The Phantom of Nantucket (6 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

A Man with a Past

BESS, GEORGE, MARNI, AND I WALKED BACK
to the museum as fast as we could. “Poor Jenna,” Bess moaned.

I wondered if Connor had leaked the information to the press after I'd let it slip to him that the figurehead was missing. I was really botching this case! I was going to have to apologize profusely to Jenna.

We turned the corner onto Broad Street from Beach Street. Half a block ahead a large crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the museum.

“What do you think is going on?” Bess asked.

None of us had an answer. Without saying a word, the four of us picked up our pace.

Even closer to the action, it was still hard to figure out exactly what was happening, but people were in line, pushing and shoving to get to the front. Amid all the yelling, I could make out people shouting about tickets.

I tapped the shoulder of the man directly in front of me. “What's going on?” I shouted over the noise.

“Apparently, there's been a robbery at the museum! We're all buying tickets to the opening reception tonight.”

I still didn't follow. “Why would you want tickets if there's been a theft?”

The man looked at me like I was dumb. A woman behind me leaned over my shoulder. “First the sign, now the theft,” she said. “Something big is going to happen at this reception, and I am going to be here to see what it is!”

The man in front of me nodded in agreement. “This is going to be the biggest story on the island tomorrow morning. Everybody who's anybody will be there.”

“So you're trying to get tickets to see something bad happen at the museum so you can gossip about it?” I asked, making sure I understood what they were saying. Both the man and the woman nodded. I stormed back to my friends, furious. Jenna had worked so hard on this exhibit, and now all these people just wanted to see her fail. “Let's find Jenna,” I said.

Marni checked the time. “I gotta go,” she said. “My grandfather and I play chess every Saturday afternoon.”

“Okay,” I said. “We'll see you at the reception.” Marni nodded before heading off.

“I think it's great how close she is with her grandfather,” Bess observed. I agreed. It was nice to see.

“Ugh, this thing is leaking,” George muttered, holding out the ice pack with water running down her arm.

Bess glared at her. “Don't you dare take that off your head,” she said sternly.

“It's been twenty minutes!” George protested as she found a trash can and threw it away.

We pushed our way through the crowd and up the stairs to the entrance. We did a quick search of the museum but didn't spot Jenna.

“I'll text her,” Bess offered.

“I'm going to the bathroom while we wait,” George announced.

After a moment, Jenna responded that they were in the staff room, and George emerged from the bathroom in her normal clothes.

“George!” Bess said.

“They're barely damp,” George countered. Bess tugged at George's clothes and grudgingly agreed.

“Are we all set?” I asked. The girls nodded and we made our way to the staff room. Both Pete and Jenna were there. Jenna looked completely spent. She was slumped in a chair, her face pale and gaunt. I couldn't blame her. Her worst fears were coming true. Pete, on the other hand, was pacing, full of energy, like a kid after eating an entire bag of Halloween candy.

“Nancy Drew, the girl detective!” he greeted me with a big smile on his face.

“You seem happier than I expected,” I said.

“Have you seen the crowds outside?” he asked, beaming. “We haven't had this much attention about any of our exhibits in years.” He turned to Jenna. “Was I right about the power of negative publicity or what?”

Jenna gave him a wan smile. “But now there's no hiding it from Mr. Whitestone. He'll know we lost the figurehead.”

“That's not true,” Pete said. “Right now all the newspaper has is a rumor. They have no proof that anything is missing. As long as the figurehead is back by the time he arrives, Mr. Whitestone will just commend us for turning out such a big crowd. He won't care how we did it.” I knew then that Pete wasn't going to call the police, and he definitely wasn't going to close the exhibit. He loved the excitement and the attention this was bringing. So far this was all good news for the museum.

His phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. “I'll be right there,” he said, turning back to us. “They need my help selling tickets up front,” he told us, beaming. He looked directly at me as he left the room. “Nancy, my dear. I am counting on you. Find that figurehead!”

“He's very optimistic about how all this will work out.” I said, not understanding why Pete wasn't more concerned.

“That's just Pete,” Jenna said with a sigh. “He always believes in people. It's why he gave me this chance in the first place. Most museum directors would never have given me this opportunity. Maybe they'd be right.”

“No,” Bess said firmly. “You did a terrific job. We're going to figure this out. Nancy has a lot of leads. We just need to finish tracking them all down.” My stomach sank. I had a lot of leads, but no sense of where they went. I hoped Bess wasn't giving Jenna false hope.

