Portrait in Crime Page 8

“I don’t know, George,” Nancy replied wearily. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  • • •

  The next morning Nancy woke up with an inspiration. She thought she knew how to find the model! Bob Tercero said the girl had been dating Nicholas, and Nicholas had the reputation of being someone who was always seen in nightclubs and discos. Who would know more about local celebs than someone who was paid to write about them?

  Bess was in the living room, flipping through a fashion magazine, when Nancy came downstairs.

  “Where is everybody?” Nancy asked.

  “Where else?” Bess answered. “Gary called and George ran off with him. She said she’d be back this afternoon. I think your aunt went shopping.”

  “Speaking of this afternoon, do you have Doug Coggins’s telephone number?” Nancy asked. “I want to ask him to meet me at the gallery today to take a professional look at Scott’s paintings.”

  “It’s in the kitchen by the telephone,” Bess replied, gazing through a fringe of blond hair. She got up and followed Nancy into the other room.

  Nancy called Doug, and he agreed to meet her after lunch.

  “Bess, do you want to come with me?” she asked, hanging up the phone.

  “Sure. Tommy’s working all day,” Bess said. “Where are we going?”

  “To see a gossip columnist,” Nancy replied.

  “Sounds like fun. Where’s Sasha?” Bess asked.

  “Rehearsing,” Nancy said. “I thought I’d give myself a day away from him.”

  Bess gave her a sideways look. “Because you want to, or because you think it might be wise?”

  Nancy laughed. “Oh, Bess, you know me too well! Okay, I admit I want some time to think about him without being around him. But I’d rather not talk about it, okay?”

  The two girls headed down to the local newspaper office. When they got there, they ran into Susan Wexler, a reporter Nancy and her friends had met during the Jetstream mystery.

  “What are you two doing here?” Susan asked.

  “Looking for some information,” Nancy explained. “We’re here to talk to whoever writes the local gossip column.”

  “That would be Stephanie Marshall,” Susan said, leading them to the back of the office. “She writes a very popular column called ‘Stephanie Says’. . . . Is this a story? Anything I’d be interested in?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Nancy said.

  Susan took Nancy and Bess into an office and introduced them to a slender, gray-haired woman. “Promise you’ll call me if this is something juicy,” Susan said as she left them alone.

  “We’re looking for a girl,” Nancy explained to Stephanie Marshall. “Someone who was in town about six months ago. I think she was dating Nicholas Scott.” Briefly she described the model. “All we need is her name.”

  “Well, I don’t remember her name, but I certainly remember her face,” the columnist replied. “The girl was quite beautiful, one of Nicholas Scott’s better choices—as far as looks go, I mean. I don’t know her personally, but I’m sure I have clippings of her somewhere.”

  “Wonderful!” Bess exclaimed.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Stephanie said kindly. “The pictures in my photo file are alphabetical by name, or chronological, if they’re of a large group. Let’s try the group pictures. When did you say she was in town?”

  “About six to eight months ago,” Nancy repeated, remembering Bob Tercero’s comment about the age of the Vanity.

  The woman nodded. “Why don’t you look through the group shots taken around that time? The captions are usually pasted on the back. If her name’s not there, I can cross-reference the story in my computer and find it there.”

  Nancy and Bess pored through the photos. Bess found a picture of a girl who fit the description. She was dancing, her long hair flying. She held up the photo. “Is this her?” she asked.

  Stephanie looked at the photo. “It sure is. And that’s Nicholas.”

  Bess turned the photo over. “Here’s the caption,” she said happily. “Nicholas Scott and Diana Spitzer at Michael’s Pub.”

  The mysterious model had an identity at last! Nancy and Bess thanked Stephanie and left the building.

  “Now that we know her name, how do we find her?” Bess asked.

  “Let’s try the police station. We can see if anyone has heard of her.

  “Diana Spitzer.” Nancy repeated the name as she and Bess drove to the police station. “Why would she come back to get the Vanity? She could have read about Nicholas’s accident, but that wouldn’t entitle her to the painting. Do you think she knows that Christopher’s also gone.”

