The Phantom of Nantucket (3 page)

“Do you know what a figurehead is?” Jenna asked, leading us toward the second room.

“The statue that goes on the front of a boat?” I asked.

“Yep,” Jenna answered. She turned around, walking backward like a tour guide. “In some cultures it was believed that a spirit lived inside them, protecting the ship from harm. They're usually just decorative, so it was a real shock that this one turned out to prove that the captain sank the
Eleanore Sharpe
on purpose, thus becoming the key component of our exhibit.”

She stopped. “See for yourself.” She stepped out of the way so we could take a look, revealing . . . an empty display case!

CHAPTER THREE

On the Case!

JENNA TURNED AROUND AND TOOK IN THE
empty display case. I glanced at Bess. I was expecting to see her on the edge of tears—she hates seeing people she cares about upset—but instead I saw nothing but steely resolve.

“This is now officially a case,” Bess whispered in my ear as Jenna crossed the room to sit on a bench.

“I need to think for a second,” Jenna said. She looked completely lost.

I turned to Bess and nodded in agreement. This was a case. The sign and the letter could be coincidences, but a third crime escalated the situation, especially one as serious as this. I was pretty sure that Pete and Mr. Whitestone would feel more comfortable having the police investigate than an amateur sleuth visiting from River Heights, but glances at Bess's and Jenna's faces told me they needed someone to intervene right now.

I walked to the other side of the case and examined the lock. George and Bess followed me. “It's not broken,” I whispered.

“Do you think whoever stole the figurehead had keys?” George asked.

I nodded. There couldn't be that many people who had keys to the display case. A wave of butterflies swarmed in my stomach—a feeling that always accompanied a breakthrough in a mystery. We had only one clue so far, but we had already drastically reduced the list of possible suspects.

“Poor Jenna,” Bess said, sounding surprisingly disheartened.

“Poor Jenna?” George hissed. “It's great news! Nancy will be able to solve this in no time.”

“I haven't been asked to investigate,” I reminded George.

Bess still looked uneasy. “This means Jenna probably knows the person who took the figurehead. It was personal. Think about what else they could do!”

I paused for a second. I had been so focused on what it meant for solving the case that I hadn't considered the emotional aspect of what we'd discovered. But Bess was right; it was almost guaranteed that Jenna knew the person who took the figurehead.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” I told Bess. “Just because Jenna probably knew the thief doesn't mean that it was a personal attack against her.” I had learned over my years of sleuthing that there were millions of reasons why people committed crimes. You never knew the motive until you knew who the culprit was.

“I'd still feel better if we solved this as soon as possible,” Bess said.

I took a breath and headed toward the bench where Jenna was sitting, about to ask her who had keys to the display case, when she stood up and announced, “I need to tell Pete.” With that, she set her jaw and marched out of the exhibit room.

My friends and I exchanged a look and trailed after her like ducklings following their mother. Jenna was practically jogging through the museum, past the harpoon displays, the mannequins dressed as traditional whaling captains, and the dioramas of whales in their natural habitat.

“Jeez, she's faster than my mom when there's a sale at the mall,” George huffed behind me. I nodded in agreement. Jenna was on a mission, beelining for a door on the opposite side of the building with a big
STAFF ONLY
sign on it.

She shoved open the door and walked through without missing a step. The door slammed shut in my face. Bess and George almost walked into me, expecting me to follow Jenna, but it seemed like Jenna had forgotten about our existence entirely. I didn't feel comfortable going into a restricted area without an invitation.

We could hear Pete and Jenna talking inside, but since the door was made of solid oak, I could only hear their voices, not what they were actually saying. Then we heard what was distinctly a sob. It pierced right through the thick door—a heartbreaking noise.

