Without a Trace

by Carolyn Keene

  “What?” I said skeptically. “I haven’t heard of anything like that.”

  Deirdre shrugged and flipped her dark curls behind her shoulder. “Believe it or not, there are a few things in the world even you haven’t heard of, Nancy Drew,” she said. “Anyway, you asked what I’d heard and I’m telling you. What do you want from me?”

  “Fine, okay, go on,” I said soothingly, hoping to avoid a patent Deirdre Shannon public meltdown. In addition to her other charming qualities, she has a temper like an overcaffeinated Chihuahua. “Anything else?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Deirdre seemed to be losing interest. “There was something about the Russian Mafia, but I think that was just speculation.”

  As opposed to the rest of your meticulously verified facts, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud. Deirdre doesn’t deal too well with sarcasm.

  “Deirdre,” Generic Boyfriend #37 broke in again, sounding more impatient this time. “Come on, aren’t we going to sit down? I’m starving.”

  Deirdre blew out a loud sigh and rolled her eyes. “Fine, whatever,” she snapped. “Let’s go sit down.” With one last smile for Ned, she tossed her hair and turned away.

  As soon as Deirdre and her date were seated well out of earshot, Ned grinned at me. “Good to see that her long, unbroken record of useless and petty gossip still stands,” he joked.

  “Yep. Along with her long, unbroken crush on you,” I teased.

  Ned pretended to flex his biceps. “Hey, what can I say? I’m just that irresistible,” he teased back.

  I giggled. Deirdre has had a monster crush on Ned since we were all in junior high. It’s become sort of a running joke among my friends.

  Then my expression sobered. “You don’t think there could really be any truth to what she said, do you?”

  “You mean about the Russian Mafia?” Ned said, taking a sip of his water. “I don’t know, but what difference does it make, unless they’ve moved their headquarters to River Heights and put out a hit on all the city’s zucchini?”

  “No, not that part. The other stuff. About Simone being mentally unstable. Not that I think she really would have been kicked out of France for that, but—”

  “But you’re wondering if there’s a kernel of truth in the story,” Ned finished for me.

  I smiled at him. “Exactly. I mean, Simone is so sweet, I hate to think badly of her. But maybe I should keep an extra close eye on her at that party.”

  That reminded me that I still hadn’t told him about the party. I filled him in, and he promised to come with me. Then, as we spotted Susie Lin heading our way with a trayful of food, we put all mysteries aside and focused our minds on digging in.

  For a few hours the next morning I almost forgot about both of the mysteries I was trying to solve. The River Heights Animal Shelter where I volunteer one morning a month is always busy on Saturdays, but today it was chaotic. People come from all over the city and the surrounding counties to adopt dogs and cats and the occasional rabbit or guinea pig. All morning I was running around and filling out paperwork, scrubbing cat cages, hosing down dog runs, and answering people’s questions. There was no time to think about anything else.

  But as soon as I headed toward home, the previous day’s events came flooding back into my mind. Simone’s party didn’t start for about six hours, and I didn’t want to wait that long to get back to my investigation.

  I found Hannah in the kitchen, scrubbing out a saucepan in the sink. “Hi, Nancy,” she greeted me, turning and wiping her hands on a dish towel. “How was the shelter today?”

  “Fine,” I replied. “We adopted out eleven cats and seven and a half dogs.”

  “Seven and a half?” Hannah repeated in surprise. I smiled. “The Harrison family picked out the dog they want, but they’re going away for a couple of days next week. So they’re going to pick up their new pooch next weekend.”

  “Ah, that sounds nice,” Hannah said. “I made some chili with the tomatoes and beans Evaline Waters gave us from her garden. Would you like a bowl for lunch?”

  “Sure, thanks, Hannah. That sounds great.”

  I walked to the cabinet to grab a glass while Hannah pulled a tureen out of the refrigerator. A few minutes later I was seated at the round oak kitchen table with a bowl of hot chili and a cold glass of milk.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked Hannah.

