The Stolen Kiss (14 page)

“This information may be critical, Dad. You've been a great help.”

“If Dr. Morrison is involved in art theft, the directors at the Cabbott will certainly regret hushing up the affair there. Be careful, Nancy. Art theft is serious business.”

“I'll be careful, Dad,” Nancy promised. She hung up and found George doing pushups in front of an exercise tape in the den. “I'm heading over to the art museum,” Nancy told her. “I think Dr. Morrison made a trip out to Lincoln Valley this afternoon.”

“So Bryan really is in the clear?” George smiled, then looked concerned. “I'd better go with you. Dr. Morrison could be dangerous.”

Nancy glanced at the clock. It was five-forty. “The museum closes in twenty minutes—we'd better hurry.”

Minutes later Nancy was driving up the hill. It had started to pour again as she pulled into a space on the far side of the lot behind a large camper. She grabbed her red umbrella from the trunk as she and George dashed for the museum entrance. They passed the black sports car with personalized plates.

“How do you know Dr. Morrison tried to kill us?” George asked, huddling under the umbrella.

“Well,” Nancy said, pointing to. Morrison's car, “remember that bale of hay in the road?” Morrison's tires were thick with mud, and embedded in the mud were strands of hay. “That's our first bit of proof. Everything else is circumstantial.”

“I don't get it, Nancy,” George said, shivering under the umbrella. “Why would he try to hurt us if he has the painting?”

“Beats me,” Nancy said. “But I want to check out those paintings that are being shipped out. I need to get into the storage room. Here's my plan.”

George bent her head closer to Nancy's, listening carefully.

Nancy waited on one side of the entry doors while George entered the museum. As soon as she was inside, George began to stagger, half collapsing against the front desk. A young girl—a student, Nancy guessed—was behind the desk. “I'm going to faint,” George gasped. “Please, help me.”

The girl ran around the desk and helped George to a wooden bench across the foyer. George moaned, “Can I lie down somewhere? Just for a moment?”

“The staff lunchroom has a couch,” the girl offered helpfully. Leaning on the girl's shoulder, George limped around the corner.

Perfect. Nancy silently applauded. She hoped that George could keep the girl occupied for a few minutes. Nancy went directly to the receptionist's desk. She had seen Dr. Morrison put the storage room key back in the drawer Sunday afternoon. Pulling a small drawer on the right, Nancy saw several keys, each one labeled. Nancy sorted through them quickly. “Storeroom, storeroom,” she muttered. There it was.

After grabbing the key, Nancy raced to the storage room. She pressed her ear against the door but heard nothing. She knocked. No answer. After unlocking the door, she tiptoed in, and locked the door behind her.

Paintings were stacked everywhere. How would she ever go through all of them? Then Nancy remembered that
First Kiss
was small. If it was there at all, it would be tacked behind one of the smaller paintings. She found two canvases, one a painting of a snow-covered house, the other of water lilies. With her pocketknife, Nancy pried the snow scene from its frame. Then she carefully removed several of the tacks holding the canvas to its wooden stretcher. There was only one canvas.

Disappointed, Nancy tackled the second painting, removing the picture from its frame. Her heart beat fast when she saw two canvases tacked to the wooden stretcher, the edge of one peeking out behind the first. Nancy could hear her heart pounding. She carefully removed the tacks on one side of the stretcher and peered at the canvas underneath. It was a landscape with cows in it.

So she was on the right track. She hadn't found
First Kiss,
but she felt she was very close.

All at once Nancy understood why Dr. Morrison had fired Debbie the night of the robbery. It had nothing to do with
First Kiss.
It was because Debbie had been working on an inventory of the paintings going out of the museum. Morrison must have been afraid Debbie would discover what he was doing.

Go slow, Nancy cautioned herself. You have to find
First Kiss
and soon. George can't pretend to be fainting forever. Nancy found another small canvas. Finally, behind a group of dusty statues, she came across it. Exactly the right size. Nancy wrestled the canvas from its frame, then began pulling tacks, removing the canvas from its wooden stretcher. Then suddenly there it was—
First Kiss.
Nancy whistled softly under her breath. This was a painting she would never forget.

A key turned in the lock, and the storage room door opened. Nancy's heart leaped to her throat as she searched frantically for a place to hide. Holding
First Kiss
close, she scurried behind a large draped statue, pulling the dusty curtain over her head as well.

The footsteps—Nancy was sure there were two people—approached the spot where
First Kiss
had been hidden. Suddenly an angry cry went up. “It's gone!” Nancy recognized the voice. It was Dr. Morrison's. “Search this room!” he commanded.

Nancy clutched
First Kiss
to her chest, trying not to breathe. The dust tickled her nose, and she felt a sneeze coming on. Scrunching up her face, she willed the sneeze away.

Through the drape she saw a shadow creep nearer and nearer. Nancy braced herself as the drape was pulled off. She was face-to-face with Dr. Morrison—a pistol leveled directly at her heart.

W
HY,
N
ANCY
D
REW,”
D
R.
M
ORRISON
said, keeping the pistol trained on her. Jenkins, the maintenance man, scowled over the curator's shoulder. “What a surprise, seeing you here.” Dr. Morrison smiled.

“You're the thief,” Nancy said. “You stole this from Rina's car. You sabotaged the bridge.”

“Yes, Nancy. So I didn't expect to find you here. Now I have a problem. How to dispose of you and George and Rina, too.” He looked around. “A pity George isn't here with you.”

Fear shot through Nancy. She hoped George had made it out of the museum before closing time. “Why did you try to kill us?” she asked.

“You know too much.” He spoke so calmly that it was hard for Nancy to believe he was plotting murder. “What does Rina know about you?” Nancy asked, stalling for time.

