Free The Case of the Artful Crime by Carolyn Keene Page B

remember, not a word about what’s been going on. Especially not about the slashed paintings.”
    In minutes the two girls were heading up the road toward the Wainwright estate. Bess squeezed Nancy’s arm as she drove. “This morning, when I woke up, I never dreamed I would be going here. I wish I’d worn a nicer dress. Do I look all right?”
    â€œYou look fine, better than I do,” Nancy said. She was still wearing the black pants and denim shirt of her waitress uniform.
    â€œDon’t worry. The truly rich always dress casually. They don’t have to impress anyone,” Bess said confidently. “You can say you were out playing polo. You just jumped off your Thoroughbred horse and dashed right over, dah-ling!”
    â€œGood idea,” Nancy said, laughing. She reached the estate and pulled into the long drive. The rolling lawn was immaculately groomed. Fruit trees in full pink bloom dotted the landscape, along withsquared-off hedges and sculpted azalea bushes bursting with pink and white blossoms.
    At the door, the girls were greeted by a tall, stodgy butler. After she gave her name, Nancy and Bess were directed to a large room off the front foyer.
    â€œThis place is amazing,” Bess whispered, taking in the exquisite antique furnishings and twelve-foot-high ceilings.
    â€œThat’s by Spaziente, I think,” Nancy said, pointing to a painting on the wall. It stood by itself in a gilded frame, just above a long cherry-wood table. “I recognize the style from the paintings in the restaurant.”
    â€œThe guy is kind of in a rut, don’t you think?” Bess said, frowning. “He keeps painting the same thing over and over.”
    Nancy saw what her friend meant. All of Spaziente’s paintings seemed to be landscapes of wooded areas. And this was the third time Nancy had come across this scene, showing the lake in the woods. He’d painted it in summer and in spring. And here it was again. The painting on the wall depicted the same lake and trees, but in autumn, with the woods full of gold and red leaves. Nancy’s eye went to the tree in the lower lefthand corner. That tree stood in exactly the spot where the other paintings had been cut. What was so special about that triangle? She reached out to touch it, then drew back her hand as she heard a voice behind her.
    â€œHello. I’m Felice Wainwright.” The wealthy widow seemed to glide into the room. Looking her over, Nancy guessed that Felice was in her early fifties. Her blond hair, swept up in a French twist, crowned her perfect features and light blue eyes. A brocade vest topped a flowing blouse of gossamer silk. Tailored tan pants completed the outfit.
    Nancy introduced herself and Bess. “I see you’ve already spotted Joseph’s work,” Felice said, nodding toward the painting. “Like van Gogh, Joseph has the ability to imbue his landscapes with the teeming energy of nature.”
    Bess and Nancy exchanged sidelong glances. It was an attractive painting. But Nancy wasn’t sure she’d compare it with a van Gogh. Yet, for the sake of her cover, she had to pretend to be as impressed with the painting as Felice was.
    â€œIt is extraordinary,” Nancy agreed.
    â€œIt’s such a shame that Joseph is incarcerated in that awful place,” Felice said with a sigh. “I do hope he gets parole soon. Did you know he was once a brilliant electrical engineer? It seems that whatever he touches is marked with his particular genius.”
    â€œWhy is he in jail?” Bess asked bluntly.
    â€œHe shouldn’t be, if you ask me,” Felice said with a wave of her hand. “He was in debt and got involved with a bank robbery. He was the only one caught. And he didn’t hurt anyone.”
    â€œRobbing a bank is still a crime,” Bess pointed out. Nancy frowned at her.
    â€œOf course, but Joseph’s such a gentle soul. He’s hardly a menace