  “It’s common gossip,” Bess volunteered.

  “But it is just gossip. And local gossip at that. Cynthia didn’t recognize her, and neither did Megan, so she couldn’t hang around here much. It worries me why she chose to come back now.”

  The girls went into the police station. “I’m trying to get an address for a friend,” Nancy explained to the chunky desk sergeant who asked to help them. “There was a girl in town a while back named Diana Spitzer. She left something at my friend’s house, and we lost her address. Do you think you’d have anything in your files?”

  “Only if she’s got a criminal record,” the sergeant joked. Then he became serious. “Who’s your friend?” he asked. “I can’t give out that kind of information to just anyone.”

  “Eloise Drew, she’s—” Nancy began.

  The sergeant’s face cleared. “I’ve met her,” he said. “She’s a friend of Vivienne Worthington.”

  “Right.” Nancy nodded. “She’s staying at Mrs. Worthington’s house this summer.”

  “Nice lady, Ms. Drew. She knows my wife. Let me see what I can do.”

  Nancy and Bess sat on the bench and waited. After a while the sergeant returned with a file in his hand.

  “You know, I just remembered,” he said conversationally, “Ms. Drew has a niece she’s always bragging about. She’s a detective. You wouldn’t know her, would you?”

  Nancy blushed. “You caught me,” she admitted. “I’m Nancy Drew.” She stuck out her hand.

  “Thought so. I’m Larry Jones,” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “Ms. Drew says you’re famous.”

  “She sure is!” Bess piped up loyally, then introduced herself.

  “Well, your Diana isn’t a criminal,” Sergeant Jones said cheerfully, opening his file. “But she did get a parking ticket while she was here. Here’s an address in Manhattan.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you very much!” Nancy said gratefully. Then a thought struck her. “There’s another thing. I wonder if the officer who investigated Nicholas Scott’s death is here? I called a couple of days ago and was told he might be back today.”

  “That’s me,” he answered, surprised. “Why?”

  “I was curious about the circumstances,” Nancy replied. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

  Sergeant Jones gave Nancy a long look. “Sure,” he said at last. “Come back to my desk. You’re on a case, aren’t you? Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to see police files!”

  “As a matter of fact,” Nancy replied pleasantly, “I was about to do just that.”

  Sergeant Jones frowned. “What on earth for?”

  “Well,” Nancy said slowly, “I have reason to believe Nicholas Scott’s death may have been murder.”

  To Nancy’s chagrin, he burst out laughing. “Murder? Are you kidding? We know it was an accident beyond a shadow of a doubt. I have an eyewitness!”

  Chapter

  Twelve

  AN EYEWITNESS in the middle of the night?” Nancy asked doubtfully.

  “Sure, night fishing is pretty common around here,” Sergeant Jones replied. “One of the local fishermen talked to him on the radio. As a matter of fact, he told Nicholas he was going in because of the weather and advised him to do the same. Nicholas refused, so Tony—that’s the fisherman—headed over toward him to keep an eye on him
.”

  “Did he see the accident?”

  “Enough of it. Visibility wasn’t great. Seems Nicholas’s boat hit the rocks and broke up. He hit his head as he was knocked overboard. Tony got there as fast as he could, but it was too late.

  “Sorry,” the sergeant said, seeing Nancy’s disappointed face. “The injuries were consistent with Tony’s story. And we checked for foreign substances. No drugs, no alcohol.”

  “Well, I certainly feel silly,” Nancy said, apologizing. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  “No problem,” Sergeant Jones replied. “Anything to help out a famous detective. Better luck next time!”

  So Nicholas Scott wasn’t murdered, Nancy thought as she and Bess headed home. The message Nancy had received at the Lobster Tank had sent her in the wrong direction. Did that mean the second message, warning her away from the Vanity and Diana Spitzer, had been meant to mislead her, too? Maybe the painting wasn’t important to the case after all.

