The Case of the Artful Crime (11 page)

Felice's mouth twitched. The gift had obviously meant something to her.

“But, Joseph,” Felice protested, “can't your uncle wait until after my auction? So many important people will see your work and—”

“I want Auguste to have the paintings!” Spaziente flared. Red-faced with anger, he jumped up from his seat.

Startled, Felice backed up clumsily, upsetting a
small table on which Spaziente had piled art books and sketches.

In a flash, two guards closed in on Spaziente. Taking him by either arm, they wordlessly ushered him out of the room.

Felice paled. “Oh, dear! This is awful. The warden is very strict about security. Joseph might be dropped from the program.”

“It's not your fault,” Nancy said gently.

“It is,” Felice insisted. “Joseph has an artistic temperament. I shouldn't have provoked him. He's usually so mild-mannered. I have to explain to the guards.” She rushed from the room.

An awkward moment followed. Every prisoner in the room was staring at Nancy. “Back to your work!” snapped one of the guards.

Nancy righted the knocked-over table and stooped to gather the books and sketches that had fallen to the floor. Now that she'd met Spaziente, she saw that he was not the gentle soul Felice believed him to be. The whereabouts of his paintings seemed to mean a lot to him. Nancy wondered if the paintings were connected to the bungled bank robbery—or even to the auction of the Dragon's Eye Ruby.

Suddenly Nancy remembered what the newspaper article had said. Spaziente's gang had disengaged an elaborate security system. Felice also had a complex system. Was there a connection?

As she picked up a heavy book on oil painting,
two pieces of paper slipped out from between its covers. Still bending down, Nancy examined them. One paper was a drawing—a series of lines that ran straight for a while, then zigzagged at uneven intervals. In a small, tight script, Spaziente had written: “final quadrant, winter.”

The other was a note that said: “Joe. What's taking so long? Must see your latest work. Where is it going to end up? Everything set. You won't be sorry. Your loving uncle.”

Uncle Auguste, no doubt. Nancy stared at the letter. Suddenly, her blood ran cold. The
i
's bent way back, like inverted
c
's. The
n
's were sharp.

Uncle Auguste was the person who had left her the threatening note!

She turned the letter in her hand. It was even written on the same kind of paper, a heavy bond with a slight grain running through it.

Why would August Spaziente threaten her? How did he even know of her connection with the Arizona House case? Had he been the man who slashed the paintings? No. That man hadn't been fat. What did all of this mean?

At that moment, Felice and Joseph returned. Nancy stuffed the papers back into the book and returned them to the table. “Is everything all right?” she asked, rising to her feet.

“Yes. I explained that it was all my fault,” Felice said quickly. “You're absolutely right, Joseph. You should do whatever you please with your own
paintings. I'll give your uncle the autumn scene, and I'll see that he gets the winter scene as soon as it's completed.”

“It'll be done by the end of class,” Spaziente said.

“So quickly?” Felice said in surprise.

Spaziente snorted. “I've painted it enough times.” He frowned at Nancy. “Get her away from me, would you? I can't work with her breathing over my shoulder.”

Felice looked at Nancy apologetically.

“No problem,” Nancy said quickly. She'd seen enough, anyway.

She walked down the wide steps of the Community Center and drove off in her car. A few minutes later, she stopped at a phone booth and called Shawn at the Arizona House. He told her Jack hadn't shown up and couldn't be contacted by phone. Nancy decided to drive by Jack's house. She still had his address in her purse.

It wasn't long before she came to a residential part of town. The streets were quiet as she drove past modest homes with small front yards. She parked at the curb in front of Jack's house. It was a one-story, neat house with blue siding. Nancy walked up the path and rang the doorbell. She'd decided to confront Jack directly. She wanted to know exactly what he had against Shawn. And she had to find out if Jack had a partner. Was he working with Loreen? Uncle Auguste? The mysterious intruder? All of them?

As she waited, she noticed that there was no car in the driveway. No one answered the door. Nancy walked around to the back porch and looked into the empty kitchen. The window nearest the door was slightly open. There was no sense waiting around for Jack. It would be a good time to do some investigating on her own.

