Without a Trace (14 page)

“Pierre!” Simone finished for me with a gasp, her face going white.

“But we were only upstairs for a moment,” René exclaimed. “Just long enough to set our bags in the guest room and use the bathroom upstairs.”

I shrugged. “It wouldn’t take long,” I pointed out. “I’m sure Pierre knew exactly where the key to the glass case was—Simone didn’t exactly have it hidden away. All he’d have to do is unlock the case, grab the egg and tuck it away somewhere to retrieve later, and wipe away his fingerprints.”

Simone stood up, her face pinched and grim. “Are you saying that Pierre took the egg?” she exclaimed. “But why?”

I hesitated. “Well, I’m not totally sure,” I said. “But I have a theory about that.”

Simone didn’t wait to hear it. She hurried out of the room, and we could hear her rapid footsteps on the stairs, then in the upstairs hallway. A moment later she returned.

George gasped, pointing to the object Simone held in her hands. “The egg!” she cried.

“I found it in Pierre’s bag.” Simone held up the heirloom with trembling hands. “I still can’t believe—”

Just then we heard the front door open. A moment later Jacques walked in. He had a few bandages on his arms and legs and a large scrape on his forehead. But otherwise, he looked perfectly healthy.

“Hello, everyone,” he said. “Pierre’s parking the car. The hospital said I would probably survive, so they sent me . . .” His voice trailed off with a gulp as
he suddenly noticed the Fabergé egg in Simone’s hands. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“I think you know,” I told him with a sympathetic smile. “You knew Pierre took it, didn’t you?”

Jacques looked a little ill. “How did you find out?” he said, taking a step toward me. “I was pretty sure he had done it; I know him well enough to see that he wasn’t acting quite himself. But I couldn’t find the proof. I never had the opportunity to check his room—he was always right next to me.” He shrugged. “After that first evening I wasn’t even sure he still had it. But I checked in all of the local antique shops and didn’t see any sign of it.”

“Aha!” George exclaimed. “So that’s why you went into those antique stores and stuff the day we were following you.”

Bess elbowed her. “You mean the day we
ran into
him while we were out shopping.”

The shadow of a smile flitted across Jacques’s somber features. “It is okay,” he told my friends. “I knew you were following me. I had only hoped it was because of the reason
Mademoiselle
Bess told me—that you lovely American ladies were madly in love with me.”

Bess looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said. “We were trying to help Nancy.”

This time Jacques actually chuckled. Then his
expression went serious again as he glanced at Simone. “In any case,” he said, “I soon realized that such an object was far too valuable to sell in a small city like River Heights. So I deduced that if Pierre had taken it, it must still be in the house. That’s why I volunteered to go up the ladder today. I thought that would finally give me the chance to look in his room.”

“I think Pierre must have realized that once you were up there,” I said. I hesitated, not sure how to say the next part: that I was pretty sure Jacques’s fall hadn’t been an accident. Pierre must have yanked the ladder to cause the fall.

One look at Simone’s face told me she had already figured it out, so I didn’t bother to say it. I felt terrible for her. She had her heirloom back, but it had to be awful for her to know that her own nephew had been the culprit.

I opened my mouth, wanting to say something to make her feel better. But at that moment, Pierre walked into the room. When he saw us gathered there, he looked perplexed.

Then he saw the egg, and his face went white.

“Yum,” I said, looking down at the grill. “Are there any more of those grilled zucchini slices?”

“Coming right up,” Simone said with a smile,
reaching for the platter of sliced vegetables on a picnic table nearby.

“Thanks.” I glanced around the tidy backyard. After Pierre had left a few days earlier, Simone had hired a local garden company to come in, clear away the weeds, and get her yard into shape. Now it looked great. The vegetable patch was bursting with produce, a formerly hidden rose garden had come back to life, and the level part of the lawn held not only the grill and picnic table, but several lounge chairs and wooden benches as well. At the moment, most of the lawn furniture was filled with Simone’s new neighbors and friends. I could see Ned and Hannah sitting with some neighbors, plates balanced on their laps. Back by the wall overlooking the river, my father was chatting with Mrs. Zucker while little Owen played with a soccer ball nearby. And Mr. Geffington and Mr. Safer were standing together near the twining zucchini vines of the garden.