“Oh, forget the sign,” Bess said, opening the door and marching in. George and I followed her. I paused for a moment, taking in the room. Clear plastic drawers filled with what I assumed were whale bones lined one wall. The other walls were a jumble of paintings, pieces of carved ivory, and parts of old boats. It reminded me of being in our neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Golon's attic. Mr. Golon was an inventor and Mrs. Golon an artist. They stored all their old inventions and paintings in their attic, which was amazing, but also overwhelming. Jenna was sitting across from Pete, her face in her hands, crying. Pete sat lost in thought, as if trying to figure out the best course of action. A piece of whalebone was on the table in front of him. He had clearly been examining it, as he still wore magnifying goggles that made his eyes look huge.

“Do you want me to call the police?” I asked, pulling out my phone. “I'm sure they'll be able to find the figurehead quickly.”

“As soon as we call the police, it will end up in the newspaper as part of the crime blotter,” Jenna said between sobs. “Mr. Whitestone will never give the job to someone who lost such an important artifact.”

“Sounds like you need a private detective,” George piped up.

Jenna nodded, taking her head out of her hands. She looked hopeful at the prospect, but Pete interjected. “It's a good idea, but there aren't any private detectives on Nantucket. It's a sleepy island. There's not much need for someone like that here.”

Jenna's hopeful expression fell, but then she noticed the three of us smiling. “Why do you all look so happy?”

“It just so happens that there
is
a private detective on the island,” George said, putting her arm around me.

Jenna looked at us, confused. “Nancy?” she asked hesitantly. We nodded.

“Thanks for the offer, girls,” Pete said, “but I think we need a professional.”

“Well, Nancy just happens to be a professional amateur detective!” George said enthusiastically. Pete didn't look convinced.

Bess noticed too, and explained, “George was making a joke, but seriously, Nancy has solved loads of cases back home. Sometimes the police even ask her to consult.”

“Is that true?” Pete asked.

I nodded. “Yes, it's happened a few times,” I admitted.

“She's been in the newspaper, and she even won a special commendation from our town,” George added.

Jenna looked at Pete hopefully, but he still seemed uncertain.

“She's already had a major breakthrough,” Bess chimed in.

I explained my theory that the thief had a key to the display case.

“Based on the evidence so far,” Bess said, “it seems like someone is targeting Jenna personally. If that's the situation, having someone closer to her age investigate could be a real asset.”

Pete thought about it for a moment. “All right, Nancy,” he finally said. “You're on the case.”

We made it official by shaking hands.

“I'm going to take a look at the display case myself, see if I notice anything that could be a clue,” Pete said.

He walked out, leaving us alone with Jenna. I fished a pad of paper and a pen from my purse. “Can you describe the figurehead for me?”

Jenna thought for a minute before replying. “It's a woman with long hair, about a foot tall and six inches wide.”

I nodded, jotting down her description. “Can you write down the names of everyone who has those keys?”

Jenna took the paper and quickly got to work. She seemed to have a glimmer of hope that everything would be okay, and I really I hoped I could help.

After a moment Jenna handed back the pad. There were five names on the list, including herself, Pete, and Kelsey.

“I know who three of these people are, but who are Jack and Megan?” I asked.

“Jack is an outside historical expert the museum hires to help authenticate artifacts, and Megan is one of the restoration artists. They've both gone home for the day, but they'll be here first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Can you think of any reason why either of them would want to take the figurehead?”

Jenna shook her head. “They're the most professional people I've ever met. I can't imagine them doing anything like this.”

“We couldn't help but notice how rude Kelsey was to you earlier. Could she have done this?”

“Maybe,” Jenna paused. “She has been playing pranks on me all summer.”

“What kind of pranks?” I asked.

Jenna began rattling off a list of mishaps. “Changing the time of a meeting on my calendar so I would miss it. Hiding my tools so I couldn't work on an artifact.”

“Why doesn't she like you?” George asked.

“Kelsey grew up on the island, living here year-round. I only visit in the summer. There's always a lot of tension between those two groups. People who live here year-round think that summer people are just interlopers and not real islanders,” she explained. “Basically, Kelsey thinks I only got this internship and this exhibit because my parents donate to the museum.”