“Who are your top suspects?” Jenna asked.

“All right,” I said. George whipped out her laptop and started to take notes. “Kelsey is still a suspect,” I said. “You two have a history. She would directly ­benefit from you not getting the job. If her keys really were stolen, though, she didn't have a way of accessing the display case.”

“Who else could it be?” Jenna asked.

“There's Jeremiah Butler. He would love to see Pete and the museum embarrassed, plus he admitted that he wanted the figurehead for his own museum.”

“But he's in a wheelchair,” George noted.

“Right,” I said, “so if it is him, he's not working alone.”

“Anyone else?” Jenna asked.

“There's also Connor,” I said.

“Connor?” Jenna said, surprised. “I knew he was mad at me, but I didn't think he would do something like this.”

“Well, he confessed to vandalizing the sign. He denied knowing anything about the figurehead, but sometimes a suspect confesses to a smaller crime to throw suspicion off themselves for the bigger one.”

Jenna shook her head. “I can't believe I ever liked him.”

“Do you think he would be capable of taking the figurehead as well as vandalizing the sign?” I asked.

Jenna thought hard. “I wish I could say no, but he has a vindictive side.”

“Marni told us that at the regatta this summer he knocked over the trophy table when he came in second,” Bess mentioned.

“It was worse than that,” Jenna muttered. “After he knocked over the table, he picked up the first-place trophy and stomped on it right in front of Marni. He told her it was worthless and she didn't deserve it because she cheated. But Marni didn't cheat; she was just better than he was.”

“Did he know how important the figurehead was to the exhibit and to you?” I asked.

“Definitely,” Jenna replied. “I had just discovered it when I called it off with him to spend more time restoring it. I think he blames the figurehead for our breakup.”

“All of these seem like strong suspects,” George agreed. “But how do we figure out which one actually stole it?”

I was quiet for a moment, considering my answer. The truth was I wasn't sure. Something felt off. Usually when I'm working on a case, the solution suddenly snaps into focus, but this one still seemed blurry. Even though Kelsey and Connor were strong suspects, I didn't think either of them had stolen the figurehead. All of Connor's other actions had been spontaneous, motivated by a clear moment of anger. To steal the figurehead would have taken consideration and planning. That didn't seem like Connor. My interactions with Kelsey made me think that she wanted to make it on her own, not take someone else down to get ahead. She might be bitter and jealous, but I didn't think she would feel satisfied if Jenna failed because of sabotage. Jeremiah seemed like such a loner, it was hard to imagine him working with a partner.

Before I could explain any of this to my friends, Kelsey walked in. She sat down, ignoring Bess, George, and me, and turned to Jenna. “Break's over. It's your turn to usher.”

We followed Jenna out of the staff room and into the main museum area. She picked up a stack of maps and stood near the entrance. All of a sudden, I felt my phone buzz in my purse. I checked the caller ID. It was Ned!

“Hello?” I answered, stepping outside so I wouldn't bother the museum patrons. “I thought you didn't have cell service in the woods,” I said, confused. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine. It was raining cats and dogs the whole time, so we decided to pack it in. How about you? I thought you'd be swimming in the ocean right about now. I was just going to leave you a message to let you know I was home.”

“I haven't really had a chance to go swimming yet,” I said.

My boyfriend seemed to immediately know why. “Nancy, did you find yourself a case?”

I filled him on what was going on and ran down the list of suspects.

“This might sound weird, but do you think Jenna could have taken the figurehead herself?” he asked.

“Why would she do that?” I replied.

“Having your own exhibit is a lot of pressure, especially with a job riding on it,” Ned pointed out. “Maybe she couldn't take it and couldn't think of any other way to cancel the exhibit. We've seen it before.”

That was true. I had solved cases where the culprit turned out to be the same person who'd hired me. “I'll look into it,” I said. “Thanks for listening to me.”

“Anytime.”

We said our good-byes, and I headed back inside the museum. I was still lost in thought when two ­middle-aged women walked by me. They wore matching skirt suits—one in red, the other in yellow—and they both clasped purses that were actually baskets made out of woven wood with ivory on top. One look at their faces told me they had to be sisters.

“This is so like Pete,” one said to the other.

“Tell me about it. Only he would fake a theft to sell tickets to his opening-night reception.”

