“It sure seems that way,” Nancy said.
Bess shook her head. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” she said. “The person who wrote that note—did he or she also steal the Golden Horse?”
Nancy put down her cup. “I wish I had the answer to that,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “It could have been the same person. But it could also have been pure coincidence that the robbery took place right after Stone received the letter.”
Nancy went on to tell Bess and George about her run-in with Margaret Parker. She opened her purse and clenched the earring in her fist. “I can’t be certain until the match turns up,” she said, “but I think Margaret might have been looking for this.” Nancy opened her palm.
George gasped. “That’s the earring you found near the window ledge! So it must belong to Margaret Parker, right?”
“Let’s say there’s a good chance,” Nancy said with a grin.
“That means Margaret could have stolen the Golden Horse,” Bess said excitedly.
“That’s right,” George agreed. “Her earring probably fell off while she was escaping through the window.”
“It’s possible,” Nancy said, buttering her English muffin. “But even if this earring is Margaret Parker’s, she may have lost it near the window ledge last week, for all we know. Anyway, I’m going to hold on to it for now, in case it ties up with something later.”
George combed her fingers through her dark curls. “It’s weird that you found Margaret in the car, though. She could have been the one who cut the brake pipes, right?”
“Just because Margaret was looking for her earring in Stone’s car,” Nancy reminded her friend, “doesn’t necessarily connect her with any foul play.”
“Besides,” Bess added, “why would Stone’s assistant want to kill him?”
Nancy cupped her face in her hands. “Right now, I’m not sure. But there’s someone else at the top of my list who might have a reason. It’s possible Hillary Lane wrote the threatening letter to Mr. Stone and stole the Golden Horse.”
Nancy told her friends what she’d learned from her father and Hannah about the former actress.
“It’s hard to imagine Hillary Lane as a museum curator,” George remarked.
“She looks too glamorous,” Bess said.
Nancy smiled. “Maybe there’s a side to Hillary that we don’t know.”
A short while later, after leaving Bess to do some shopping, Nancy offered George a lift to the River Heights Country Club.
As they drove, George said, “So, if Hillary was qualified to be curator, but Nelson Stone got the job instead, it’s possible that she wrote the letter to scare Stone out of town. Maybe she stole the Golden Horse to finish the job of ruining his reputation.”
“I had the same thought,” Nancy said, nodding. “Hillary Lane had enough time to slip out of the reference library, pass Stone’s closed office door, and make her way into the Tibetan section. She could have stolen the artifact and returned to the library before Stone came out of his office. Of course, there’s a chance she could have been hiding in the assistant curator’s office. And if that red purse is hers—”
“There’s only one problem,” George broke in. “How could Hillary have known that the case was going to be open?”
“It was highly unlikely,” Nancy agreed. “But maybe she had a duplicate key to the case, and the fact that Stone had left it open was just pure coincidence.”
A few minutes later Nancy dropped George off at the country club. “Don’t forget,” George reminded Nancy, “Bess and I want tickets for the dog show, too. We’ll pay you back later, okay?”
“No problem,” Nancy said. Then, making a U-turn, she stuck her head out the window and called, “I’ll pick you up here around one o’clock.”
Soon Nancy had arrived at Hillary Lane’s palatial estate and parked her car in the circular driveway. She walked up the wide, stone steps to the stately white house. It was a tall, white-pillared building, surrounded by blossoming trees and a wide expanse of lawn.
Nancy rang the bell. A moment later the butler opened the heavy oak door. After Nancy introduced herself, the butler reached into his breast pocket and produced an envelope. “Miss Lane said to tell you that the ticket is complimentary.”
“Thank you very much,” Nancy said.
The butler was about to close the door.
“Wait,” Nancy said. “I—”
“Yes?” the butler said. “Was there something else?”
“I’d love to thank Ms. Lane myself,” Nancy told him.
The butler nodded. “I’ll be sure to do that for you,” he replied politely.
Nancy pressed her hand against the door. “I mean, I really would like to thank her personally,” she said.
The butler pursed his lips. “Ms. Lane is not available at the moment,” he said firmly.
Nancy thought quickly. “But I’d like to buy some extra tickets for my friends,” she said.
The butler sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said impatiently, ushering Nancy into the foyer. He led her toward the morning room. “If you’ll just wait here, I’ll get the tickets for you.”
Nancy paced the polished floor and gazed out the tall French windows. On the lawn beside a duck pond a number of workmen were raising a green and white striped tent. The tent was probably for the dog show, Nancy told herself.
Suddenly two white poodles came running into the room. Nancy bent down to pat their curly white heads as they sniffed her feet.
“Marcus! Chloe!” she heard a woman call. The poodles sat at attention as Hillary Lane entered the room. She was dressed casually in jeans and a red sweater. Her blond hair was pulled back in a French braid, and she wore hardly any makeup. Nancy thought the heiress could almost pass for a teenager.
“Nancy Drew!” Hillary said. “What a nice surprise.”