“But you've been working for this your whole life,” Bess said. “You even won an archaeology scholarship to college. Your parents had nothing to do with your success!”

“I know, but Kelsey was passed over two years in a row for this internship for people less qualified than her, so I understand why she feels the way she does.”

“Still, she should judge you as a person and by your individual qualifications,” George insisted.

“I'm going to talk to her,” I offered. “Even if she didn't do it, she might have some thoughts about Jack and Megan.”

“She's probably in the break room,” Jenna said.

After getting directions from Jenna, I headed to the back, thinking about how I would approach Kelsey. Most people think that interrogation is the best way to get information, but I've found that friendliness can be more effective. I thought about what Jenna had said about Kelsey being passed over for people with more connections. I could understand why she would feel angry.

I walked into the break room to see Kelsey frantically digging through her purse, dumping its entire contents on the table.

“Ugh. This day just keeps getting worse and worse!” She sighed exasperatedly.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“My keys are missing,” Kelsey said. “I can't find them anywhere!”

CHAPTER FOUR

A Key Discovery

“YOU MEAN ALL YOUR KEYS, INCLUDING THE
museum keys, are gone?” I asked. My stomach sank as it dawned on me that my big break in the case might be slipping away.

“Yes,” Kelsey answered, still sorting through the contents of her purse. “I keep all my keys on one key chain.”

I crossed to the table. “Let me help. Maybe you just need a second pair of eyes to spot them.” I sifted through her belongings. I found three lip glosses, two sunglasses, and four half-empty packs of gum, but no keys.

“Are you sure they were in your purse? Maybe you stuck them in your pocket?” I asked hopefully.

Kelsey rolled her eyes. “These pants don't even have pockets. The keys must have been taken,” she said.

“When is the last time you know you had them?” I asked.

“This morning. I also work doing landscaping at the Sailing Club, which is where I was before I came here. This internship is unpaid, and my parents can't afford to cover my expenses.” She emphasized the “my,” so I knew she was trying to drop a hint that Jenna's parents could. “I'm the first one at the club every morning,” Kelsey continued, “so I used the keys to unlock the door, but then I threw them in my bag. I usually don't use them again until I go home at the end of the day.”

“And do you keep your bag with you at the ­Sailing Club, or do you store it in a break room like here?” If Kelsey had the bag with her at the club, then at least I would know the keys were stolen after she left.

“We have lockers. They had to have been stolen on my way here. I walked along Water Street, right after the nine a.m. ferry docked. It was so crowded that I got jostled all over the place, so I bet I was pickpocketed.” My stomach sank even further. There was almost no way to narrow down those kinds of suspects. In a span of five minutes, the case had gone from being virtually solved to virtually impossible. If I felt disappointed, I couldn't imagine how crushed Jenna was going to feel upon hearing the news.

“I gotta go,” Kelsey said, gathering everything back into her purse. “I need to swing by the Sailing Club to pick up an extra set of keys so I can go to work tomorrow.”

She hurried out, and I made my way back through the museum. I found George and Bess with Jenna and Pete, going through the
Eleanore Sharpe
exhibit. Bess and George were checking artifacts off a list as Jenna and Pete went through every item in the room.

“We're just double-checking that nothing else was taken,” George explained, barely looking up from her list.

“What's wrong?” Bess asked, noticing the disappointed look on my face.

I explained about Kelsey's stolen keys and how it meant we didn't have any clues. “I'm not giving up, though!” I said quickly, seeing that Jenna looked absolutely devastated to hear the news.

“What's your next step?” Bess asked.

I pondered for a moment and then turned to Pete. “I think I'd like to see the letters the museum has received. I know you said they're common, but whoever vandalized the sign and took the figurehead clearly wanted attention. I wonder if he or she tried to get it more directly first.”

“Sure, if you think it will help,” Pete said as he headed toward the door. “Come with me.”

Bess and George looked between Jenna and me, not sure what to do. “You two stay here and help Jenna go through the rest of the exhibit,” I said. “Knowing if anything else was taken will help us figure out the motive.”