I quickly caught up to the sisters. “Excuse me,” I said. “I couldn't help but overhear what you said. What do you mean Pete would fake a theft?”

The women exchanged a look and then leaned in close. “You've heard these rumors about the theft, I assume?” the one in red murmured.

I nodded.

“Well, that's all it is, dear, a rumor. A new, ingenious way for Pete to sell more tickets!”

“He's done this before?” I asked.

“Well, not this exact ruse, but similar schemes,” said the one in yellow.

“Like what?” I asked.

The ladies led me over to a bench. I knew this was going to be a long story, but I was all ears. “Pete's father started the Nantucket Ghost Tour,” the one in red said.

“You've probably seen it around,” the other chimed in. “They take you on a walk around town to a bunch of different houses and hotels and tell you how they're haunted—all a bunch of hooey. Until he left for college, Pete's job every summer was to sell tickets.”

“He'd sit at one end of Main Street in a top hat,” the red sister interjected, “wearing a sign over him. He had to fill the tours. His family depended on him to sell out the tours in order to have enough food on the table. That boy learned how to say and do anything to sell a ticket.”

“He'd spin these yarns about how his mother had passed away when he was born and that's when he began to see ghosts,” the sister in yellow said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Pete's mother is alive and healthy as a horse today!”

My jaw dropped. If Pete was capable of that, what else might he be capable of? Hiding the figurehead and telling the press it was stolen to create more buzz around the exhibit didn't seem too far-fetched. If that was his plan, it had certainly worked! It would also explain why he was so confident that the figurehead would return in time.

I felt excited to have a new lead to pursue after going in circles for so long. I just needed to prove for sure that he had taken it so I could tell Jenna not to worry.

Just then I saw Jenna walk by with a concerned expression on her face, gesturing for me to come over. “Nancy,” she whispered urgently in my ear. “Look at her brooch!”

The sister in red had an ivory brooch pinned to her suit jacket; the brooch had been carved to depict a whale breaching, with a whaling ship in the background.

“What about it?” I asked Jenna.

“That's one of the pieces of scrimshaw that was ­stolen from the museum!” she hissed.

CHAPTER NINE

Brooching the Subject

“IF WE CAN FIND OUT WHERE SHE GOT THE
brooch, we might be able to track down who stole it in the first place,” I whispered excitedly to Jenna.

“If they stole the scrimshaw, they probably stole the figurehead, too!” Jenna said.

She and I walked back over to the sisters, who were chatting quietly. “Excuse me, ma'am,” I said to the one in red. She looked over, mildly annoyed to be interrupted.

“Yes, dear?” she asked.

“That is a beautiful brooch. I've been thinking about what kind of souvenir I'd like to buy to remind me of my trip, and I think I'd like a brooch like yours. Could you tell me where you got it?”

“Let's see, which one am I wearing today?” the woman murmured to herself, looking down at her lapel. “Oh, this one. Sorry, girls. I've had this for years. It's an old family heirloom that was passed down from my mother.” I looked at Jenna, confused.

“I know that's the one that was stolen,” Jenna whispered to me. “I stared at its photo in our catalog for hours last night. See the chip missing on the top left sail? That's our scrimshaw.”

I looked over. She was right; there was a chip in the sail. I doubted that could be a coincidence, though I also didn't think this old woman had stolen the scrimshaw. She was probably confused, but I wasn't sure how to tell her this was not her beloved family heirloom.

Thankfully, the sister in yellow interjected. “That's not the brooch you got from Mother!” she said sharply.

“Yes, it is!” her sister answered defensively.

“No,” the other insisted. “The one you got from Mom has a humpback whale. That brooch has a sperm whale.”

“Let me see.” The sister in red pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on, studying the brooch.

Beside me, Jenna tapped her foot impatiently. I shared her agitation, but I knew that rushing this woman would just fluster her and make her take longer. As much as we wished we could hurry her along, we had to let her go at her own pace.

“Oh, you're right,” the sister said. “This isn't the one from Mother.”

“She should have given the brooch to me,” the one in yellow muttered under her breath. “You never did appreciate her gifts.”

The sister in red lifted her head sharply. Her eyes narrowed as she prepared to answer back. I don't have any siblings, but I knew this was the kind of argument that could get out of control very quickly.

“Can you remember where you got it?” I interrupted, trying to keep us on track.

