The shadowy figure ducked behind the woodpile, then emerged a second later on the far side of one of the sheds, only to disappear again in the maze of outbuildings. Nancy set off after the eavesdropper. She couldn’t tell if the person was male or female, only that whoever it was didn’t seem to be aware of her.
Good break for me! she thought as she cautiously picked her way across the yard, hoping not to trip over any of the bales of hay or buckets littering the ground. Moving silently, she neared the tight cluster of sheds. The eavesdropper couldn’t have gone far. Nancy reached into her pocket and felt for the penlight she always carried with her. If she could catch the prowler unaware, she might be able to identify him with the help of her light.
“Nancy! Are you okay?” Theresa’s sudden shout made Nancy spin around. Ignoring Nancy’s instructions, Theresa was hurrying toward her, a flashlight in her hand, the broad beam bobbing as she approached.
Frustrated, Nancy shook her head. “Yes, but I’ve probably lost him now.”
“Him?” Theresa grabbed Nancy’s arm. “So it was a guy you saw?”
“I couldn’t tell. Whoever it was is probably gone now.”
“I guess I scared him off,” Theresa said contritely. “Sorry, I was afraid something had happened to you.”
“Not to worry,” Nancy tried to assure her. Then they headed back toward the studio. As they neared the door, Nancy glimpsed two people inside putting on work aprons. She stopped just short of the building and asked Theresa, “Have you mentioned your suspicions about Danny to anyone else?”
“No way!” Theresa said. “There’s not enough proof. And I’m not sure that what I found is a fake. The only way to be sure is to have an expert check it out.”
“Would someone at the village be expert enough?” Nancy asked.
“Here?” Theresa was aghast. “As I said, I’m not sure who’s caught up in this scam—if it is a scam. I’m afraid to trust anyone here. I mean, what if it’s not Danny?” Theresa paced away, chafing her arms. “Anyway, that’s why I contacted you. Nancy, I read something recently about a museum in River Heights. Is there an Asian studies person on staff there?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy told her. “But my dad would know. Actually, I can get away tomorrow. We have a morning break.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll call my dad tonight. If he knows of any Asian art expert, and if she or he isn’t more than a few hours away, I’ll take the pot to be checked out. With any luck I’ll be back tomorrow in time for Andrea’s woodworking demo—I don’t want to miss that.”
“Yeah, she’d like that,” Theresa agreed. “Meanwhile, tomorrow I’ll see if I can turn up more shards.”
The next morning Nancy hurried down to the administrative wing of the River Heights museum, looking for the office of the Ceramics Department curator. A quick phone call to her dad the night before had proved fruitful. Not only did he know the curator, Ron Darien, but he volunteered to phone Mr. Darien first thing. Nancy’s father ended by warning Nancy to be careful, as art fraud sometimes involved pretty unsavory characters.
The character who looked up from his desk as Nancy poked her head in the small office was anything but unsavory. He was a short, round-faced, middle-aged man wearing a cheerful, boldly printed tie. At the sight of Nancy he jumped up and greeted her with great warmth. “You must be Nancy, Carson Drew’s daughter. Come in, come in!” Ron Darien waved Nancy toward his desk, then quickly removed a pile of papers from a chair before scooting it in her direction.
Nancy pumped his hand, sat down, and looked around while he poured her a cup of tea. Every surface of the small office was heaped with papers, file folders, and printouts. But tucked amid the clutter were pieces of exquisite Asian art. “I don’t know how to thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Nancy told him, taking the small broken tea bowl from his hand. It was simple and modern, and resembled Theresa’s work.
“I figured if Carson said it was important, then I’d better hear you out,” Mr. Darien said.
“So Dad didn’t fill you in on anything?” Nancy asked.
Ron shook his head. “He said you’d tell me what’s happening. So …?” He prompted her, leaning back in his chair.
Nancy carefully set down her tea and took the tea bowl fragment out of her bag. Mr. Darien leaned forward to watch as she undid the layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper. “This,” she said, setting the mended tea bowl directly in front of him.
The curator’s face registered surprise, then concern. “Where did you get this?”
Nancy told him about Theresa’s finding the shards. “I hope it’s no problem that she put them together …”
“Problem? This woman has the makings of a very good conservator. No one on my staff here, or at the last museum I worked at in Kansas City, could have done a better job.”
“So is it as old as it looks?”
Before responding, Mr. Darien took a magnifying glass out of his top desk drawer and carefully examined the pot, paying particular attention to the broken edges. Putting it down, he regarded Nancy with a frown. “I think it’s a fake. In fact I’m almost sure, though I’d have to do a couple of tests on it to find out. I’m about ninety-nine percent certain that this is not ancient clay.”
“Does it look like old clay from Japan?” Nancy asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s been very cleverly formulated. But clay bodies mined in Japan have a different proportion of certain minerals from those mined here.”
“So someone could have added materials to this clay to make it look like the real thing,” Nancy surmised.
“Yes, someone very smart, with a lot of expertise and knowledge. And whoever’s behind this is playing for high stakes, Nancy. Fakes like this aren’t made for casual collectors but for the serious art market.”
Nancy thought a moment, then asked, “How does this kind of scam work?”
“Generally, the most highly skilled artisans and artists are approached by unscrupulous antique dealers and auctioneers to create fakes. The pay is high enough to tempt many honest craftspeople.”
“But if they get caught it must wreck their careers—as well as land them in jail.”
“Ah, but catching people is very hard. This piece, for example, could have been made anywhere. It’s good to know where it was found.”
“But that’s only the first step in trying to find the counterfeiter,” Nancy said thoughtfully. “So what’s next?”
“If you’ll let me have the pot for now, I’ll have it examined more closely. Then if it’s a fake, I’ll call in the authorities. It’s crucial to try to get to the root of this.”
Nancy checked her watch, then pushed back her chair. “Theresa is keeping her eye out for more shards, and of course, I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
Ron Darien got up, heaving a sigh. He studied Nancy. “Your father told me that you were capable of handling whatever comes up, but, Nancy, if this pot does lead you to the source of the fakes, be careful. These people can be dangerous.”
“I know that,” Nancy assured him.
After leaving Mr. Darien, Nancy grabbed a sandwich and soda from a food cart outside the museum and headed straight back to East River Junction. Traffic was light, and Nancy pulled off the main road and onto the smaller blacktop leading to the Junction in plenty of time to catch Andrea’s woodworking demonstration.
She went through the open gates to the village, then made a left past the village shop and the curator’s cottage and headed down toward Meadow House. She’d worn a skirt and heels to her meeting with Mr. Darien and needed to change her clothes. With any luck she’d be able to snatch a private moment with Theresa to catch her up on her meeting with Mr. Darien. Suddenly the shrill wail of a siren broke into her thoughts.
Checking her rearview mirror, Nancy caught her breath. A fire engine was bearing down on her at high speed. Nancy pulled over to the shoulder, letting the engine roar past, two police cars in its wake. She looked ahead past the flashing lights, and her mouth went dry. Smoke was pouring out of the basement of a large farmhouse—the house where Theresa lived.