  She slid the tureen back into the refrigerator and turned back to face me. “I already had a bite earlier with your father,” she said. “He had a meeting downtown this afternoon, so we had an early lunch before he left.”

  “Oh.” I was a little disappointed to hear that Dad wasn’t home. I had been hoping to talk over my cases with him. Scooping up a hot spoonful of chili, I blew on it before putting it in my mouth. Yum. “Mm, this chili is delicious, Hannah!” I took another bite. “Did anyone call this morning while I was out?”

  “Just Bess,” Hannah said. “She wants you to call her. Something about dressing for a party? I think she’s planning to come by, and she wanted to know what time you’d be home.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I told Hannah about the party so she wouldn’t hold dinner for me. As she bustled off to take care of the laundry, I finished my lunch and put the dishes in the dishwasher. After that I wandered out into the hall, wondering what to do next.

  I glanced at my watch. Still several hours until party time. I was counting on figuring out a lot at that party, but that didn’t mean I was going to let the rest of the afternoon go to waste.

  Heading into the living room, I picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang only once.

  “Hello,” a crisp female voice said. “River Heights Police Department. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Tonya,” I said. “It’s Nancy Drew.”

  “Oh, hello, Nancy. What can I do for you today?” Tonya Ward is the receptionist at police headquarters. She’s efficient, smart, and tough. She’s also a very helpful friend for me to have, since her boss, Chief McGinnis, isn’t always thrilled to find out about my amateur investigating.

  “Is the chief in?” I asked.

  “Hold on a sec, I’ll find out.”

  The line went quiet for a moment or two. Then it clicked back on, and a different voice spoke. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Chief McGinnis,” I said. “It’s Nancy Drew.”

  “Yes, I heard.” The chief sounded slightly weary. “What is it, Nancy?”

  I switched the phone to my other ear and picked up a pen in case I needed to take any notes. “I was just wondering if you’d turned up anything in the Valinkofsky case during your investigation yesterday.”

  “Yes, I heard you beat us to the crime scene,” the chief said dryly. He didn’t add the word again, but I could tell he was thinking it. It was time for me to be extra tactful.

  “Well, as you know, Simone only lives a couple of blocks from me,” I said brightly. “I just went over to give her some moral support, really.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The chief didn’t sound convinced. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I did take a quick look around. But there really didn’t seem to be any obvious clues. I mean, the house was unlocked and the key to the glass case was right there almost in plain sight. So unless there were any fingerprints or anything . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” Chief McGinnis said with a sigh. “I can take a hint, Nancy. No, we didn’t find any unusual prints anywhere in the room. Just those of Ms. Valinkofsky and her houseguests. Oh, and those of you and the two other musketeers, of course. There were no prints on the glass case at all.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Thanks, Chief. Any other clues that I missed?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” the chief replied. “As you said, there’s nothing much to go on. We’re just checking the usual places where a hot item like this might turn up, and keeping in touch with other towns up and down the river as well.” I could almost hear his shrug over the phone. “But frankly, I’m not holding out much hope. That thing is p
robably halfway to the East Coast or Europe or somewhere by now.”

  “Okay. Thanks again, Chief,” I said. “I won’t keep you any longer. But if you come up with anything else ...”

  “You’ll be the very first noninvolved, non-law-enforcement person I call,” the chief said with only a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Good-bye, Nancy. My best to your father.”

  “Bye.”

  I hung up the phone and stood there for a moment, thinking about what I’d just learned. No fingerprints. Did that mean the inside-job theory was right? Or did it just mean that the thief had been careful enough not to leave prints? I’d heard that some wealthy collectors become obsessed with certain items to the exclusion of all else. What if someone like that had heard about Simone’s Fabergé egg—a family heirloom that she would surely never agree to sell—and became determined to get it by any means necessary? Such a person would probably hire a professional thief to sneak in and take the egg and only the egg. Nothing else in the house would have been of interest.