“Let me think for a second,” the woman said, ­distracted from her sister for the moment. She scrunched her eyes, trying to remember. I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping that it would come back to her. This was our first solid lead, and I needed it to come through. Otherwise I was running out of ideas for how to find the figurehead. I had no proof with which to confront Kelsey, Connor, Jeremiah, or now possibly Pete.

“You probably got it at that little antique shop on India Street you like so much,” the sister in yellow said impatiently.

“Yes, you're right!” the other exclaimed. “I did buy it there. I remember now. It's a lovely place. They have the best scrimshaw collection on the island.”

“It really is beautiful,” I said, standing up now that I had the information I needed. I looked at Jenna. “Do you know the antique store she means?”

Jenna nodded. “Yes, it's called Captain Jim's Treasure Chest.”

“Let's go,” I told her. I turned back to the ladies. “Thank you for your time.” I always try to be polite when on a case—and in everyday life, too, but ­especially during a case. You never know when you might need to ask someone for more information later. If you're rude or take them for granted, they might not want to help you again.

Jenna and I went to grab her purse from the staff room and found Bess and George sitting in the corner.

“Do you feel dizzy?” Bess asked.

“No,” George said.

“Are you sure? Not even a little bit light-headed?” Bess pushed.

“The only thing I feel is annoyed that you won't stop pestering me,” George insisted. This case was getting to all of us. We were cranky and frustrated.

As soon as I filled them in about the stolen scrimshaw and the old woman telling us where she'd bought it, Bess and George perked up.

“What are we waiting for?” George said, jumping up from her seat. Bess rolled her eyes, but she knew that getting her cousin to slow down was a next-to-impossible task. Jenna got her purse and we headed out of the museum and down Bond Street.

“What time is it?” Jenna asked.

“Four fifty-two,” George said.

“I'm pretty sure they close at five,” Jenna said.

“Run!” I said. Jenna took off, leading the way. It was only six blocks away, but by the time we arrived, we were all panting and out of breath. We stood for a second, trying to regain our composure. Just as we were about to go in, a woman came to the door and flipped the sign to
CLOSED
.

We all looked at each other. Then I sprang into action, running to the door and knocking loudly. The lady returned with an irritated look on her face. She opened the door a crack, just enough to be able to talk to me. She pointed to the sign. “We close at five o'clock.”

“It's four fifty-seven,” George called out behind me. She held up her wrist, showing the woman her giant watch with multiple dials. “This is a satellite watch. It's accurate to the nanosecond.”

Reluctantly the woman opened the door all the way and let us in. “I really must close at five,” she said, “but if you girls would like to look around for the next three minutes, you're welcome to.”

We walked into the store, which reminded me of the nautical museum, but even more cluttered. Paintings covered the wall from floor to ceiling. There was a corner that was entirely devoted to used books on Nantucket history. A variety of furniture was placed throughout the store, each piece piled high with Nantucket souvenirs—pillows, dishware, pennants—dating back to the 1950s. Behind me Bess coughed, reacting to the dust.

“We're wasting nanoseconds,” George whispered.

I realized she was right. We had been standing in the doorway almost dumbstruck, overwhelmed by the vast amount of stuff before us.

“Could you show us where you keep your scrimshaw?” I asked the shopkeeper.

“It's all in that case over there,” she said, pointing to a far corner.

We made our way through the store, carefully sticking to the narrow path that had been cleared around the various pieces of furniture.

“This is all just old junk,” George said quietly. “Why would anyone buy this stuff?”

“This is not junk,” Jenna said tersely. “These are treasures, each with its own story.”

George shrugged. Jenna was never going to turn George into a history buff.

We reached the display case with the scrimshaw. It consisted of three shelves, each containing about fifty pieces of ivory. Jenna pulled the museum catalog from her purse and plopped it on top of the counter. She flipped it open to the scrimshaw page. Small photos accompanied descriptions of the pieces in the museum's collection. Someone had drawn red stars next to five of the pieces.

“The ones with the star next to them are the ones that are missing from the museum,” she explained.

“That's the one the lady at the museum was wearing,” I said, pointing to its picture.

“So we're looking for one of these four?” Bess clarified.