  It was possible, she reasoned, but the red-haired model did come all the way out to the Hamptons to buy the painting. She must want it for some reason, and Nancy was going to have to lure her back to town to find out why.

  Using the address she got at the police station, Nancy got a telephone number for Diana Spitzer in Manhattan. The girl answered on the first ring.

  “Is this Diana Spitzer?” Nancy asked from her aunt’s house.

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “A friend from the Hamptons,” Nancy replied. “I heard you were back in town to buy your painting.”

  The girl on the other end of the line gasped. “Who is this?” she asked, her voice high and tense. “Did Bob put you up to this?”

  So Bob Tercero was involved! Nancy thought. “I’m a friend, and I have what you want,” she said, being deliberately vague. “Can you meet me in the town square tomorrow?”

  “I—I guess,” the girl said slowly. “Do you have my hairpin, too?”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Nancy promised. “Tomorrow at six o’clock.”

  “How will I recognize you?” Diana asked.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll recognize you,” Nancy said. She hung up before the other girl could reply.

  “What did she say?” Bess asked.

  “She asked if Bob put me up to this,” Nancy told her. “She was scared stiff. And then she asked me if I had her hairpin.”

  “Her hairpin!” Bess snorted. “What a time to be thinking about fashion!”

  Nancy shook her head. “It’s something else. When Diana asked Cynthia about the painting she mentioned the hairpin, too. It must be important to her for some reason.”

  “Incriminating evidence?” Bess suggested.

  “But of what?” Nancy asked, troubled.

  The two girls headed for the Nisus Gallery to meet Doug Coggins.

  “I don’t understand how Doug is going to help us find Christopher,” Bess said as they drove.

  “Actually,” Nancy said slowly, “I’m beginning to wonder whether we’re going to find him at all.”

  “What?” Bess asked, alarmed.

  “No one but Nicholas had seen Christopher in the last six months,” Nancy explained. “That was just after Bob said Christopher finished the Vanity.”

  “Yes,” Bess said. “Go on.”

  “The point is, we have only Bob’s word that Nicholas saw Christopher in the past six months. Megan practically lived in the studio, and she never even met the man. Now that’s weird.

  “Then there’s Christopher’s behavior. According to one critic, Christopher’s work has been going downhill recently. And he didn’t show up for his nephew’s funeral. You’d think that he’d have come since, according to Bob, they were so devoted to each other.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” Bess said, frowning.

  “There’s not much of one,” Nancy admitted. “But there is the Vanity. Is it only coincidence that all Christopher’s paintings since that one have been mediocre? Or that Diana Spitzer suddenly reappeared after the rumors of Christopher’s disappearance and Nicholas’s tragic accident?”

  “But Nicholas’s death was an accident,” Bess said.

  “It looks that way.”

  “What do you mean, ‘looks that way’?” Bess demanded. She sounded exasperated. “There was an eyewitness, Nan! How much more evidence do you need?”

  Nancy massaged the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “I know you’re right. But I also know there’s something I’m not seeing—something to do with Nicholas and Christopher and painting. Something that’s right in front of my eyes.”

  Something else was bothering Nancy. When she’d studied the accounts at the Nisus Gallery, she’d been hunting for the Vanity. She hadn’t looked back any farther. The accounts in Christopher’s name were consistent after the painting was done but maybe not before. She resolved to check the ledgers again when she got there.

  • • •

  Doug Coggins was waiting on the porch in front of the gallery when the girls arrived.

  “Now, just what am I looking for?” Doug asked inside.

  “Forgery,” Nancy replied in a low voice. “I have reason to believe that a painting attributed to Christopher Scott was painted by someone else. I thought you could check some of his work here to see whether it looks right to you.”

  Doug shrugged. “They looked fine to me the last two times I was here, but I didn’t study them.” He walked over to the large pink canvas. “It should be easy to determine. Chris’s brush strokes are very distinctive, and he mixes all his own colors.”

