“Mr. Tate, please, I ask you not to raise your voice!” she implored him. “I assure you that it won’t help the situation.”

The man sat down in his chair abruptly and slumped back, looking completely dejected.

“I’m ruined!” he wailed.

“Now, now, Mr. Tate,” the woman replied in a clipped voice. “There’s no need to be so dramatic.”

The man stood back up and squared his shoulders proudly before he addressed her again.

“Excuse me,” he began softly. “But you’ve just come into my gallery and informed me that my insurance policy lapsed three days ago, and that no one from your agency had the decency to send me a renewal notice. So for the last three days—including the day before yesterday, when a valuable piece of artwork was stolen from this gallery—I have had absolutely zero insurance coverage! Which means that I am solely responsible for the cost of the piece! And you dare to accuse me of being overly dramatic?”

He was shouting loudly by the end of his brief speech.

The woman retreated sheepishly.

“I do apologize, Mr. Tate,” she replied. “Perhaps I should come back tomorrow so that we can discuss this further.”

She turned to leave and saw me standing near the entrance.

“And I see you have a customer as well, so I’ll be out of your hair now,” she said as she quickly darted past me and out the door.

The man sighed loudly.

“Thank goodness that vile woman is gone,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

Suddenly he seemed to notice me standing there.

“Oh, excuse me,” he apologized, a dazed look on his face. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I replied. “Are you Clancy Tate?”

He grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”

“My name is Nancy Drew,” I introduced myself. “I’m on special assignment for the River Heights Bugle, investigating the recent Avondale crime spree. Would you have a moment to answer a few questions about The Bride of Avondale for my article?”

“Would I?” Mr. Tate asked. “If your article can help get the statue back, then I’ve got all the time in the world.”

We sat at a glass-topped table, and once again, out came my notebook.

“When did you first notice that the sculpture was missing?” I asked.

“I was the only one here. One of my co-workers had the day off and another called in sick.” Mr. Tate paused and then went on. “Lacey O’Brien’s fans were in town for her signing at the bookstore. I guess a few of her ‘super fans’ know she’s married to the sculptor Richard Brown, so they came flooding in to see one of his most beloved works. It’s not a large piece—in fact, it’s rather delicate—but the detail and intricacy is meticulous.

“We had about twenty more people than usual sign the guest book on Saturday. At one point, I must admit, I did go in back to look for a sepia photograph of Moon Lake by Ethan Jenkins, another of our local artists.” He took a deep breath and continued. “After that, I was busy making a sale of a few posters to a woman from Louisiana. When I realized the statue was gone, I called the police immediately, and they were here within minutes. But it was too late. The thief was long gone—it could have been anyone.”

“May I see the guest book?” I asked. I didn’t think a thief would actually sign in, but I still had to check.

“Go right ahead,” Mr. Tate replied. He handed me a thick, oversize leather book and opened it to the most recent page.

I scanned down the list of names and addresses. A few were locals, but most of the addresses were from neighboring towns. Ian Garrison . . . the sheriff’s nephew? Arnold Edwards . . . was that the man in the apron talking to Alice our first day? But one name stood out more than the others: Alice Ann Marple.

Hmm. If Alice Ann was the thief, she was either the dumbest thief in the world for signing the book or incredibly shrewd.

“Do you mind if I take note of these names and addresses?” I asked.

“No, not at all,” Mr. Tate replied. “Like I said, if your story helps get that statue back, I’ll be in your debt forever. And you know what they say about publicity—it’s never a bad thing, at least in the art world. Do you want me to make a copy of that page for you?”

“Nope, I’ve got it,” I replied. I used my cell phone to take a photo of the register before I handed the book back to him. I started to put my notebook away, when Mr. Tate cleared his throat.

“There’s one thing I forgot to mention, and it involves Lacey O’Brien. But I can only tell you off the record. It would be a security risk for me if you printed it in the paper.”

I was immediately intrigued.

“Of course,” I assured him. “From now on, everything you say is one hundred percent off the record.”

“There’s one other way to get into the gallery. Only a few people know about it. I mentioned it to the police, and they’ve concluded that’s probably how the thief came in and exited.”

“Go on,” I prodded. I sure wished Bess and George were here. I could have used some extra eyes and ears.

“The gallery actually shares space with a mystery writers’ retreat and workshop,” he explained. “As a wealthy local artist, Richard Brown has always been a huge investor in and supporter of the gallery. A few years ago Lacey had the idea to fund a dedicated writing space for fledgling mystery writers. She and Richard didn’t want their names attached to it, since she so closely guards her privacy. But Lacey still believes beginning writers should get a break, especially mystery writers.”

Gee, I thought. That didn’t sound like someone who thought she was better than everyone in town.

Mr. Tate went on. “Anyway, Richard proposed closing off the back half of the gallery that faces Oakwood Lane and turning it into the writers’ space. There would be a separate entrance, and Lacey would rent the space from me. She and I are the only two people with a key to the door between the gallery and the writers’ space.”

My mind raced as I quickly processed the new information.

A place just for writers? Mystery writers? Even though Lacey didn’t want anyone to know the space was her brainstorm or that she was paying for it, I wonder if she ever dropped in as her “former self,” Cecilia Duncan. Most people probably wouldn’t guess that their writing mentor or coach was the bestselling Lacey O’Brien. It was as if she was hiding in plain sight.

Whoa—besides Mr. Tate, Lacey was the only person with access to the gallery through the secret entrance. But why would she have stolen her own husband’s sculpture? Was it some sort of strange publicity stunt? As Mr. Tate had said, no publicity is bad publicity in the art world—or the world of publishing.

“Who owns The Bride of Avondale?” I suddenly asked Mr. Tate.

“Lacey does. I put it on exhibit to coincide with her book signing.”

“Wait a minute, the sculpture that was stolen was one of Lacey O’Brien’s, and she’s the only one—other than you—who has access to the gallery through a secret entrance?” I asked.

At that moment a crash sounded from a back room. Could Lacey be in the writers’ room now?

A voice called out, “Sorry, Uncle C. I was standing on a stool in the supply room and lost my balance.” Into the gallery walked a girl with a familiar-looking face.

“Mandy!” I said. “What are you doing here?” It was the girl who was with her friends the other day, standing outside Paige’s Pages after the fire.

Mr. Tate asked, “Do you two know each other? How can that be?”

Mandy looked at me quizzically at first and then had a “lightbulb” moment of recognition. “Hey, you’re the person who was asking me and my friends Carly and Rachel all about the bookstore.”

“That’s right. I’m Nancy Drew. I’m writing an article about the recent crimes in Avondale and have been interviewing Mr. Tate about the theft of the statue,” I explained.

“Well, my uncle C is totally clueless about it,” she said. “But I think someone is definitely lifting their ideas from Lacey O’Brien’s books—just like I said the other day. And my friends and I think it might even be Lacey O’Brien.”