It wasn't hard for her to raise the screen, reach in, and unlatch the back door. In the next minute, she was standing inside Jack's small kitchen.

The adjoining room was a dining area. The walls were adorned with old photos: the old Chez Jacques, photos of Jack receiving culinary awards, and autographed pictures of Jack with politicians, celebrities, and sports figures. The restaurant had obviously been the center of Jack's life.

As Nancy studied the photos, a sudden noise on the back porch made her jump. She whirled around and saw Jack coming in the door.

“You!” he cried, storming into the dining room. “What are you doing in my house?”

“Looking for you,” Nancy said boldly. “I have some questions to ask you.”

Jack crossed to the phone on his kitchen wall. “I'm calling the police,” he threatened.

“Good!” Nancy called his bluff. “You can tell them why you tried to burn the Arizona House to the ground. You doused the linens with vodka, then threw on a match. It wasn't only arson. It was attempted murder. Bess and I were trapped in that kitchen.”

Jack froze. “No,” he said, horrified. “Never murder. I didn't mean to hurt anyone.” He dropped the phone receiver and sank into a chair. “I simply wanted the kitchen damaged and the restaurant closed for repair. I never meant for anyone to be hurt. Why do you think I let you out of that refrigerator? I am not a cruel man. I only wanted my restaurant back. That kid has no right to that business.”

“What do you mean?” Nancy asked.

“His father was a thief!” Jack cried, pounding the arm of the chair angrily. “He took care of the business side. I ran the restaurant and did the cooking. But when he died, I had to take over our accounts. That's when I saw what had been going on. He'd been stealing from our business! Thousands and thousands of dollars had been paid to ABC Beverages. There was no ABC Beverages! It was his own account! The half of the restaurant Shawn Morgan inherited wouldn't even begin to pay me back for all the money his father stole. He'd left no funds in reserve. I couldn't run the place properly with the money that was left. All my creditors wanted to be paid, and there was nothing to pay them with.”

“Did you tell this to Shawn?” Nancy asked.

Jack waved his hand in disgust. “Ahh! What good would it have done? Like father, like son. No. I only wanted my restaurant back.”

“So you decided to drive Shawn out of business,”
Nancy guessed. “Then what were you planning to do?”

“Buy it back from him, of course,” Jack replied. “I recently came into a small inheritance. It's not enough to open a new place of my own. But it's enough to buy a failing restaurant and return it to its former glory. I'll win over all the customers who now dine at Le St. Tropez.”

Le St. Tropez. Nancy remembered the message on Loreen's machine. From his words, Nancy deduced that Jack was not working for Shawn's competition. “Are you working with anyone else?” she asked.

Jack looked surprised. “No.”

“You're lying,” Nancy challenged. “Who slashed the paintings on the wall?”

“The paintings?” Jack asked, confused. “I never touched any paintings.”

“Loreen is helping you, isn't she?” Nancy pressed. “She's the one who drugged me.”

“Loreen
drugged
you?” Jack asked incredulously.

Nancy's frustration rose. “Jack! Tell me who is working with you. I know for sure that Auguste Spaziente is your partner.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Jack insisted. Something in his tone convinced Nancy that he was being truthful. “Young lady, I am responsible for a number of mishaps at the restaurant. The
wasabi,
the plumbing, the fire, the mice,
the reservation book—yes. But I slashed no paintings, I know no Auguste, and I have nothing to do with drugs. I have not returned to the restaurant since the night you chased me from the kitchen.”

“Why not?” Nancy asked.

Jack shrugged. “What was the point? I figured you found me out. I thought I was done for. I have been expecting the police to arrive at any moment.”

“Shawn didn't turn you in,” Nancy told him.

“Hmmm,” Jack said, folding his arms. “And why is that?”

“Because he couldn't believe you would really do such a thing. And because he likes you,” Nancy told him.

“Perhaps I misjudged the kid,” Jack admitted.

“It seems he misjudged you, too,” Nancy said. “Shawn thought you were on his side.”

Jack's expression told Nancy her words had stung. “I'll walk you to the door,” he said.

