The Clue on the Crystal Dove

  Gustav happened to be Julius Van Hoogstraten's

  mentor in Holland—the old country. Julius learned

  glassblowing and crystal making from Gustav, who was

  renowned for his artistic talent and his teaching skills.”

  Clearing his throat, Schoonover continued, “Gustav

  always signed his crystal work by carving an olive

  branch into the glass. That beautiful dove was his very

  first work in crystal. I believe he meant it to be Noah's

  dove that was sent out from the ark. Anyway, Gustav

  was inspired to carve that design into all his later work.

  It was his special mark to show that he'd created the

  piece.”

  “What a lovely idea!” Dell exclaimed.

  Schoonover looked at her fiercely. “Don't you un-

  derstand, Delphinia? The crystal dove in your house

  that Julius claimed to have made was really by Gustav.

  Julius was a fraud!”

  “Julius—a fraud?” Dell echoed, paling. “I can't

  believe it.”

  “Well, you'd better believe it,” Schoonover declared,

  “because I have proof. The olive pattern is described in

  Gustav's diary. I wanted to show you the diary and tell

  you that I remembered the olive branch on Julius's

  dove before I was knocked out.”

  “So if you didn't steal the dove, Richard, then who

  did?” Dell asked him.

  “I don't know who took it,” he replied, “but I do

  know why. The thief wants to keep the world from dis-

  covering the olive pattern. This person is desperate to

  keep the collection from opening because if enough

  experts like myself saw it, someone would eventually

  figure out that the birds were created by Gustav.”

  “And you invited me to the Plaza to tell me all this?”

  Dell asked. “Why not a phone call?”

  “Because I wanted you to see Gustav's diary in case

  you didn't believe me,” Schoonover replied. “I had an

  appointment on Fifty-ninth Street earlier in the

  afternoon, and I thought that the Plaza would be a

  convenient and pleasant place to discuss this matter. I

  didn't want anyone but you to know my suspicions,

  Delphinia. I feel that you are discreet.”

  Scowling at Nancy and George, he added, “But

  when I saw your group, I hurried away. I don't want

  everyone in the world to know about my discovery. The

  person who hit me on the head means business. I don't

  want to tip off anyone else about what I know.”

  “Don't worry, Mr. Schoonover. George and I won't

  tell anyone,” Nancy assured him.

  “I certainly hope not,” Schoonover said curtly.

  “I've been thinking,” Dell said. “Maybe there was

  some mistake about the dove. Maybe Julius had always

  given Gustav credit for it, but later Julius's descendants

  assumed that it had been made by Julius. Maybe it was

  an honest mistake.”

  Schoonover looked at her as if he were about to

  explode. Drawing himself up to his full height, which

  was considerably less than that of Nancy, George, or

  Dell, he said, “Delphinia! I promise you—Julius never

  gave Gustav any credit, and the glasswork in the house

  is all Gustav's. There is no doubt.”

  “All the birds are Gustav's?” Dell asked in a shocked

  tone. “How do you know?”

  “Do they all have the olive pattern on them?” Nancy

  asked.

  “I don't believe Gustav's regular glasswork had that

  pattern,” Schoonover answered. “Just his crystal. Still, I

  know I am right. Julius was a fraud. His entire glass

  collection was done by Gustav.”

  “But if Gustav's regular glasswork didn't have that

  pattern, then how can you prove he made Julius's

  birds?” George asked.

  “There were special colors Gustav liked to use—

  deep purples and magentas that bordered on ruby.

  Julius's birds all have colors that Gustav favored,”

  Schoonover explained. “Also, Julius's parrot has only

  one wing, just like Gustav's pet parrot, which he often

  used as a model. And the design of Julius's swallowtails

  has a delicacy that only Gustav could produce. I assure

  you, young lady, I am right,” Schoonover said

  stubbornly, “although I suppose I can't absolutely

  prove my case.”

  Nancy's blue eyes sparkled. “The letters on the

  train!” she exclaimed. “I bet the stolen letters mention

  that Gustav made the birds. The person probably took

  the letters so no one would find out.”

  Briefly, Nancy filled in Dell and Schoonover about

  the missing documents in the train panel.

  “If only we could find those letters, we might have

  proof that Julius was a fake,” Schoonover remarked.

  “There's a good chance the person who took the

  letters destroyed them so that no one would find out

  about Julius,” Nancy pointed out. She turned to Dell

  and asked, “Are you sure you sent all of Julius's letters

  to Boston? If there are any left in your house, we might

  find one that mentions that Gustav made the birds.”

  Dell shook her head. “I'm sure I sent them all,

  Nancy. I guess I could arrange to get them back, but

  that might take weeks.”

  A moment of troubled silence filled the room while

  everyone tried to decide what to do next.

  “Wait!” Dell exclaimed, shooting up from her chair.

  Her bright green eyes filled with excitement as she

  gazed at Nancy. “Fern Hill! I bet there are a bunch of

  letters there.”

