was on the phone or with customers, but to please leave a message. Instead I hung up and asked a Gouldings desk clerk for directions to the address on his letterhead. He jotted them down and said the house was only a ten-minute drive away.

  Soon the four of us had arrived at Mr. Littlewolf’s hogan, which was a small circular earth and log structure typical of a Navajo dwelling. I was happy to see that there was no car in the driveway.

  “I just hope his house is unlocked,” I said. Not that I’m above climbing through a window to forward my investigation—I’ve done it on several occasions—but why go looking for trouble?

  George opened the door. “Yay!” she said. “No breaking and entering necessary.”

  “Breaking and entering? I’d never do that,” I said with a grin. “I prefer to call it research.”

  “Whatever,” Bess said, as we all followed George indoors.

  Mr. Littlewolf’s home was very neat—too neat, actually. We didn’t find a thing that looked suspicious or even out of place. Nothing that looked as if it belonged to Sasha. Mr. Littlewolf had a few books and Navajo baskets on a coffee table, an immaculate sofa, a kitchen with practically no food in the fridge, and a neatly made bed.

  “I can’t believe we drove all this way, and there’s not one clue,” I said. “What a disappointment.” Even if Sasha wasn’t here, I’d hoped to find a decent clue. I checked some drawers, but they were filled with boring stuff like tools or dishrags. “He must keep all his business papers at his store,” I added. Just when I’d given up hope of finding anything, my gaze darted to a table behind the front door. It was covered with papers, and on top of the stack sat a folded sheet. I stepped over and picked it up.

  It was a note. Nothing special, nothing suspicious, not even a real clue. Only a tiny lead—but better than nothing.

  “Hey, guys, look at this,” I said, waving the note. “It’s a letter to Mr. Littlewolf at Littlewolf’s Antiques confirming a room for tonight at the Hopi Cultural Center. It’s probably no big deal, but...”

/>   “But what?” Bess said. “Something tells me we’re not done with our driving. How far away is this place?”

  I grinned at Bess. She knows me too well. I couldn’t let this lead hang—I just couldn’t. Not with Sasha still missing. “I’m not sure how far the Cultural Center is. I know the Hopi Reservation is in northern Arizona. Why don’t we call the center and get directions? The number is right on the note.”

  A quick phone call later, I had the directions. “It may be three hours away,” I told my friends. “Are you guys on?”

  “We’re with you, Nancy,” Ned said, and George and Bess nodded firmly. My friends are awesome.

  “Don’t get me wrong, guys,” I said. “I’m not expecting a miracle. Mr. Littlewolf is probably just going to the Hopis to buy artifacts for his store. Then again, he may be up to something else. But it can’t hurt to check out this lead. It’s just a hunch.”

  “You’ve got great hunches, Nancy,” Bess said cheerfully. “And if this one leads us to concrete clues about where Sasha is, I don’t care how long we have to drive.”

  “And if it doesn’t lead us to Sasha, we’ll have wasted the whole day,” I said.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” George said. “But let me ask you a practical question, Nancy. It’s almost two o’clock. If the Hopi Reservation is about three hours away, don’t you think we should make room reservations too? I mean, no way will we be returning to Moab tonight.”

  “If Andy Littlewolf is staying at the hotel tonight, then we are too,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to shortchange our investigation.” I called the Cultural Center from the kitchen phone, charging the call to my credit card—why didn’t I take my cell phone? Ergh!—and reserved two rooms for us. Minutes later we were back in the car, heading toward Arizona.

  The Hopi Reservation was extremely remote, just north of Arizona’s Painted Desert. The landscape didn’t have the same crazy rock formations as Utah. It seemed flatter and more barren. Poorer, too. I felt bad for the people who lived there, who were obviously struggling to make a living from the dry land.