“Thanks, but I can find it myself,” Nancy said, passing him as she went out the kitchen door.

Nancy drove directly to the Arizona House. She wanted to talk to Shawn. Maybe, between the two of them, they could put the pieces of this mystery together.

When Nancy arrived, the lunch hour was just winding down. “Hi,” Lee greeted her in the foyer. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better,” she said. “Is Shawn here?”

“Upstairs,” Lee told her.

Nancy found Shawn in his office, poring over his
accounts. “Bad news?” she asked, reading his grim expression.

“Pretty bad,” he confirmed. “Somehow I have to hang on until after the Wainwright dinner tomorrow night. Once Mrs. Wainwright pays me for that, I can pay off some of this debt that's swamping me.”

Nancy was about to speak when Shawn jumped to his feet. “Oh, hello,” he said to someone behind Nancy.

Nancy turned and saw Felice Wainwright standing in the office doorway, looking deeply distressed. “Mr. Morgan,” she said. “Tomorrow night's dinner is off!”

Felice suddenly noticed Nancy. “Why, hello, Nancy. What are you doing here?”

“Booking her engagement party,” Shawn said before Nancy could open her mouth. “No problem, Nancy. We can accommodate two hundred people.”

Nancy didn't contradict him. Shawn was obviously trying to appear confident in the face of this new crisis.

“Now, Mrs. Wainwright, why the sudden cancellation?” Shawn asked.

“I've been hearing most unsettling things about your restaurant, Mr. Morgan. My friend, Dr. Elizabeth Hordell, told me a man was given over-spiced fish last Tuesday. I also read in the paper that the fire department was called in recently. I'm truly sorry, but—”

“We're having a little trouble with our electrical work,” Shawn told Felice. “It caused a tiny little fire, but it's all been fixed. And the fish . . . yes, that was unfortunate. The customer ordered it that way. He fancied himself able to eat the hottest foods. He learned the hard way, I'm afraid.” Shawn spoke rapidly.

To Nancy he seemed very nervous, but Felice seemed to be satisfied with the explanations. She relaxed a bit. “And what has happened to my paintings?” Felice asked.

“The paintings . . . ” Shawn stalled. “Oh, I'm having them framed. The posters you see in the dining room are just temporary until I get Mr. Spaziente's paintings back.”

Felice hesitated. “I suppose that would explain everything, but still—”

“I've just had a great idea,” Shawn cut her off. “Why don't we bring the dinner to your house? We can set up tents and tables on your lawn. I'll take care of every detail.”

“That
would
be convenient,” Felice agreed slowly. “And I suppose it would be difficult to find another location at this late date.”

“I knew you'd like the idea,” Shawn said, flashing a dazzling smile at Felice. “We'll be set up and ready to go by seven tomorrow.”

“The auction starts at nine,” Felice reminded him. “There can be no delay. My private security police will close off the entrances and move the ruby downstairs at nine sharp.”

“Everything will run like clockwork,” Shawn assured her.

“I hope so.” Felice sighed. “I did want everyone to see Joseph's paintings, though. Do you think I could borrow the ones you have? Just for the evening?”

“Oh, Mrs. Wainwright, I am so sorry,” Shawn said. “I sent them to a special framer in Chicago. He's closed through the weekend.”

“You sent all seven?” When Shawn nodded, Felice frowned. “Well, I still have the two at my home,” she said. “Joseph gave me the winter scene, which he completed this morning.”

“Has Auguste Spaziente asked for them yet?” Nancy asked.

Felice squared her shoulders. “As a matter of fact, he was waiting at my home when I returned from the Community Center. I refused to give him the paintings.”

“But I thought you agreed to give them to him,” Nancy said.

Felice looked embarrassed. “I'm afraid I changed my mind. That man can wait twelve hours for the paintings. This could be a big breakthrough for Joseph. He's let his uncle pressure him into parting with his paintings just when he's on the verge of being discovered.”

“Joseph Spaziente doesn't seem like a man who's easily pressured,” Nancy said skeptically.

“That Auguste could pressure anyone,” Felice
said. “He was much less charming today. I detest pushy people.”