  “Fern Hill?” Nancy asked. “What's that?”

  “Julius had a summer cabin at Birch Mountain Lake

  in the Adirondacks. Well, it wasn't exactly a cabin,”

  Dell added with a wry chuckle. “It was more like a

  huge luxurious lakeside palace made to look rustic out

  of logs and birchbark. The main house has about seven

  fireplaces with a moose head hanging over each one,

  Persian rugs on the floor, and valuable Audubon prints

  on the walls. The place has canoes, a private lakeside

  dock, and a tennis court. There's even a stone turret

  built for Julius's eccentric brother to stay in when he

  visited. Lots of wealthy people during the Gilded Age

  had these amazing retreats in the Adirondacks, and I

  think Fern Hill was one of the grandest.”

  “It sounds really cool,” George said. “I'm amazed

  that it's stayed in your family all these years.”

  “Julius's houses are unique and so full of family at-

  mosphere that none of his descendants has wanted to

  give them up,” Dell explained. “We did sell his

  Newport, Rhode Island, cottage back in the sixties—

  cottage' meaning a twenty-five-room mansion on the

  beach. The upkeep got to be too expensive. But some

  of us—like Aunt Violet—still use Fern Hill.”

  “And you think there's a chance we'd find some

  letters there?” Nancy pressed.

  Dell chewed her lip, then said, “There's a chance.

  The place has fallen into disrepair, but if any old pa-


  pers or letters were ever there, they've probably re-

  mained untouched. I mean, no one ever does much

  with the place to change it. Every now and then we get

  it cleaned, and we have a handyman make necessary

  repairs so the roof won't leak. But the last time I was

  there, I noticed medicines in the bathroom left over

  from the 1940s.”

  “Good gracious!” Mr. Schoonover exclaimed. “The

  place is a relic.”

  “But you said your aunt Violet goes there some-

  times?” Nancy asked Dell.

  “She's the only person I know who visits there reg-

  ularly,” Dell answered. “She loves the lake, and she

  doesn't mind the creaky old house. No one is there

  now, though—you're welcome to camp in one of the

  rooms.”

  Nancy turned to George. “How soon can you get

  packed for a trip to the Adirondacks?”

  “In seconds,” George answered cheerfully.

  “We'll tell Bess she's only allowed to bring one

  suitcase,” Nancy declared. A sudden memory tugged at

  Nancy's mind. “You know what? Aunt Eloise has a

  summer place in the Adirondacks, and I think it's near

  Birch Mountain Lake. We might be more comfortable

  staying there if it's okay with Aunt Eloise.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” George asked,

  heading for the door. “Let's go back to Eloise's and

  book the next flight to the Adirondacks.”

  Dell looked Nancy and George in the eye. “If you

  can prove that Julius was a fraud,” she said, “I'll cancel

  our plans to open his collection. Unlike him, I would

  never lie to the public.” To Schoonover, she added,

  “Don't worry, Richard. If it turns out you're right, I'll

  be sure to credit Gustav Kinderhook as the real artist—

  publically.”

  “If you do that, Dell,” Nancy said, “the person who's

  causing all the weird stuff around your house will prob-

  ably stop—even if we never find out who he or she is.”

  “That makes sense,” George said, “because if

  everyone learns that Julius's collection is really Gus-

  tav's, the bad guy won't have a reason to keep it from

  opening. Everyone will already know the worst.”

  “And life at your house will return to normal, Del-

  phinia,” Schoonover said confidently

  “Still, I'd like to know who the bad guy is,” Nancy

  said to George as they walked out the door.

  “This view is awesome,” Bess said as she looked out

  the window of the small chartered plane.

  “The lakes below us are dazzling in the early evening

  light,” Aunt Eloise agreed, from the seat beside Bess.

  Behind them, Nancy and George talked about the case

  so far.

  “It's too bad Dell couldn't come with us on this ad-

  venture,” George said. “But it was really generous of

  her to charter this airplane for us.”

  “It sure was,” Nancy agreed. “If we'd taken a regular

  flight, we wouldn't have arrived until way after dark.

  We couldn't have looked for any letters till tomorrow,

  since Fern Hill doesn't have electricity.”

  “We're already pushing it with the time,” Aunt

  Eloise said, craning her neck to look back at Nancy and

  George. “It's six-thirty now. After landing at the airport

  and getting a cab, we probably won't be at my cabin till

  almost eight. At least it's June, and the sun sets late.”

  “It's lucky that your cabin is also on Birch Mountain

  Lake,” George remarked to Aunt Eloise. “What a

  coincidence.”

  “It's not a total coincidence,” Aunt Eloise told them.

  “Dell and I first met each other because Fern Hill was

  across the lake from my cabin. I met her one day years

  ago at a local arts fund-raiser.”

  “So why couldn't Dell come with us?” Bess asked,

  glancing back at Nancy and George.

