The Stolen Kiss (4 page)

“May I come in?” Nancy asked. “I have some questions.”

Debbie hesitated, then opened the door. Nancy walked in and took a quick glance around. Debbie appeared to be alone. The L-shaped room had a bunk bed, two desks and bureaus, and a tall oak bookcase. The pale peach walls were covered with artwork. Through the open window Nancy could smell the flowers in the backyard. Then she noticed the empty plate on one of the desks. “Feeling better?” she asked.

Debbie seemed confused.

“You ate all your breakfast.”

Debbie drew in her breath and fiddled with some bottles on her dresser. “You said you had some questions,” she answered, avoiding Nancy's eyes.

Nancy began the conversation carefully. “Did you paint this?” Nancy pointed to a watercolor of running horses on the wall.

Debbie shook her head. “Not me. I don't paint. One of the girls at the halfway house painted that.”

“This, too?” Nancy stood in front of a childlike drawing of a farmhouse.

“No. That's Rina's.”

Nancy couldn't keep the look of surprise off her face. Rina seemed much too sophisticated to paint such a simple scene.

Debbie must have read her expression. “It's her latest style. Rina's always trying out new styles.”

Nancy walked to the far corner of the room. “The
Mona Lisa,”
she said in surprise.

“My roommate Kate made that copy this summer as an assignment for an art course she's taking in Paris,” Debbie told her. “She sent it to me for my birthday. She's a wonderful artist.”

“I don't think I've met Kate on my other trips to Emerson,” Nancy said. “Where is she?”

“Still in Paris—until next week.”

“But what about her classes?”

“I enrolled Kate, and she wrote to her teachers telling them she'd be late. Her registration packet is in her desk.”

Nancy took a closer look at the painting. “Kate's copy looks so much like the original—except that it's smaller, I think.”

“That's right,” Debbie said. “No one's allowed to copy the art the exact size as the original. Otherwise, the copy might be passed off as an original. And that would be forgery.”

“That's odd, isn't it. I mean the distinction between a copy and a forgery.”

“A copy is a forgery only when there's the intent to deceive.” Debbie sounded bored. “Now, Nancy, if you don't have any more questions—”

“Just a couple of things about the robbery. Really, I won't take long.” Nancy took a seat on the bottom bunk. Debbie leaned against the closet.

“How long have you been assistant curator?”

“Six months.”

“And Bryan? How long has he been a guard?”

“I hired Bryan right after I was appointed,” Debbie replied. “Rina suggested him for the job. In fact, she gave me that painting as a thank-you present for hiring him.” Debbie glanced at Rina's painting. Nancy couldn't read Debbie's expression.

“So Bryan and Rina split up after you two began working together,” Nancy said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said Debbie. “As I told you last night, we started dating this summer, which got Rina upset.” Debbie eyed Nancy nervously. “I don't understand what these questions have to do with the theft of
First Kiss.”

Nancy wasn't sure, either. All she knew was that Debbie was a suspect, as was Bryan. Both had opportunity. Nancy had no more questions for Debbie just then. She thanked her and left to find George.

George was outside on the veranda fanning herself with the newspaper. Nancy suggested that they drop by the art museum to find out if there was any word on
First Kiss.
In the museum parking lot Nancy spotted the black sports car from the night before—its license plates read MORRISON.

The two girls strolled into the Jared gallery, and Nancy saw that Dr. Morrison was not alone. A young man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt was talking agitatedly with the curator. He kept running his hands through his short black hair as he focused on the blank space on the wall.

“That's him. That's Michael Jared with Dr. Morrison,” Nancy whispered as she pulled George back into the foyer.

“What a hunk,” George said, peering around the corner.

Nancy giggled behind her hand. “You sound like Bess.”

George pretended to be offended. “I'm just stating a fact. If Bess were here she'd have fainted, not spoken.”

As Nancy moved into the gallery, Dr. Morrison spotted her. “Ah, Michael, here's someone you should meet.” He motioned Nancy over to him. George followed. “This is Nancy Drew and her friend George Fayne.”

Michael stared first at Nancy, then at George and then back at Nancy again. His clear blue eyes seemed to bore right through her. “Michael Jared here,” he said, putting out his hand.

Nancy shook it. She realized he was probably twenty-five or six, but he could have passed for one of Ned's classmates, even up close.

“I'm sorry about your painting, Mr. Jared,” Nancy said. “Dean Jarvis asked me to help with the investigation—”

Michael Jared's thick eyebrows arched up and he stared harder at Nancy. Dr. Morrison cleared his throat. “Actually Ms. Drew here is quite a detective. Both the police and the dean have used her before to solve mysteries on campus.”

The dark-haired artist's expression shifted from confusion to respect. “Really? I assumed you were a student here.” He folded his arms across his chest. Nancy noticed he had a small rose tattooed on his right bicep. “I really appreciate your help. Any leads yet?”

Nancy shook her head. “It's a bit early for anything yet, Mr. Jared.”

“Michael,” he corrected with a quick grin. It was such a disarming smile, Nancy had to smile back. “All this mister stuff makes me feel so old.”

“Dr. Morrison, you have a call on line two,” a female voice announced over the museum intercom. The curator excused himself. “Probably the insurance company,” he muttered.

Nancy pulled a small notebook and pencil out of her backpack. “I wonder if you could tell me something about the painting—why someone would steal that particular one.”

Michael shook his head ruefully. “Hard to say really. It is
my
favorite and one critic did call it one of my strongest.” He looked back at the empty space on the wall, and his expression was so wistful Nancy's heart ached for him. “But then the same critic called that landscape over there a near masterpiece.” He sounded proud and a little embarrassed. “They could have taken that.”