George and Bess wandered over toward the grill. “Great barbecue, Simone,” George said. “If you keep having parties like this, with such great food, you’re going to be the most popular person in the neighborhood!”

“Thanks, George.” Simone smiled. “Of course, this party is mostly to thank you, Bess, and Nancy for helping me with my little problem last week.” She
glanced at me. “I’m so grateful for everything you did to help me get the egg back. And for supporting me afterward.”

“I was happy to help,” I said. I knew Simone still felt terrible about Pierre. Once he’d confessed to stealing the egg, Simone had called his family in France. Within two hours Pierre was on a plane on his way back home—to a very angry father. Simone had decided not to press charges, though she had assured us that her older brother, Pierre’s father, would certainly punish his son when he got home.

“I still can’t believe Pierre thought the egg was a fake,” George commented, helping herself to a slice of grilled mushroom.

Bess nodded. “Now that you mention it, I’m still not sure I understand that part,” she admitted. “Why did he want to steal a
fake
Fabergé egg?”

Simone sighed, shuffling the meat and vegetable slices that were grilling. “I think I’ve finally worked that out myself,” she said. “You see, Pierre’s father, André, is my older brother—much older, of course. I am the baby of the family, and my papa always doted on me a bit too much, I’m afraid. It often made my brother angry—not that he needed much of an excuse. He has quite a temper, just like Papa himself.”

I nodded, picking up the explanation. “Simone mentioned something to me on the phone once
about her father and Pierre’s father not getting along. I’d meant to ask her about that, but I forgot about it for a while.”

George feigned surprise. “Nancy Drew, forgetting to follow up on a clue?” she exclaimed teasingly.

I stuck my tongue out at her, then continued. “Anyway, I’d noticed all along that Pierre is pretty impulsive and hotheaded himself. Remember how he snapped at me at the party when he thought I was accusing his friends?”

George nodded and licked her fingers. “I figured that was just a guilty conscience or something.”

“Maybe it was, partially,” I said. “But it also showed that he doesn’t always think things through before reacting. That’s what happened with the egg, too. He heard that Simone was having the egg appraised that Monday, and took the first chance he got to snatch it.”

“I get it,” Bess said. “That ties in with what Simone told us after Pierre confessed, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. Simone had explained that her brother had always expected their father would leave him certain family valuables, including the egg.

Simone sighed. “It all seems so foolish, really,” she said. “Papa died about ten years ago, having already given the egg to me, his baby. My mother knew that André wanted it, even though he was too proud to
admit it. She had the fake made for him so that both of us could enjoy having the egg.” She smiled sadly. “I think poor André felt terrible about fighting so much with Papa when he was alive. Once Papa died, he never made a peep to me about wanting the real egg back. Instead he treasured the fake as a reminder of Papa—and he never told anyone else that it wasn’t real.”

“How sad!” Bess said. “But do you mean all his life, Pierre thought his father had the real egg?”

Simone nodded, poking at a sizzling slice of onion. “In fact, André told little Pierre that he’d stolen the egg back from me, substituting a replica he’d had made. I don’t know why he would make up such a tale—pride, I suppose. And that same pride made Pierre take the egg. He thought he was saving his father’s good name by preventing the appraisal, since he feared I might figure out what had happened if the appraiser told me the egg was fake. He was willing to frame his good friends, even put Jacques in the hospital, to protect his father’s reputation.” She shrugged. “I guess he didn’t realize I’d already had it appraised once, back in Paris. Or maybe he thought that appraisal happened before his father supposedly made the switch. I don’t know. I suppose someday I’ll ask him.”