It occurred to me that there were four pieces and four of us. “Why don't we each look for one piece? That will probably be the fastest way to find them.” I could feel the store owner hovering behind us. I knew the minute the clock struck five, she would ask us to leave. The others agreed, and we each picked a carving to look for. Mine featured a design of a seagull soaring over a rough sea.

We all leaned over the case and got to work scanning the scrimshaw for the stolen pieces. We were quiet as we looked. It took a lot of concentration to make sure you saw every piece.

“Found it!” Jenna announced, pointing to a pendant in the back right of the second shelf.

“Can we see that one?” I asked the owner. She sighed but came around and unlocked the case, pulling out the pendant. I checked against the catalog; it was definitely the same artifact.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“Someone sold it to us. It's how we acquire everything we sell here,” she answered.

“Do you remember who?” I asked hopefully.

“I'm afraid not. This is one of our busiest times of year. People are clearing out their houses as they prepare to close them up for the fall, so we often buy several items a day. It is very hard to keep it all straight.”

I bit on my lip, wondering how I could jog her memory. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Jenna's museum catalog and got an idea. “You must have some sort of ledger,” I said, “where you keep a list of everything you buy and sell.”

The woman paused before answering. She knew what I was going to ask next, and she didn't like it. “Yes . . . ,” she replied hesitantly.

“Could you please check it for us?” I asked.

“It's late, girls. I really have to go.” She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Please,” Jenna begged. “My job depends on it.”

The woman looked at Jenna, and I guess she realized just how desperate she was. “Fine,” she relented.

“Thank you!” Jenna squealed. The shopkeeper took the pendant and went over to an old computer sitting in the back corner. Jenna, George, Bess, and I waited with baited breath. The big break we were looking for might be coming!

“This piece was brought in by Peter Boyd,” the woman finally said.

I couldn't believe it. Beside me George and Bess gasped. I realized I hadn't had a chance to share with any of them what the sisters had told me about Pete's history of publicity stunts. But I was shocked too. I had considered the idea that Pete had temporarily removed the figurehead to sell tickets, but I hadn't thought he might actually be stealing from the museum.

“No,” Jenna said firmly. “That can't be right.”

“It says so right here,” the woman insisted, pointing at her screen.

“There has to be an error,” Jenna maintained.

The woman beckoned Jenna over, and we all followed. She held out the pendant. “You see this number in the upper right corner of the price tag?” We nodded. “It corresponds with this number on our spreadsheet. It shows who sold us the item and how much we bought it for. I can also search and see what else the seller brought in.” She ran the search. “Peter Boyd brought in five items this summer.” She started to describe them, and it quickly became clear that she was describing the five pieces of scrimshaw that were missing from the museum.

Jenna looked as pale as a sheet. Her entire image of Pete had been stripped away.

“I'm sorry, girls,” the woman said. “But I have an appointment. I really must close up now.”

We shuffled out—except for Bess, who stayed behind to buy an old Nantucket pennant. It was blue felt with a yellow-and-white sailboat painted on it.

“You could have just taken a photo of Jenna's boat,” George observed as we stepped outside.

“I think this will look pretty on my wall at home,” Bess said. “Besides, I figured we should buy something to thank her for her help.”

“I can't believe Pete would steal from the museum,” Jenna said.

“I was so certain Kelsey had taken that scrimshaw because she needed the money,” Bess added.

“The more I think about it,” I said, “the more Pete does make sense as a suspect.”

Jenna looked at me sharply. “How so?”

I told them about Pete's lifelong love of publicity stunts. “Also, wouldn't most people in his position insist on calling the police as soon as the figurehead went missing?” I could see the girls thinking about this.

“Maybe he didn't want the police looking into the theft too closely, and he thought Nancy wouldn't be able to figure it out,” Bess suggested.

“But if he stole the figurehead to sell it, that's not a publicity stunt,” Jenna said. “He loves the museum. It's his whole life.”

“But he stole and sold the scrimshaw,” I countered, “and the figurehead is worth a lot more.”

“I just don't think it's him,” Jenna insisted. “Why would he want to hurt the exhibit?”

I sighed. Instead of providing answers, discovering that Pete had stolen the scrimshaw had just raised more questions. Why, for instance, would he want to sabotage Jenna's boat? Maybe the stolen scrimshaw was just a coincidence and had nothing to do with the figurehead. Two independent thefts in one museum over one month seemed unlikely, though. Maybe the threats against Jenna were unrelated to the figurehead? I just couldn't make sense of it!