Without a Trace (8 page)

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. “Okay, 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.”

I’d been planning to wait a little while before broaching the subject of the theft. But since Simone had brought it up, I figured it was okay to jump right in. “Have you heard anything about the egg?” I asked her.

Simone smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “The police, they say they are looking, but that I should not expect a miracle. I still have hope. . . . Ah, but here I am leaving you standing on the doorstep! Come in, come in. The boys are waiting for us inside.”

Pierre and his three friends were in the living
room, which had been transformed into a perfect party spot by flickering candles and plates of tasty food. French music was playing on the stereo, and Thèo was dancing playfully in front of the fireplace like some kind of hula girl. René and Pierre were watching him, laughing as they popped potato chips into their mouths. Only Jacques seemed unamused. He was sitting in a leather armchair in the far corner of the room, staring morosely into space. A glass of soda sat on a table beside him, apparently untouched.

As soon as they noticed our arrival, all four guys—even Jacques—hurried over to say hello. Simone introduced Ned, and the guys greeted him politely, though all of them seemed much more interested in greeting Bess. I had to admit, she looked particularly stunning that night. She was wearing a pale blue dress that flattered her nice figure and peaches-and-cream skin coloring. Soon she was the center of a throng of admirers.

As Ned chatted with Simone, admiring her home, George and I walked over to help ourselves to sodas. “Simone seems pretty cheery for a recent crime victim,” George commented in a low voice.

I nodded, having noticed the same thing. “I wonder if she’s just putting on a brave front because she’s the hostess?” I said. “She probably doesn’t want to mope around and make us all feel bad.”

George shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe she’s not all that upset now that she’s realized she’ll be getting a hefty insurance payment. That should pay for a lot of her moving expenses.”

“Maybe,” I replied, grabbing a handful of mixed nuts from a silver-plated bowl. “But we don’t even know for sure that the egg was insured. I guess I’d better try to find out.”

I turned and started back toward Simone and Ned, almost tripping again in my tight skirt. Ned saw my close call, and I could tell he was hiding a smile. If Simone had noticed too, she didn’t let on.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself so far, Nancy,” she told me sincerely as Ned excused himself to get a drink. “I meant what I said before; you were such a comfort to me yesterday after the theft.”

“Thank you, but it was no trouble at all,” I assured her. “I wanted to ask you something else about that, if you don’t mind.”

“Please, ask me anything,” she answered immediately. “At this point, you seem to be my only hope of recovering my beloved heirloom. The police think that it has disappeared forever—‘gone without a trace,’ as they put it.”

I stepped to one side and set my soda down on a small table. But I wasn’t really trying to get rid of the drink—I wanted to position myself a little better to
see if Simone’s expression changed when I asked her the next question.

“I know that an heirloom like yours could never really be replaced,” I said. “But I was just wondering if you had any special insurance to cover such a valuable item.”

Simone looked a bit surprised by the question, but I could see no trace of any other reaction. “It’s funny you should ask,” she said. “The egg was insured back in France, of course. But the policy ran out just before I moved. I was planning to have it reinsured here by an American company. In fact, I had an appointment with the appraiser on Monday afternoon.” She shrugged, a distressed expression playing over her face. “I suppose I will have to cancel that appointment now.”

I patted her arm. “I’m sorry I brought it up,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Don’t be silly, Nancy.” She smiled bravely. “
You
didn’t upset me. Only the thief did that.”

At that moment Pierre hurried over, wanting Simone’s help with something in the oven, and I stepped away to treat myself to one of the zucchini fritters I’d just noticed on a table nearby. I guessed that they were from Susie Lin’s restaurant. Sure enough, the one I sampled tasted just as delicious as all of Susie’s other food.

How could anyone smash zucchini when it can be made into food like this? I wondered, my mind wandering briefly back to my other case as I discreetly licked a crumb of fried batter off my fingers.

Glancing around the room, I saw that one of the French guys, René, had convinced Bess to dance with him. They had cleared a space near the fireplace and were both laughing helplessly as they performed some sort of swing dance that seemed to have little to do with the song that was playing at the moment. Meanwhile Pierre had emerged from the kitchen and was chatting with Ned and George, while Thèo was sifting through the pile of CDs near the stereo.

Okay, since everyone else is occupied, I guess I should talk to Jacques first, I thought to myself. Just one problem—where
is
Jacques?

I looked around again, but the tall, slim young man was nowhere to be seen. With a shrug, I walked over to Thèo instead.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you enjoying your visit to River Heights so far?”

Thèo looked at me. Up close, I couldn’t help noticing how intelligent his brown eyes were. “Very much,
Mademoiselle
Nancy,” he said in his heavy French accent. “It is a most charming town, with charming people. All except for one, that is: the one who has taken our dear Simone’s lovely egg.”

“Yes, it’s too bad,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as possible. “Such a beautiful family heirloom—it’s hard to imagine who could steal such a thing.”

“Not so hard,” Thèo replied with a shrug. “It is a very valuable art object, one that many might covet. Even back in Paris, I always wondered why Simone did not take more care in safeguarding it.”

“I suppose a lot of people feel that their homes are safe, even when they’re not,” I commented. “A lot of criminals count on that very thing.”

“Too true, too true,” Thèo said. “Ah, but enough of this sad topic.” Pushing aside the pile of CDs, he leaped to his feet and offered me his hand. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, lovely Nancy? I am sure your beau would not mind just one dance, would he?”

I blushed slightly. While I’m not exactly a wall-flower, I’m also not accustomed to charming, handsome Frenchmen showering me with compliments. “I suppose he wouldn’t mind,” I agreed, taking his hand.

We joined René and Bess on the tiny “dance floor,” and soon Pierre and George joined us. Thèo was an excellent dancer, and he had switched the music from the French tunes to one of my favorite CDs. Ned watched for a few minutes, tapping his foot to the music and smiling. When the song
changed, he stepped out and tapped Thèo on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, could I cut in?” he said.

Thèo bowed, feigning a look of great disappointment. “Ah, I knew the magic moment was too good to last,” he said, placing my hand in Ned’s.

I giggled, feeling decidedly popular. But as Ned and I danced together, I found my mind returning to the case. I had to remember that this party wasn’t just about having a good time. I had work to do.

When Simone came out of the kitchen with a tray full of hot pastries fresh from the oven, the dancing broke up and everyone rushed to sample the delicious-smelling treats. As I blew on mine to cool it, I found myself standing with Simone’s nephew near the fireplace.

I noticed that Pierre was looking at the empty glass case that had once held the Fabergé egg. Someone had closed the door, but otherwise it looked the same as it had the previous evening.