I nodded thoughtfully. I’d often noted that people’s motives for committing crimes or doing other bad things were usually very simple—they wanted money,
or revenge, or freedom, or some other basic thing. But in this case, I’d learned that motives could also be more complicated. There was no way I could have worked out that Pierre was the culprit by studying only motives in this case—not without a whole lot more information than I’d had at the time. Luckily I’d been able to figure it out by considering opportunity along with just a hint of possible motive.

“So did you have the appraisal done?” George asked Simone curiously.

Simone smiled. “Yes,” she said. “And my egg is definitely the real one. Oh, and I’ve also bought a more theft-proof display box for it . . . just in case!”

Bess leaned on the picnic table. “That’s good,” she said. “I guess Jacques must have been pretty angry with Pierre about all this, huh? I mean, first he tries to frame him, then he knocks him off that ladder.”

“Yes, of course.” Simone looked sad. “It’s a shame. They have been friends for many years. I hope they work things out.”

At that moment I saw Mr. Geffington and Mr. Safer walking toward the grill holding empty paper plates. I smiled at the sight of them chatting away with each other.

At least one friendship—against all odds—seems to have survived the past week,
I thought.

“Better put some more zucchini on the grill,” I
told Simone as the men approached. “Mr. Geffington is probably going to eat up all you have, since his garden won’t have any until his new set of plants set fruit.”

Bess giggled. “At least this time he won’t have to worry about them getting smashed, now that you finally ferreted out the culprit, Nancy.”

“That reminds me,” Simone said. “Could you watch the grill for a moment? I have something cooking inside that should be just about ready.”

We nodded. For the next few minutes, we were busy serving Mr. Geffington, Mr. Safer, and several others from the grill.

As I was flipping over some slices of eggplant, Chief McGinnis approached.

“Well, well, Miss Drew,” he greeted me with a not-quite-happy smile. “I was just talking to your father. He tells me you are the one responsible for solving our little zucchini problem.”

I knew why the chief of police didn’t sound particularly pleased with me. Not only had I cracked the case of the missing egg before his officers had even come up with any leads, but I’d also solved the zucchini case right under his nose. He probably didn’t mind that—like my father, he probably thought it was much ado about nothing—except that Mr. Geffington had given a long, glowing quote about me to
the local newspaper without mentioning the police department at all.

I decided it was a good time to make nice. After all, there was no telling when I might need the chief’s help for another case, so I always tried to stay on his good side. “Yes, I suppose I did figure that one out,” I admitted pleasantly. “But it was really sort of an accident.”

“Literally,” George put in helpfully. “She figured it out by falling on her head.”

The chief looked slightly confused. “I see,” he said, even though he clearly didn’t.

Bess took pity on him. “Nancy slipped on Mr. Geffington’s front steps on Saturday night,” she explained. “At the time, we thought that the egg thief might have pushed her or something, since she’s usually not that clumsy. But a couple of days later Mr. Geffington mentioned that the zucchini smasher had struck again on Saturday night, and that he’d had to clean sticky, slimy zucchini goo off his front steps.”

“So we realized that Nancy must’ve slipped on the goo,” George finished.

The chief still looked perplexed. “Yes, yes,” he said. “But, er . . .”

I could tell he still didn’t understand how I’d figured out who had destroyed the zucchini. “After that, I put two and two together,” I told him. “See,
when Simone’s friend Jacques fell off the ladder, the house was locked. So I had to run across the street to call for help. I knew that Mrs. Zucker works at home, so I went straight there. Little Owen was in the driveway with his baseball bat, which he handed to me when he ran in to get his mother. I barely noticed at the time, but later on I remembered that the handle was sticky and slimy—just like Mr. Geffington described his steps.”

George clearly noticed that the chief still didn’t look enlightened. “So that’s when she realized that Owen’s baseball bat was the, er, murder weapon. So to speak.”