screen. “Look. Nancy, this is unbelievable! Quick,
check your list.”
Nancy looked at the screen and cried out, “Every
single person that's been burgled is listed!”
“So Thriftytreasures is the—what?—the fence, the
actual ring of thieves?” Ned wondered.
“I don't know. But we have to find out who's behind
Thriftytreasures.com.”
George drummed her fingers against the monitor,
then spoke up. “Don't Web-based companies usually
give their e-mail addresses?”
“Of course.” Lisa scrolled to the bottom of the home
page and read the e-mail address aloud.
“[email protected].”
Lisa kept staring at the screen as if trying to puzzle
something out. Suddenly she let out a soft moan. “Oh,
Nancy, I know who this is!”
“Who?” Nancy demanded to know.
“I helped her pick it out when I first came to Old
Can Be Gold. The whole crowd was at lunch one day
trying to come up with cool screen names for one
another. Mine was Songbird, and—”
“And,” Nancy deduced, “Eyeriver is Inez Rivera!”
13. Double Exposure
Lisa dropped her hands to her lap and cried in dismay.
“I refuse to believe Inez is involved in this scheme.
And, anyway, how'd she pull off the burglaries? She's
never been on the road with the show.
“Oh, Inez didn't personally commit the burglaries,
Lisa. Believe me, the woman isn't working alone, I'm
sure of that,” Nancy declared, feeling vindicated. Her
gut instincts had proved right once again. Inez had
been acting vaguely suspicious and awfully nervous
right from the get-go. “But the problem is proving all
this. We've got part of the picture, but I can't connect
the dots. Inez uses this Web site, but how? To notify
the actual burglars where to hit next?”
For a moment everyone was silent. “Why don't we
set her up?” Ned suggested.
“How?” George inquired.
Nancy shared a glance with Ned, then said, “We'll
bait her with one of the objects appraised here at the
show. One of us can pose as an interested buyer. I bet
that within a couple of days that object is burgled,
fenced, and offered to us.”
“Not to us. To me,” Ned volunteered. “Inez doesn't
know me—at least not by name. I'll e-mail her now and
check her reply tomorrow when I'm back at school. My
ride's heading back to Emerson really early in the
morning,” he told Nancy.
Lisa pushed her chair over to make room for Ned in
front of the keyboard.
“What is it I'd like to buy?” he asked.
“I know!” Bess cried gleefully “That wooden Indian.
That's a real guy sort of thing.”
“Good idea,” Nancy said. “But don't say you've seen
it at Old Can Be Gold. Just that you collect cigar store
Indian statues.”
Once Ned had sent his e-mail, they left the café and
dropped Ned off at his buddy's house. After he got out
of the car, he poked his head back in the window.
“Nancy, be careful,” he urged. “If Inez knows you're
onto her, she might warn the thieves.” Ned hesitated.
“Do you want me to hang out here tomorrow? I can
grab a bus back to school tomorrow night.”
“No, Ned. I'll be okay,” Nancy promised, blowing
him a kiss good night. “And don't forget to call me
when Inez responds to your e-mail,” she reminded
him.
* * *
Back at Lisa's, Nancy was too psyched to sleep. In
the wee hours she lay in bed, thinking about the case.
Finding the Thriftytreasures.com site had really broken
things open.
Inez wasn't working alone—and maybe, just maybe,
she was somehow in league with Ethan. Like Jason, he
had been on the road with the show. He really did
seem amazed that the tape had been stolen, but Nancy
was beginning to suspect that whoever stole the tape
might not be behind the rest of the burglaries. Inez
and Ethan were connected to each other, and possibly
to the crimes.
Then there was Wes Clarke. Nancy wanted to scout
out his premises before the show reopened its doors
later in the day. Maybe she should snoop around
Westfield's for any scrap of evidence to connect Ethan
and Inez.
As for Jason, his pictures were either proof he was
part of the crime ring, or they were simply copies of
photos he had sent to clients.
Nancy dozed on and off until a faint early dawn light
filtered through the guest room windows. In the next
bed George was in a deep sleep, her breathing quiet
and even. Moving very quietly, Nancy got up, grabbed
her clothes, and carried them to the living room. There
she dressed hurriedly in jeans, a sweatshirt, and
sneakers, and tied her hair up in a ponytail. She started
for the front door, then detoured to the kitchen, where
she scrawled a hasty note: “I'm off early to the show to
check something out. See you there later.”
A few minutes later she was pulling out of the
garage. Across the lake the gray sky was retreating
before the first glimmer of sunrise. Traffic was almost
nonexistent that early on a Sunday morning, and Nancy
reached the sports complex in less than twenty
minutes. She parked her Mustang at the far end of the
lot.
