The Phantom of Nantucket

  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 accom
panied 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!

  I was so lost puzzling out the details of the case that it took me a moment to realize that all my friends were staring at me expectantly.

  “So, what do we do now, Nancy?” Bess asked.

  “I think we have to talk to Pete,” I responded. “Tell him we know about the ivory and ask him point-blank about the figurehead.”

  Jenna sniffled. I looked over and saw that she was no longer fighting her tears. They were streaming down her face. “Excuse me,” she said as she rooted around in her purse. “Pete’s been my mentor for so long. I just never thought he would be capable of something like this.”

  I rubbed my hand on Jenna’s back to try to comfort her. I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make her feel better. It was horrible to find out someone you trust has betrayed you.

  “Found a tissue,” Jenna said. “Wait a second. This isn’t it.” She was holding a piece of paper with a note written on it. I watched her read it. Her eyes went wide with fear. “Nancy . . .”

  She thrust the piece of paper toward me. I took it from her hand and read:

  JENNA, IF YOU DO NOT STOP THIS EXHIBIT, YOU WILL GET HURT.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Different Directions

  “WHAT DOES IT SAY?” GEORGE DEMANDED. I handed her the note so she could read it for herself. Bess read it over her shoulder.

  “If I shut down this exhibit, everything I’ve worked for is over,” Jenna moaned.

  “A job isn’t worth getting hurt, though,” Bess argued.

  Jenna sighed. I could tell she didn’t necessarily agree with Bess. She had focused on getting this job for so long, it probably did seem more important than her own safety. I thought back to Ned’s suggestion that perhaps Jenna had taken the figurehead herself because she couldn’t handle the stress of the opening. She did seem to be under a lot of pressure, and I could see wanting to be free of that, but I didn’t have enough proof to feel comfortable pursuing that lead over any of the others. If I was wrong and Jenna hadn’t done this herself, then I would be leaving h
er high and dry.

  “I know the note is scary, but it’s actually a good thing,” I said.

  “How is it a good thing?” Bess asked.

  “It tells us what the culprit wants,” I explained.

  “Which gives us a motive,” George added, catching my drift.

  “Right. Up until now we didn’t know why the ­figurehead was stolen,” I pointed out. “We didn’t know whether it was stolen because someone wanted to humiliate Jenna or perhaps the museum itself, or if it was taken in order to sell it to make money.” Bess and Jenna nodded. “Now we know that whoever stole it has something against this particular exhibit,” I said.

  Bess turned to Jenna. “Who wouldn’t want this exhibit to take place?”

  “Besides Kelsey,” I said. “We still have her on the list, and I know she would benefit from you not getting the job, but we need to broaden our pool of suspects.”

  Jenna bit her fingernails as she thought. “I can’t think of anyone. No one gets hurt by this exhibit. Everyone I feature in it has been dead for at least fifty years.”

  “Marni told me that some of the people who live here year-round are very protective of the mystery of the Eleanore Sharpe, and they wouldn’t want you to tell the truth. Is there any islander you can think of who would feel particularly strongly about that?”

  Jenna shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought all of that was a bit silly, so I didn’t pay attention. I’m sorry.”

  I thought of Marni and how she was related to whaling captains. “What about descendants?” I asked. “Are there any living descendants of the captain who wouldn’t want to see his name tarnished?”

  Jenna looked at me blankly. “I don’t know. My focus is on the past. I never looked into anything like that. It never occurred to me that I might make someone upset. I’m just telling the truth.”