I followed Pete into his office, which was crowded with books and papers. In fact, everywhere I looked, there was something shaped like a whale: a pencil cup, a mouse pad, a throw pillow, even a whale-shaped clock on the wall. Pete noticed me observing his collection. “My friends started giving me whale items as a joke when I started this job, but now I collect them in earnest.” He paused for a moment. “I just think they're beautiful creatures. Did you know that humpback whales are the only other animals besides humans to use complex grammar in their language?”

“I didn't. That's really impressive.” I hesitated for a moment. There was something bothering me. “If you love whales so much, why do you run a museum that shows how we used to hunt them?”

“I think humans have an obligation to face their pasts,” Pete explained. “Both the good parts and the bad parts.”

That reminded me of something my dad liked to say. “It's like that saying, ‘Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it,'” I noted.

“Exactly,” he said, lifting a large cardboard file box onto his desk. “But you'll find plenty of people who don't agree with my perspective.”

I peered into the box. It was filled to the brim with letters.

“I put all the letters in here,” he said. “This represents only the ones we've received over the past six months. Knock yourself out.”

Pete headed back out to the exhibit area, and I got to work. I quickly realized that when he said that he put the museum's letters into the box, he meant all of them, not just the threatening ones. I even spotted a water bill in there. I was starting to get the sense that Pete wasn't the most organized person in the world.

The first order of business was to separate the negative letters from the positive ones. I was a little overwhelmed going through this giant box, but Jenna was counting on me. People assume being a detective is exciting and glamorous, but the truth is that sometimes it can be really boring. I pulled out a handful of letters and started reading.

* * *

Two hours later I had made my way through the top half of the box. I hadn't found anything that I could ­positively point to as a clue. Pete was right: The museum did receive a surprising amount of hate mail, but they were all vague. People seemed angry either about the concept of the museum or something very specific that had happened, like their umbrella being stolen or being overcharged at the gift shop. No one said anything about the
Eleanore Sharpe
exhibit or Jenna. Worst of all, the angriest letters were all sent anonymously, so even if I thought a letter had been written by the culprit, I didn't have an easy way of tracking the writer down.

There was a loud knock on the door. “Come in!” I called, grateful for the break. My eyes were swimming.

Marni walked in, a confused expression on her face. “Oh, I thought Jenna was in here. We were supposed to meet for dinner.”

I checked my watch. It was half past eight. “Sorry!” I said. “With everything going on, it must have completely slipped our minds. I get like that when I'm on a case. It drives my dad and my boyfriend nuts.”

“On a case?” Marni asked.

As I accompanied Marni back to the
Eleanore Sharpe
exhibit, I brought her up to speed on the missing figurehead.

“I was worried something like this might happen,” Marni said.

“Really? Why?” I asked.

“People here—well, the ones who live here ­full-time—are still really emotional about the
Eleanore Sharpe
.”

“But it happened so long ago,” I said.

Marni paused, as if trying to figure out the best way to phrase her thought. “It did happen a long time ago, but it's almost like this classic island story, and sometimes people like for a story to remain a story and not be proven wrong.”

I thought about what Kelsey had said earlier about the difference between people who lived on the island year-round and people who only came to visit. “Is it worse because Jenna organized the exhibit and she's a summer person?”

Marni nodded. “The captain of that ship is from a family that's important here. It's a big deal to say he deliberately sank the ship. Some people would say it wasn't her place to expose this truth—like it wasn't her story to tell.”

I was quiet as we crossed the museum. I wasn't sure how I felt about what Marni was saying. As a detective my job was to uncover the truth about mysteries, which in a way was what Jenna had done. She was like a history detective. Part of me agreed with Jenna that her job was to share her findings. But I also knew that the truth could be messy and hurtful. It could tear ­people apart. Sometimes people would ask me to solve a crime, but when they found out what really happened, they were more upset and wished they didn't know.

“What about Pete?” I asked. “Is he an islander?”