Dr. Morrison's eyes narrowed. “Didn't she tell you? Well, it doesn't matter. You've discovered too much by yourself. You see, some months ago, Rina discovered my—my side business, you might call it. After she copied a drawing in the Morgan exhibit for me, Rina happened to visit the Morgan Museum. Unfortunately, she saw her own drawing on the wall.”

“You used Rina to create a forgery.”

“Yes,” the curator said, smiling. “Her copies were excellent. So I asked her to copy a particularly valuable drawing, and I substituted it for the original. But Rina was not happy when she discovered what I'd done. A pity—forgery could have become quite profitable for her.”

“Why didn't she go to the police?”

“Rina was smart enough to realize that it would be her word against mine. Who would you believe?” The curator shrugged. “But you worried me, Nancy. I was afraid that your questions might get Rina to say too much. So when you left the museum today, I followed you. The rain made for nice camouflage.”

“And you tried to kill us,” Nancy said. “But why didn't you just come into the cabin?”

“I considered it, but then an older woman arrived. And, frankly, I prefer indirect methods—accidents that can't be traced.”

“Who makes your copies now?”

“Someone almost as good as Rina, but not quite.”

“If you believe Rina is so talented, why didn't she win the art contest?” If only someone would come. But who? Nancy's heart sank. Bryan wasn't working this evening. He was at dinner with Ian Sanders. Ned had no idea where Nancy was, and Nancy only hoped that George had made it safely out of the museum.

“Rina is very talented,” Dr. Morrison admitted. He acted amused, as if he understood Nancy's delaying tactic perfectly. “But her contest entry was a childish mess.” He glanced at his watch. “Enough talk. I have an important delivery to make. Jenkins,” he said to the maintenance man, “we'll leave her in the basement for the time being.”

Pressing the gun into Nancy's back, Jenkins walked Nancy out of the storage room down the corridor to the metal door at the end of the hall. They descended the cement steps into the basement. There, Jenkins put a gag in her mouth and tied a rope tightly around her wrists and ankles and put her behind the furnace. “You won't be going anywhere,” Jenkins muttered, giving the rope a jerk.

Behind the furnace Nancy couldn't see Jenkins leave. But she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Then the light went out, and the steel door shut with a solid clang.

What now? As Nancy struggled with the ropes binding her, her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Suddenly a head of spiky blond hair popped out from behind some boxes piled across from the furnace. Even in the dim light of the basement Nancy would know that hair anywhere. Jamie! Without a word Jamie hurried to Nancy's side, quickly removing her gag. “My hands next,” Nancy whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“When I ran from you and Debbie, I needed a place to hide,” Jamie told her, untying the rope. “Dr. Morrison is the bad guy?”

Nancy filled Jamie in quickly as the girl unwound the last rope from Nancy's feet. “And I'm sure it's
First Kiss
he's about to deliver,” Nancy concluded, rubbing her hands and feet until the circulation returned. “We'd better move fast. You'll help me?”

Jamie nodded vigorously.

At the top of the steps Nancy inched open the steel door. The museum was as still as a tomb. She motioned Jamie to follow her into the women's rest room. Nancy hopped up on the radiator. Through the window she watched Dr. Morrison place a package into the trunk of his car. It was the size of
First Kiss.
A second later the car roared off.

A door creaked behind them. Jamie gripped Nancy's hand as they watched the door of a closet swing open. Nancy laughed joyfully when she saw the occupant. Stepping out from the mops and buckets, George emerged, holding a red umbrella. “I heard your voices,” George said. “After I recovered from my ‘fainting spell,' I hid. I wasn't going to leave you alone in this creepy place.”

Nancy grinned. “Thanks, George. You're the best.” Glancing back out the window, Nancy saw the museum security guard outside. Where had the guard been when she needed him? No matter. The guard wouldn't be any help—he wasn't likely to believe the museum curator was a thief. “Follow me,” she directed, jumping down from her perch.

Because Nancy suspected that Jenkins might still be lurking in the museum, the girls crept silently out to the main entry hall. Nancy tiptoed toward the museum's doors, with George and Jamie behind her.

“As soon as those doors open, the alarm will go off,” she whispered. “George, go hide in the bushes until the police come—then tell them everything. Jamie, would you come with me?”

Nancy turned the latch and pushed. An ear-splitting alarm screamed. George raced for the bushes while Jamie ran with Nancy to her Mustang. “Wow—what happened to your car?” the younger girl asked.

“I'll explain later,” Nancy said. “We've got to stop Dr. Morrison before it's too late.” Nancy drove to the President Hotel, two blocks off Main Street. Leaving Jamie in the car, she ran inside to the front desk.

“Mr. Sanders has just checked out,” the desk clerk informed her.

“I must find him,” Nancy said firmly.

“Try the airport. He had a flight tonight.”

“Thanks. Could you please call the police?” Nancy asked. “Ask for Sergeant Weinberg and tell him the
First Kiss
is at the airport.”

“Is this a joke, miss?”

“It's no joke,” Nancy said, deadly serious. “Please make the call.” Nancy watched the woman pick up the phone, then raced back to the car.

Jamie leaned over and opened the door.

Nancy knew the airport's location from previous visits. But the traffic and slick streets made driving difficult. Would they make it in time? She glanced over at Jamie. The girl said nothing but had an expectant look on her face. Nancy hoped that her guess was right—that the airport was in fact where Dr. Morrison was headed.

When she pulled into the airport's parking lot, she told Jamie to look for a black sports car with MORRISON license plates.

“There it is!” Jamie shouted. Nancy nodded. Then she drove out to the edge of the field. A man was descending the metal stairway of a small, single-engine prop plane, the propeller already turning. It was Dr. Morrison. The delivery had taken place.