“No,” George spoke up firmly. “It's too big. The thief had to fit it out the skylight
or
the storeroom window.
First Kiss
was smaller.”

“So that's how they broke in,” the artist said, looking up at the skylight, which was already neatly boarded up. Nancy and George began to fill Michael in on the details of the robbery as they knew them.

He listened attentively to George, but kept catching Nancy's eye. Michael finally turned directly to Nancy. “Sorry to keep staring at you, but I love your coloring.”

George's eyes went wide, and Nancy felt self-conscious all at once.

Michael laughed. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. I need a costumed model to pose for my class this afternoon. My usual model is about your size and has strawberry blond hair like yours. This morning she called in sick. With all this commotion over the painting I haven't had time to find anyone else. Would you consider posing for the class?

“Me, pose?” Had Michael Jared actually asked
her
to pose for him?

“Oh, Nancy, do it!” George urged, her dark eyes shining. “You'll hang in a museum.”

“You mean my
picture
may hang in a museum,” Nancy said. “And I doubt a student's work would end up in a museum, but”—she turned to Michael and regarded him thoughtfully—“okay. I'd be honored.”

After Michael told her the place and time for his class, she excused herself. “Dr. Morrison is probably off the phone by now, and I want to get a photo of the missing painting from him.”

The receptionist told Nancy where to find Dr. Morrison. Nancy headed down a long tiled hallway lined with offices and closets.

As Nancy approached Dr. Morrison's office, she noticed the door was open. She could hear that he was still on the phone, so she slowed down. She didn't want to interrupt his phone call. Without warning his voice rose, its tone desperate, almost shrill.

“I know I'm late,” Dr. Morrison was saying. Nancy crept closer to the open door. Dr. Morrison fell silent a moment. “No. I am not backing out of it. Not at all.” His tone was still loud and desperate but very firm.

“I'll get the money,” he said. “Soon.”

T
HE RECEIVER WAS SLAMMED
Down. Nancy stepped back quickly. Was Dr. Morrison in debt? Was he being blackmailed?

The curator stormed out of his office, almost crashing into Nancy. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Nancy replied.

Dr. Morrison took a deep breath. “Yes, Nancy, of course. Sorry I'm so jumpy—the theft and all. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back.”

Inside the office a group of photographs on one wall caught Nancy's eye. They were all of Dr. Morrison in various exotic locales. There was also a photo of a new colonial-style mansion. Pretty pricey place for a curator on a college payroll, Nancy mused. She heard Dr. Morrison approaching and turned around.

She greeted him with a smile. “Yours?” Nancy pointed to the picture of the mansion.

“My wife and I just built it outside of town.”

“Lovely,” Nancy said quietly, but her thoughts were racing. “I'll get the money. Soon.” Those were his exact words on the phone. Then Nancy remembered that unlike Debbie or Bryan, the curator had an airtight alibi. He'd been at dinner with the dean when the museum was burgled. Unless he had an accomplice, Dr. Morrison had to be in the clear.

“Was there something you wanted, Nancy?”

“Do you have a photograph of
First Kiss
?”

Dr. Morrison extracted a small color print from a bulging file on his cluttered desk.

Nancy caught her breath as she gazed at the photograph. The painting was of a young couple. The boy's head was turned away from the viewer, but the girl's face was clearly visible. She was blond and very young and was looking up at the boy. On her face was an expression of yearning, tinged with vulnerability. The artist had exactly captured the moment before a girl's first kiss.

Nancy studied the photo a moment, then slipped it into her notebook. “Do you have any ideas who might have stolen the painting?”

He met her gaze straight on. “I don't
know
anything. And I certainly don't want to place any blame on anyone, but”—he hesitated a moment—“Debbie certainly had no reason to be here last night.” He held up a hand to ward off Nancy's comment. “I know—the inventory—but that could have waited until today. And as for Bryan—well, do you buy that story about his being locked in a shed?
And
he's a rock climber.”

Before she could respond, a rangy middle-aged man wearing green overalls stuck his head through the doorway. “I finished boarding up the skylight. The glass company will be out tomorrow,” he said.

“This is Ralph Jenkins, our maintenance man,” Dr. Morrison said. “Nancy is helping with the investigation,” he explained.

Nancy smiled. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“Yeah?” Jenkins replied brusquely.

She ignored his rudeness. “On the roof last night,” she began, “I found a ticket to last Friday's EC concert. I wondered if you might have dropped it.”

“I don't go to rock concerts,” Jenkins snapped.

“Or if you knew of anyone else who'd been up to the roof recently,” Nancy continued pleasantly.

“Hasn't been anyone up on the roof,” Jenkins growled, “until last night, that is.” Muttering under his breath, he left the room.

Why was Jenkins so hostile? “How long has Mr. Jenkins worked at the museum?” she asked.

“One year. I brought Ralph with me from the Cabbott Museum in Chicago.”

“Isn't it unusual for a maintenance person to follow a curator?”

“Perhaps.” Dr. Morrison laughed lightly. “But Ralph is a good man. I trust him.”

“Why did you come to Emerson from the Cabbott?” Nancy asked. “The Cabbott is such a prestigious museum with a wonderful collection.”

“You are quite the detective, Nancy,” he said. “Am I a suspect now?”

Nancy returned the curator's smile.

“I came to Emerson for a number of reasons,” he finally answered. “Mainly for the quiet smalltown lifestyle but also for the freedom to exhibit more experimental art.”