“I think they were Richard and Cecilia Brown,” I told her. “Why?”
She leaned in and whispered, “Well, the couple that tried to run you down was none other than Lacey O’Brien and her husband!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Secret Door
I PULLED THE SLIP OF paper the woman had handed me earlier out of my pocket. It read:
555-0192
34 Crescent Lane
“Cecilia Brown is Lacey O’Brien?” I asked, incredulous.
Paige nodded. “Lacey O’Brien’s been her pen name since we were in high school,” she explained. “She always hated the name Cecilia Duncan. She was named for her grandmother, and Lacey thought it sounded old-fashioned. It didn’t help that most of the kids in school called her CeeCee, even though she despised the nickname. She almost always goes by Lacey these days, but it makes sense that she gave her real name to the sheriff.”
“But he acted like he didn’t even recognize her,” I said. I couldn’t believe that the sheriff hadn’t known that Cecilia Brown and Lacey O’Brien were one and the same person.
Paige shrugged. “He probably didn’t,” she said. “Most folks in Avondale have only heard of her as Lacey O’Brien, the local mystery writer, and don’t know her personally. Aside from her close friends and people who grew up with her, not many local residents would recognize her. I only know her real name is Cecilia because of our high school days. So it’s no surprise the sheriff didn’t know who she was. He’s only been in office a few years, anyway.”
I glanced back down at the slip of paper. What luck! As crazy as it sounded, almost getting hit by a car was turning out to be my best break of the day. I was all but guaranteed an interview, or at the very least, a meeting with the famous author later that afternoon.
For now, I had one more place to visit in town—the art gallery.
“Thank you again for your time,” I told Paige. “The story should be in both the online and paper edition of the River Heights Bugle tomorrow morning.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I’m happy to help. And thank you for looking into the fire. If it was arson, I’m eager to find out who’s behind it.”
“Me too,” I assured her. “And I won’t stop investigating until I do.”
Paige offered to pay for our coffees on her way out, and I headed to the ladies’ room.
On my way there, I realized someone was in the booth right behind ours. Oddly, he or she—I really couldn’t tell—was hunched down in their seat and seemed to be hiding behind a large menu. But I was able to glimpse a shock of curly brown hair with a streak of gray.
“Alice Ann?” I asked tentatively.
She lowered the menu and seemed surprised to see me there. An empty coffee cup and a plate with the remains of a slice of pie sat on the table in front of her. Since I hadn’t seen her come in, I figured she had been there the whole time Paige and I had been talking, which meant she had likely heard our entire conversation. And considering she was my number one suspect—maybe my only suspect—I wasn’t thrilled that she was pretty much spying on us.
“Nancy!” she replied a bit too cheerfully as she jumped up and grabbed her check from the table. “I didn’t know you were here.”
She waved the bill in front of me as she headed for the cashier.
“In a hurry!” she cried. “I’ve got to get back to the inn!”
I walked out the door, shaking my head. In addition to being one of the town’s biggest gossips, it seemed Alice Ann was also an expert eavesdropper. Or was it more than that? I thought back to the wallet incident on Saturday. Was it possible that Alice Ann was really shadowing me? I was glad that my stay at the inn would keep her close to me.
I headed outside, and after quickly checking directions on my phone, I realized I could walk the few blocks to the art gallery. I glanced behind me a few times on the way just to be sure Alice Ann wasn’t tailing me. I was fairly confident I was on my own, but I felt jumpy all the same. I couldn’t shake my suspicions about that woman.
The Clancy Tate Gallery was cool and bright, though the scene that greeted me was anything but cheerful. A thin, tight-lipped man in a dark turtleneck and thick glasses with tousled hair was standing in front of a desk in the corner, having a heated argument with a woman in a blue suit standing opposite him.
“Mr. Tate, please, I ask you not to raise your voice!” she implored him. “I assure you that it won’t help the situation.”
The man sat down in his chair abruptly and slumped back, looking completely dejected.
“I’m ruined!” he wailed.
“Now, now, Mr. Tate,” the woman replied in a clipped voice. “There’s no need to be so dramatic.”
The man stood back up and squared his shoulders proudly before he addressed her again.
“Excuse me,” he began softly. “But you’ve just come into my gallery and informed me that my insurance policy lapsed three days ago, and that no one from your agency had the decency to send me a renewal notice. So for the last three days—including the day before yesterday, when a valuable piece of artwork was stolen from this gallery—I have had absolutely zero insurance coverage! Which means that I am solely responsible for the cost of the piece! And you dare to accuse me of being overly dramatic?”
He was shouting loudly by the end of his brief speech.
The woman retreated sheepishly.
“I do apologize, Mr. Tate,” she replied. “Perhaps I should come back tomorrow so that we can discuss this further.”
She turned to leave and saw me standing near the entrance.
“And I see you have a customer as well, so I’ll be out of your hair now,” she said as she quickly darted past me and out the door.
The man sighed loudly.
“Thank goodness that vile woman is gone,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
Suddenly he seemed to notice me standing there.
“Oh, excuse me,” he apologized, a dazed look on his face. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I replied. “Are you Clancy Tate?”
He grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”
“My name is Nancy Drew,” I introduced myself. “I’m on special assignment for the River Heights Bugle, investigating the recent Avondale crime spree. Would you have a moment to answer a few questions about The Bride of Avondale for my article?”
“Would I?” Mr. Tate asked. “If your article can help get the statue back, then I’ve got all the time in the world.”
We sat at a glass-topped table, and once again, out came my notebook.
“When did you first notice that the sculpture was missing?” I asked.
“I was the only one here. One of my co-workers had the day off and another called in sick.” Mr. Tate paused and then went on. “Lacey O’Brien’s fans were in town for her signing at the bookstore. I guess a few of her ‘super fans’ know she’s married to the sculptor Richard Brown, so they came flooding in to see one of his most beloved works. It’s not a large piece—in fact, it’s rather delicate—but the detail and intricacy is meticulous.
“We had about twenty more people than usual sign the guest book on Saturday. At one point, I must admit, I did go in back to look for a sepia photograph of Moon Lake by Ethan Jenkins, another of our local artists.” He took a deep breath and continued. “After that, I was busy making a sale of a few posters to a woman from Louisiana. When I realized the statue was gone, I called the police immediately, and they were here within minutes. But it was too late. The thief was long gone—it could have been anyone.”