  I shook my head. That whole theory seemed pretty far-fetched. In all my years of observing Dad’s cases and solving a few of my own, I’ve learned that the most obvious solution is usually the right one.

  But what was the most obvious solution here? I wasn’t sure. There seemed to be two primary possibilities. The first was that someone had happened upon the unlocked house, spotted the egg, grabbed it, and been scared off before having the chance to take anything else. The second was that one of the people in the house—Simone, her nephew, or one of his friends—had taken the egg.

  Going to that party later might tell me a lot about the second possibility, I told myself, checking my watch again. But in the meantime, maybe I’d follow up on the first possibility by talking to some more of Simone’s neighbors. I could even use the zucchini case as an excuse to get people talking, and then also find out if they saw or heard anything about Simone’s case.

  I was still staring at the phone when it rang, startling me out of my thoughts. Stepping forward, I grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Nancy!” Bess’s familiar voice cried into my ear. “I have some terrible news!”

  Gathering Clues

  My heart raced at the panic in Bess’s voice. “What is it?” I exclaimed. “What’s wrong, Bess? Tell me! Is someone hurt?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that!” Bess replied, sounding a bit sheepish. “Er, sorry for sounding so upset. But my mother just asked if I could stay with Maggie for a couple of hours—poor kid has an awful stomach virus—which means I probably won’t be able to come over and help you pick out an outfit and get ready for the party.”

  Slowly my heart rate returned to normal. To Bess, there’s no emergency quite like a fashion emergency. “I think I’ll be able to manage,” I told Bess. “And I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

  Bess giggled. “Sorry again for scaring you,” she said. “So what are you up to this afternoon?”

  I gave her the short version of my thoughts on Simone’s case. “So I might go out and talk to more of the neighbors,” I continued. “That way I can see if anyone knows anything about the missing egg at the same time that I’m looking for clues about the identity of the zucchini smasher.”

  Bess and I chatted about the case for a few more minutes. Then her mother called for her, and she had to go.

  As I hung up the phone I couldn’t help being slightly relieved that Bess wouldn’t be coming by to play fashion consultant. It would give me more time to continue my investigations.

  Over the next few hours I visited half a dozen houses on Bluff Street. I heard all about Mr. Carr’s kidney stones, saw some home movies the Newbergs had taken on their recent trip to Las Vegas, and got to admire the Winters’ new wall-to-wall carpeting. But unfortunately I learned nothing of use in my cases except that several other zucchini patches had been vandalized over the past few days. Back home again, I was thinking about that as I stepped into the shower to get ready for the party.

  Why would someone want to stomp only the zucchini? I wondered as I adjusted the water. Why not the tomatoes, or the string beans, or the onions? Why just the zucchini?

  Thinking about that reminded me of the other case. Why would someone come into Simone’s home and steal only that Fabergé egg? I realized it was probably the most valuable single object in the house, but there were other items that would certainly be well worth taking. A professional thief, or a paid amateur, wouldn’t have passed those other things by, I thought. Even if someone like that had come for the egg, he or she would’ve at least slipped those jeweled bracelets into a pocket, or grabbed one of the smaller oil paintings or another couple of knick-knacks.

  I thought briefly again of my theory about the obsessive art collector. But it didn’t seem any more plausible than it had earlier.

  Realizing that I was standing absentmindedly beneath the streaming shower jets, I switched off the water, hoping as an afterthought that I’d actually remembered to shampoo my hair. Stepping out of the shower, I toweled off and slipped on my favorite terrycloth robe and fuzzy pink slippers.

  As I wandered into my cheerful, yellow-and-white wallpapered bedroom, my mind wandered back to the mystery of the missing egg. I was becoming more and more certain that this case wasn’t an ordinary robbery. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that someone in the house must have taken the heirloom. Any other theory meant leaving too much to chance.