  Doug examined the painting, frowning as he concentrated. Nancy and Bess waited anxiously.

  Doug leaned forward, squinting at a small square of the painting. His frown deepened.

  Suddenly he turned around and stared at Nancy. “You’re right,” he said. “This is not the work of Christopher Scott!”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  ARE YOU SURE?” Nancy asked.

  Doug nodded vigorously. “Christopher never used a premixed color; he always added a tinge of something else. Look here,” he said, pointing to a corner of the canvas. “This is definitely a stock pink.”

  Doug leaned closer to the painting. “Now this area,” he began, then hesitated, “does look like Christopher’s work. In fact, look at the brush strokes. It has to be his!”

  The two girls exchanged glances.

  “So you’re not sure?” Bess asked.

  Doug crinkled his nose and stood back from the canvas. “I’m a little confused,” he admitted. “This section looks like his, and that one doesn’t. The painting as a whole is kind of mixed-up. But no one could forge those brush strokes. It may be that Christopher was experimenting with a new style.”

  Nancy wasn’t so sure. Doug’s evaluation of the painting supported a theory growing in her mind.

  “Would you say that it looks like Christopher Scott painted parts of this painting?” she asked Doug.

  “Parts? I don’t think Christopher would ever let anyone help him with a painting. He’s too vain.”

  After thanking the painter for his help, Nancy asked Cecilia if either Bob or Cynthia was around. She was told that Bob had the day off, but Cynthia was due back any minute.

  “I’m going with Doug to his studio, Nancy,” Bess informed her friend. “We’re going to work on that painting of me.”

  “I’ll see you later, then. Will you be back for our rendezvous with Diana this evening?”

  “You bet!” Bess said. “I’ll see you back at the house at about four-thirty or five.”

  Nancy asked Cecilia for permission to use the phone in Bob Tercero’s office. After slipping inside, she locked the door and went straight for the book of checks. This time she looked back to the payments issued a year ago.

  It was just as she’d suspected, she noted with satisfaction. Christopher Scott’s payments varied in size. Sometimes they were only ten thousand dollars, but in one case, the artist had been
paid forty thousand dollars! She looked for a pattern over the past several years. Even though they varied, the payments grew in size. Because, Nancy was sure, of the artist’s growing reputation.

  Then, six months ago, the payments changed form. Scott started getting a straight fifteen thousand dollars for every painting. Did Christopher request this? she wondered. Or was there another, more sinister reason? Her eyes narrowing thoughtfully, Nancy closed the book.

  “Nancy?” Cynthia Gray inquired through the closed door. She tried the handle. “Why is the door locked? Are you okay in there?”

  Nancy leapt up and opened the door.

  “Cecilia said you needed to make a phone call,” Cynthia said suspiciously, entering the room. “She said you’ve been in here for a while.”

  Nancy took a deep breath. “You’d better sit down,” she told the gallery owner. “I have something to say that might interest you.

  “What do you know about ART Inc.?” Nancy asked, after Cynthia had taken a seat by Bob’s desk.

  From the expression on Cynthia’s face, it was clear she had never even heard of the company. Using the account books, Nancy explained that she had discovered Bob was stealing from the gallery by selling paintings to himself at reduced rates.

  “I can’t believe it!” Cynthia said when Nancy had finished. “I trusted Bob with everything! It’s not even the fact that he was stealing from the gallery that bothers me as much as that he was cheating our artists.” Cynthia paused. “But why on earth were you looking at our accounts?”

  “There’s something fishy about Christopher Scott’s work over the last six months or so,” Nancy replied. “I was hoping I could find something in your payments to explain it.”

  “And did you?”

  “Possibly,” Nancy said. “Since February all your payments to Christopher Scott have been exactly fifteen thousand dollars. Does that seem likely to you?”

  “Usually the price of a painting depends on its size and other factors,” Cynthia said slowly. “And by now, I’d think Chris would be getting more than that for each painting. Does this have anything to do with ART?”