The Case of the Artful Crime by Carolyn Keene

Gazing fondly at each other, they seemed very much in love.
    Paging through a paper from the previous week, Nancy spotted another brief article on Felice Wainwright. It described how Mrs. Wainwright’s security system had been tripped, setting off lights and alarms and immediately summoning the private security guard who had a direct line to the system. No intruder was found, and nothing was taken. “This system is obviously one hundred percent effective,” the head of the security force was quoted as saying.
    Nancy put the papers aside and went to themicrofilm machine. Reduced on film were many back issues of the River Heights Review. Snapping in the cartridge, she began scanning the articles.
    She stopped when a familiar name jumped out at her: Joseph Spaziente. His name was printed below a picture of a sharp-featured man with dark, scowling eyes and lightly pockmarked skin. The article reported that only one burglar, Spaziente, had been caught during the midnight break-in of a local bank. He’d been shot in the leg while holding open the back door of the getaway van for the other escaping criminals. He fell to the ground while the van sped off without him.
    The article went on to say that authorities still could not figure out how the thieves had short-circuited the bank’s security system. The alarm never sounded, and they managed to get through elaborate locks. If a passing patrol car hadn’t noticed activity at the back of the bank, the thieves would have gotten away with a perfect crime. As it turned out, Spaziente had been holding the suitcase of money, and it tumbled to the ground with him when he was shot.
    When she finished the article, Nancy took out the cartridge and gave her materials back to the librarian. “Ready to go?” she asked Bess, who sat engrossed in an issue of Fine Food magazine.
    â€œLook what I found,” she said, showing Nancy the article. “It’s a review by Harold Brackett.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Summer’s finest foods,’ ” Nancy read aloud.“ ‘When I was a ten-year-old boy in Brooklyn, my brother took me on the Parachute Jump ride at Coney Island. Afterward,’ ” she continued reading, “ ‘we went for a frankfurter with mustard and sauerkraut. For years that frankfurter embodied all that was wonderful about summer. But through the years I cultivated more sophisticated tastes . . . ’ ”
    Nancy looked up from the article and stared into space thoughtfully.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Nan?” Bess asked.
    â€œNothing,” Nancy replied. “I was just thinking of something. The Harold Brackett we saw at the restaurant is only in his early thirties. He isn’t old enough to have been on the Parachute Jump when he was ten. The ride was closed down before then.”
    â€œMaybe he just made the whole thing up because it sounded good,” Bess suggested.
    â€œMmmm,” Nancy mused. “Maybe. Or maybe the guy we know isn’t really Harold Brackett.” Nancy handed the magazine back to Bess. “Come on. I want to snoop around Loreen’s neighborhood a little. It’s not far from here. We can talk to her neighbors and find out if Jack has come around to see her. If she’s there, I want to talk to her directly.”
    Ten minutes later, Nancy and Bess arrived at the apartment complex. They buzzed Loreen’s bell, but no one answered on the intercom. “Good,” said Nancy, motioning Bess inside. “She’s not home.”
    â€œWhat exactly are we trying to do?” Bess asked asthe girls rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor.
    â€œI’m going to try to talk to some of Loreen’s neighbors,” Nancy said. “Maybe I can learn something that way. I’ll say I’m a cousin who’s looking for her.”
    The elevator reached their floor, and the girls got out. Suddenly Bess stepped back