  But even if I went with that assumption, a couple of big questions remained: Which of the people in the house had taken the egg? And why?

  I knew I might be able to find out the answer to both questions that evening at the party, which was now about an hour away. But I wanted to be prepared. Sitting down at my desk, I turned on my computer. It was time to do a little research.

  Fifty minutes later I had found out everything I ever needed to know about Fabergé eggs. I read about how Alexander III, then czar of Russia, had commissioned the first one as an Easter gift for his wife, Czarina Maria, and about how Alexander’s son—Czar Nicholas II—had continued the tradition upon his father’s death, presenting a new egg each year to his mother and one to his wife. Well-known jeweler Peter Carl Fabergé had worked hard every season to outdo himself, creating uniquely beautiful and intricate eggs out of gold, silver, and precious and semiprecious stones, using colorful enameling techniques. The Russian Revolution and the tragic end of the Romanov royal family had ended the imperial egg tradition forever. Fifty-six had been made, and the whereabouts of only forty-four of them was known today.

  As I was examining a Web site showing photographs of several of the imperial eggs, I happened to notice the time at the lower right corner of the computer screen. I suddenly realized that Ned would be arriving to pick me up in about ten minutes.

  “Yikes,” I said, quickly shutting down the computer.

  I was suddenly a strawberry-blond version of the Tasmanian devil, whirling around the room pulling myself together. I shuffled through my closet until I found a blouse and skirt Bess had helped me pick out on our last shopping trip. The skirt was a little tight, but it looked okay—and besides, I didn’t want to waste time digging up another outfit.

  Next I hurried back into the bathroom. My shoulder-length hair was almost dry, and a few minutes with the blow dryer and a brush had it looking pretty good. I was just dabbing on a little eyeshadow when I heard a car pull up outside. Hurrying to the window, and almost tripping myself in my attempt to run in my snug skirt, I saw Ned’s car idling at the curb.

  As Ned himself climbed out of the driver’s seat, I leaned out the open window. “Hang on, I’m coming!” I yelled.

  He glanced up at me and gave me a thumbs-up. Once again I briefly considered changing my skirt, but decided it would take too long. Instead, I forced myself to walk at a conservative pace as I grabbed my purse and headed out of my room and down the stairs.

  Outside I found Ned waiting for me on the sidewalk. “Ok
ay, I’m ready,” I said breathlessly. Now that I had the hang of walking in that tight, straight skirt, I was able to pick up a little speed as I hurried toward him. “Let’s go. Do you want to drive or walk?”

  Ned glanced at the lower half of my body. At first I thought he was just surprised to see me in a skirt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn one, and I imagined he couldn’t either. Then he pointed at my feet. “If you’re going to wear those, I think we’d better drive,” he said.

  “Huh?” I looked down. I was still wearing my fuzzy pink bedroom slippers!

  “Oops,” I said, blushing furiously as Ned laughed. “Guess I’d better change.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Ned said with another chuckle. “You could start a new fashion trend with those. The sleepy look.”

  I gave him a playful shove. “Very funny,” I said. “And don’t you dare tell Bess about this!”

  A few minutes later I was wearing shoes, and Ned was parking his car along the curb in front of Simone’s house. Just as we climbed out, we spotted Bess’s car coming our way. We waited for Bess and George to park, then the four of us headed for the front door together.

  When Simone answered the door, she was wearing a bright smile and a stylish silk skirt. “Hello!” she exclaimed, seeming delighted to see us. “Nancy, George, Bess, I’m so glad to see you all again. And this must be Nancy’s boyfriend!” She smiled at Ned.

  “Ned Nickerson,” Ned introduced himself, holding out his hand. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Thanks for coming, Ned,” Simone replied graciously, shaking his hand. “I’m Simone Valinkofsky. Any friend of Nancy’s is a friend of mine. I’m sure she’s told you I had a bit of a shock here yesterday, and she was enormously comforting.”