To her surprise several cars were already parked in
the employee parking area. Then two men approached
the loading dock. One wore a security guard uniform,
the other a windbreaker with the words Max's Hauling
on the back. Nancy slipped behind the trailer of a truck
and overheard them talking.
“Look, Will, I'm doing you a big favor here. I'm
supposed to be at my post. The guys up top are ner-
vous about a possible break-in.”
What luck! Nancy realized. The entrance to the
complex was temporarily unguarded as the men
ducked into the trailer of a moving van. Nancy leaped
onto the loading dock and in through the freight
entrance.
She stopped at the open door to the gym to catch
her breath and to make sure she hadn't been followed.
The gym was quiet. Probably only the one guard was
on duty. Only a few security lights were lit, casting long
mysterious shadows over the various appraisal booths,
pieces of antique furniture, and statuary. The place felt
positively haunted. Nancy decided to explore
CrimeShoppers first.
When Nancy approached Wes's table, her heart
sank. He had cleared off his display shelves and the
surface of his table. He had probably stowed all his
wares somewhere safe and secure—including the
square box she had come to check out. Not really
expecting to find anything, Nancy lifted the tablecloth.
Beneath the table a stack of storage cartons formed a
kind of shelf. And right on top of one of
the cartons,
was that familiar square box.
Nancy picked it up. It definitely was not the same
box that George's tape had come in, but it was a reel-
to-reel tape box. Carefully Nancy opened it and stared
at its contents: Four neat stacks of mint-condition
cards—the kind that came in bubble gum packs—were
inside. Except these cards depicted famous criminals
instead of sports stars. Nancy sat back on her heels and
started to laugh.
Well, what did she expect? Wes was a crime
memorabilia dealer. Nancy had heard of cards like
these: gangster collector cards put out in the 1920s and
'30s, when big-time crooks like Al Capone and Baby
Face Nelson were pop icons.
Nancy's smile faded as she closed the box and
carefully placed it exactly as she had found it, on top of
the storage cartons. She got up, smoothed the wrinkles
on the tablecloth, and shook her head. If Wes had
taken the Lou Knight tape, he didn't have it here. And
then there was still the matter of how that
fingerprinting kit got into her bag. Nancy wasn't ready
to dismiss Wes as a suspect either in the tape burglary
or the bigger crime.
Nancy looked up: the windows high on the gym
walls framed squares of pale blue sky. Nancy checked
her watch. The sun was up, and she had no idea how
early the Old Can Be Gold staff came to work.
Still hugging the shadows, she hurried across the
room to Westfield's. The Westfield's site was larger and
more elaborate than CrimeShoppers, with three glass-
front display cases arranged as three sides of a square
and serving as appraisal counters. Nancy stepped
behind the makeshift counter, where there were a
couple of tall chairs for the appraisers, some storage
cartons, and plastic milk crates filled with files,
catalogs, and some reference books. Pushing a chair
out of her way, Nancy stooped down and riffled
through the folders.
Most of the material was related to sales, bills of
lading, and storage records. Suddenly her eye caught
the name on one thick folder. It was printed in bold
black felt-tip marker: “Ethan's Stash.”
Nancy slipped the file out of the crate and opened it.
There were notes about ceramic collectibles, the Arts
and Crafts movement, Depression-era glass, and one
legal-size yellow sheet of paper with an annotated list
of music collectibles. Among the items most in demand
by collectors were a Beatles autograph book worth
several thousand dollars, posters from Grateful Dead
concerts in the late 1960s or early '70s, and a guitar
owned by Jimi Hendrix. Following the list of items was
a list of names: possible collectors and/or possible
sources of rare rock memorabilia.
There was nothing about the missing tape, but here
was evidence enough that Ethan had connections to
the music world beyond his friendship with Bobby
Morgan. If Inez was involved in setting up robberies,
then Ethan could easily provide a list of customers
ready to pay big bucks for it.
And, of course, Ethan had access to records for all of
Westfield's clientele. Between his connections and
Inez's they barely needed professional fences, only
goons to effect the actual break-ins.
Nancy wondered if she should take the list with her
to check the names against the Thriftytreasures site or
if she should just copy the names down in her
notebook. Before she could decide, she heard the
clicking of a woman's high heels. The footsteps were
heading directly toward her.
Frantic, Nancy looked for a place to hide. Her eyes
alighted on a big wardrobe. Staying low behind the
counter, Nancy scurried toward the wardrobe and
opened the door, praying it wouldn't creak.
Fortunately its owner had been good about oiling the
hinges. Nancy crept inside and closed the door, leaving
it open just a crack for air. It was a tight fit, but she
managed to scrunch herself in.