Marni nodded. “He is. I was a little surprised that he let her go ahead with the exhibit, but Pete loves a good controversy. Anything that brings more people through the door is positive in his eyes.”

I thought about how Pete had reacted when the sign had been vandalized and his theory that no publicity was bad publicity.

We found Jenna, Bess, and George checking that all the harpoons were still there. I hadn't realized that going through the exhibits would be such a big job, but looking around the hall again, I was struck by just how jam-packed it was. One artifact could easily be missing and not be noticed unless you were specifically looking for it.

“Oh my gosh!” Jenna exclaimed upon seeing Marni. “I am so sorry. I cannot believe we stood you up for dinner.”

“Did someone say dinner!?” George asked excitedly. “I'm starving!”

As if on cue, my stomach growled. “I guess I am too,” I confessed, embarrassed.

“I'm so sorry,” Jenna repeated. “I am the worst hostess. You come here for a vacation, and I put you to work and forget to feed you.”

We all rushed to assure her that we were fine and happy to help.

“It'll probably take me another hour to finish everything here. . . .” Jenna trailed off.

George tried to hide it, but her face fell and my stomach let out another rumble.

“How about I take them to dinner and then back to your place?” Marni suggested. “That way they don't faint from hunger, and you can finish up here.”

It took a little bit of convincing, but Jenna ultimately agreed that it was the best plan.

Bess and George returned with me to Pete's office to pack up the letters so I could continue looking at Jenna's house. “Find anything juicy in here?” George asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “I'm going to keep searching after dinner.”

“We'll help you,” George said. Bess nodded in agreement.

I smiled at them. “Thanks,” I said, grateful for their support.

We met Marni outside, where a fog had rolled in, making the air damp and chilly. The streetlights cast an eerie glow. I zipped up my jacket. “You can definitely feel that fall is just around the corner,” I said with a shiver.

Somewhere in the distance a low moaning echoed. “What was that?” Bess asked, shuddering. “It sounded like a ghost.”

Marni burst out laughing. “It's a foghorn. When it's too foggy for the boats to see the lighthouses, they use horns instead.” She looked at her watch. “The last ferry of the evening is going out right now.”

“Last ferry of the night?” George yelped. “Does that mean no one can get off the island until the morning?”

Marni nodded.

“What about airplanes?” I asked.

“Nope,” Marni said. “They can't fly in this fog.”

It was a bit unnerving to think that we were stranded thirty miles out at sea all night. I'd have to tell Ned when we got home. Before we left, he'd laughed that he was off to rough it for the weekend while we were taking a posh vacation. It turned out that in some ways I was more isolated than he was.

“I was thinking we could go to the Harpooners Inn and Restaurant for dinner,” Marni said. “It's one of the oldest restaurants on the island.”

“Older than your grandfather?”

“At least two hundred years older,” she said with a smile.

“I still can't get over it,” Bess said. “You said your grandfather is a hundred and four, right? So that means he was born in 1910?”

Marni nodded. “Yep.”

“So, he was eight when World War I ended,” I realized.

“Yeah,” Marni said. “He says he remembers the day they decided to send home the troops, he ran down Main Street waving an American flag.”

“That's crazy,” George said, impressed.

“He could have even met Civil War vets when he was a kid,” Bess mused.

“Or whalers,” I added.

“Yes, actually,” Marni agreed. “My great-great-grandfather was one of the last of the whaling captains. He raised my grandfather after his parents, my great-grandparents, died.”

“I don't think I completely followed all those greats, but it's pretty cool, anyway,” George said.

“Thanks,” Marni said. “I guess a love of boats runs in our family. My dad is a ferryboat captain, and I race in the Nantucket Regatta every year.”

“What's a regatta?” George asked.

“It's a sailboat race,” I explained. “We used to have a mini one at my summer camp, just across the lake and back.”

“Yep,” Marni said. “I've won the past two years in a row. Right now I'm actually preparing for the fall regatta, which is in a couple of weeks. It's much fiercer competition, so I'm pretty nervous.”