“May I see the guest book?” I asked. I didn’t think a thief would actually sign in, but I still had to check.
“Go right ahead,” Mr. Tate replied. He handed me a thick, oversize leather book and opened it to the most recent page.
I scanned down the list of names and addresses. A few were locals, but most of the addresses were from neighboring towns. Ian Garrison . . . the sheriff’s nephew? Arnold Edwards . . . was that the man in the apron talking to Alice our first day? But one name stood out more than the others: Alice Ann Marple.
Hmm. If Alice Ann was the thief, she was either the dumbest thief in the world for signing the book or incredibly shrewd.
“Do you mind if I take note of these names and addresses?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” Mr. Tate replied. “Like I said, if your story helps get that statue back, I’ll be in your debt forever. And you know what they say about publicity—it’s never a bad thing, at least in the art world. Do you want me to make a copy of that page for you?”
“Nope, I’ve got it,” I replied. I used my cell phone to take a photo of the register before I handed the book back to him. I started to put my notebook away, when Mr. Tate cleared his throat.
“There’s one thing I forgot to mention, and it involves Lacey O’Brien. But I can only tell you off the record. It would be a security risk for me if you printed it in the paper.”
I was immediately intrigued.
“Of course,” I assured him. “From now on, everything you say is one hundred percent off the record.”
“There’s one other way to get into the gallery. Only a few people know about it. I mentioned it to the police, and they’ve concluded that’s probably how the thief came in and exited.”
“Go on,” I prodded. I sure wished Bess and George were here. I could have used some extra eyes and ears.
“The gallery actually shares space with a mystery writers’ retreat and workshop,” he explained. “As a wealthy local artist, Richard Brown has always been a huge investor in and supporter of the gallery. A few years ago Lacey had the idea to fund a dedicated writing space for fledgling mystery writers. She and Richard didn’t want their names attached to it, since she so closely guards her privacy. But Lacey still believes beginning writers should get a break, especially mystery writers.”
Gee, I thought. That didn’t sound like someone who thought she was better than everyone in town.
Mr. Tate went on. “Anyway, Richard proposed closing off the back half of the gallery that faces Oakwood Lane and turning it into the writers’ space. There would be a separate entrance, and Lacey would rent the space from me. She and I are the only two people with a key to the door between the gallery and the writers’ space.”
My mind raced as I quickly processed the new information.
A place just for writers? Mystery writers? Even though Lacey didn’t want anyone to know the space was her brainstorm or that she was paying for it, I wonder if she ever dropped in as her “former self,” Cecilia Duncan. Most people probably wouldn’t guess that their writing mentor or coach was the bestselling Lacey O’Brien. It was as if she was hiding in plain sight.
Whoa—besides Mr. Tate, Lacey was the only person with access to the gallery through the secret entrance. But why would she have stolen her own husband’s sculpture? Was it some sort of strange publicity stunt? As Mr. Tate had said, no publicity is bad publicity in the art world—or the world of publishing.
“Who owns The Bride of Avondale?” I suddenly asked Mr. Tate.
“Lacey does. I put it on exhibit to coincide with her book signing.”
“Wait a minute, the sculpture that was stolen was one of Lacey O’Brien’s, and she’s the only one—other than you—who has access to the gallery through a secret entrance?” I asked.
At that moment a crash sounded from a back room. Could Lacey be in the writers’ room now?
A voice called out, “Sorry, Uncle C. I was standing on a stool in the supply room and lost my balance.” Into the gallery walked a girl with a familiar-looking face.
“Mandy!” I said. “What are you doing here?” It was the girl who was with her friends the other day, standing outside Paige’s Pages after the fire.
Mr. Tate asked, “Do you two know each other? How can that be?”
Mandy looked at me quizzically at first and then had a “lightbulb” moment of recognition. “Hey, you’re the person who was asking me and my friends Carly and Rachel all about the bookstore.”
“That’s right. I’m Nancy Drew. I’m writing an article about the recent crimes in Avondale and have been interviewing Mr. Tate about the theft of the statue,” I explained.
“Well, my uncle C is totally clueless about it,” she said. “But I think someone is definitely lifting their ideas from Lacey O’Brien’s books—just like I said the other day. And my friends and I think it might even be Lacey O’Brien.”
I might not have thought Mandy knew what she was talking about the other day, but right now we were on the same page.
CHAPTER NINE
Framed
I RAN OUTSIDE AND CALLED George, quickly updating her on what I had discovered. “What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t buy it,” George said. “It’s just too, I don’t know . . . convenient.”
I agreed. I didn’t actually believe Lacey had stolen the statue either, but clearly she had to be considered a suspect.
George continued, “Since the statue was just on loan to the gallery, Lacey doesn’t have a real motive for stealing.”
“You’re right,” I said. “The motive question is definitely a problem. But that doesn’t change the fact that she had ample opportunity.”
“But it’s all so obvious,” George replied. “It’s almost as if someone chose stealing the sculpture because it would make Lacey a prime suspect.”
“Exactly! Lacey’s being framed, just like the character Lucy Luckstone in her novel Framed.”
“That makes sense,” George answered. “Kind of. Do you think she’s also being set up with the fire? Who would want to frame her, Nancy?”
I kept walking down the street and noticed the Avondale Library. I sat down on a bench in front to continue our conversation.
“I understand those crimes could be connected to Lacey and her books, but what about the intruder at our cabin, and the canoe, and me almost being run over?” I asked her.
Nothing answered me.
“Hello? George? Are you still there?” I asked.
George spoke. “Nancy, when were you almost run over? Are you okay? See what happens when Bess and I aren’t around to chaperone you?”
Oh no . . . I’d never told them about my near accident. “I’m fine. Really. But because of it, I’m hoping to get a face-to-face meeting with Lacey O’Brien.”
George laughed a bit on the other end of the phone. “Only you, Nancy, only you could have that happen. But nice work. If you need us to come back to Avondale, just say the word.”
We hung up, and I walked back to my car. Instead of first calling Lacey, I decided to drive right to her house. Maybe by surprising her I would get more information. Or perhaps a confession?
I used my phone’s GPS to navigate from town back to Moon Lake and 34 Crescent Lane. Lacey and Richard’s cabin was set back from the road, covered, it seemed, by giant oaks and pine trees. I pulled into the long driveway and in two minutes was knocking briskly on the front door.