“Ethan Woodard, I owe you one!”
At the sound of Inez's voice, Nancy was barely able
to stifle a gasp.
“You probably do,” Ethan said. He sounded grumpy
and sour. What's going on that couldn't wait until
later? I didn't get home until four this morning.”
“That's not my fault. This is the only time we could
hook up without anyone around,” Inez snapped. “I told
you at the party last night we needed to talk, but you
wouldn't give me the time of day. You were too busy
obsessing over that George—or is it her tape?”
Nancy heard Ethan emit a loud sigh. “Look, Inez, I
know things ended badly between us last year, but get
over it. And, yeah, that girl is nice, but she doesn't even
live around here, and she's a little young for me. As for
the tape,” he added glumly, “someone stole it from
Lisa's condo.”
Inez gasped. “I didn't know that!” There was a
moment's silence. “That explains everything—why that
friend of Lisa's is snooping around trying to find out
about those burglaries.”
“The burglaries?” Ethan suddenly sounded wary.
“Inez, don't tell me you're involved—”
“No way!” Inez declared hotly, and Nancy smiled to
herself. The girl sounded convincing. “But, Ethan, it's
going to look like I'm chin deep in the whole mess.”
She paused, and when she continued, Nancy could
hear she was on the verge of tears. “Everything that's
been stolen has been listed on my Web site. Then,
when I got home last night, there was a posting from a
collector who wanted a particular land of wooden
Indian.”
Ned's e-mail! Nancy realized, and pressed her ear
against the crack in the door as Inez went on. “I know
this sounds crazy, but there was something suspicious
about it. There's an item like what he wants at the
show, but the appraisal data and owner's address
haven't even reached my desk yet. It's too much of a
coincidence. Someone's going to tie me in with those
burglaries, Ethan. Now, after that e-mail, I'm sure
someone's onto my site—but for the wrong reasons!
I'm no thief, and Thriftytreasures is just a smart
business idea.”
Nancy wished she could see Inez's face. Could she
really be telling the truth?
“Inez.” Ethan sounded grim. “I warned you about
starting Thriftytreasures. That was a crazy, greedy
scheme, linking up collectors with potential sellers by
using the Old Can Be Gold database.”
“Maybe it is,” Inez retorted. “But it's not illegal
unless . . .” Nancy heard a note of suspicion enter
Inez's voice. “You're the only person who knows about
my connection to that site. How do I know you haven't
used the base yourself for a whole scuzzy operation?
And speaking of greed—you have no right to criticize
guy's a money-hungry operator—where does his
money come from?”
Ethan laughed tightly. “Look, I don't love seeing
him rich, either, but he does earn those bucks. He
works hard in a high-paying field. Take that fashion
shoot he did last week. He's bragging that he bribed
the doorman of a luxury condo on Lake Shore Drive to
use an apartment for a shoot—just to impress Yvonne
Bly. As you say, the guy's an operator—and greedy—”
Ethan broke off. “Hey, you're not accusing Jason . . .”
“Maybe I am,” Inez said. “Just think, he could have
learned about my site from you.”
“You think I'd tell him? I promised I wouldn't tell
anyone about the site or your being behind it, Inez. I
don't break promises,” he added in an accusing tone.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ethan let out a bitter laugh. “You of all people know
I don't share very much with my brother. He is not my
favorite person.”
“Right,” Inez scoffed. “I've heard that line before.
You guys put on a big show of not liking each other,
but I've always felt it's just an act.”
“I can't believe I'm hearing this,” Ethan fumed.
“Especially from you. Jason is money hungry but no
crook, and neither am I.” Ethan suddenly cut himself
off. “Someone's coming.”
“Probably Security,” Inez said with a calmness that
amazed Nancy. “Don't worry. We're covered. I'm
supposed to be here to accept an early-morning
delivery of a museum-quality rolltop desk that Old Can
Be Gold is moving to the show for the client.”
“And my excuse?”
“You're with me.”
Nancy listened as a security guard approached. He
chatted briefly with Ethan and Inez, then left. A
moment later Ethan and Inez headed off. Nancy
waited a minute longer, then slipped out of the
wardrobe, her head reeling.
What was it Ethan had said about Jason's renting a
condo overlooking Lake Shore Drive for a fashion
shoot? Nancy called to mind the photo on the wall at
Jason's show. Of course it looked familiar. The view out
the window in the photo was the same as the one from
Lisa's terrace.
Nancy managed to slip past the security desk, and a
few moments later she was in her car, heading toward
Jason's loft. When she arrived, Jason's street was
The Case of the Lost Song Page 10