  “She wanted to stay in town to try to patch things up

  with Walter,” Nancy said. “After he broke off their

  engagement, he moved to a hotel while he does some

  research at the Bronx Zoo.”

  The gentle whirring of the engines made Nancy

  sleepy, and after several minutes of silence, she leaned

  her head against the window and fell sound asleep.

  True to Eloise Drew's prediction, the cab pulled

  into her unpaved driveway at exactly three minutes

  before eight. As everyone took bags out of the trunk,

  Aunt Eloise pointed to a green station wagon parked

  near her cabin and said, “I always leave my car here

  and take cabs to and from the airport. But now that

  we've arrived, we can drive wherever we want.”

  “Or boat wherever we want,” George said, eyeing

  the blue lake spread in front of the house. The water

  beckoned magically in the hazy dusk.

  “I'd like to go over to Fern Hill right now,” Nancy

  said, tempted by the sight of a canoe resting on the

  porch of her aunt's cabin. “There's still some light, and

  I really want to start my search.”

  Aunt Eloise frowned. “Don't you think it's a little

  late, Nancy? We haven't had dinner yet, and I thought

  I'd take us out to this pizza joint in the village of Birch

  Mountain, five miles away. Plus, there are big clouds

  hovering on the horizon.”

  Biting her lip, Nancy thought about her aunt's ad-

  vice. But she felt in a rush to look for the letters. “It's

  only a matter of time before this person realizes there

  might be letters up here,” she reasoned. “We might

  already be too late. Whether I go now or tomorrow

  could make a big difference.”

  Aunt Eloise sighed. “The only boat I have is this

  canoe, and it gets tippy with more than one person in

  it. I don't feel right about your going over there alone,

  Nancy.”

  Nancy smiled. “I'll be fine, Aunt Eloise, really.”

  Twenty minutes later Nancy was paddling the canoe

  through the still, dark water of Birch Mountain Lake.

  The sun had slipped behind an elephant-shaped hill on

  the horizon, and the sky was deepening to a hazy

  purple. Trying her best to paddle silently, Nancy

  winced every time the oar made an unexpected

  splashing noise. In the silence around her, it sounded

  deafening.

  Soon a huge dilapidated cabin loomed in front of

  her—Fern Hill, Nancy guessed from Dell's descrip-

  tion. As the canoe coasted up on the rocky shore,

  Nancy started.

  In the failing light a shadow hovered on the porch of

  the house. Then the figure slipped inside.

  14. Terror on the Lake

  Nancy froze. Dell had told her that the place would be

  empty.

  Nancy landed the canoe on the rocky shore and

  stepped out. After pulling it out of the water, Nancy

  crept toward the house on a woodland path, her

  sneakers silent on a carpet of pine needles.

  As she moved closer, Nancy saw that Dell was

  right—the house could use some attention. Made of

  logs, with moss-covered birch railings
circling its porch,

  it had definitely passed its prime. Still, the house must

  have been wonderful in its day, Nancy thought, with its

  turrets and stained glass windows.

  A sudden breeze blew up as Nancy cautiously

  climbed the steps to the porch. Rocking chairs creaked

  eerily in the wind, as if a family of ghosts were outside

  to greet her. A chill snaked down her neck as she

  glanced around. Not a soul was there.

  A soft glow suddenly filled the downstairs windows,

  and Nancy started. With her heart hammering away,

  she peeked through a window.

  A kerosene lamp glimmered on a dining room table,

  providing a dim light. Nancy could see a jumble of

  artifacts decorating an enormous lodgelike room.

  Mounted moose heads, with old-fashioned hats stuck

  on their antlers, presided over two enormous stone

  fireplaces at opposite ends of the room. Bearskin rugs

  with snarling jaws took up space on the pine floor along

  with worn oriental rugs. Boxes of games and puzzles

  that looked as if they hadn't been played in years

  gathered dust on an oak table. Through a doorway on

  the left, Nancy could see part of an old-fashioned sink

  and some cabinets—the kitchen, she reasoned.

  A shadow passed by the window. Nancy tensed. It

  was Violet, and she was carrying a cardboard box!

  Nancy stepped backward in surprise. A board

  creaked loudly under her feet. Violet dropped the box,

  her startled eyes flying toward the window.

  “Who's there?” Violet said.

  For a moment Nancy remained completely still,

  thinking of what to do. If she ran away, she'd lose her

  chance to see what was inside the box. What if Julius's

  letters were there and Violet was about to destroy

  them?

  But if she tried to sneak around the place, Violet

  would surely find her, with all the creaky floorboards.

  Then Violet—if she was guilty—would be in an even

  bigger hurry to get rid of Julius's letters.

  Nancy decided that her best bet was to make up a

  story explaining why she was there and hope that Violet

  would swallow it.

  “Who's there?” Violet repeated, her voice shaking. “I

  may not have a telephone, but I have a flare that will

  bring the police if I set it off.”

  “I'm sorry to bother you,” Nancy said, “but I'm lost.”

  Violet stepped outside. The sky was now completely