“Hello, Mr. Grey?” I cried. “Is there anyone here? We could use some—uh—assistance.”
“Coming, coming!” a muffled voice replied from what sounded as though it was somewhere below us. A minute later a man with horn-rimmed glasses popped up behind me.
“Hello! So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I was just in the basement organizing some stock. What can I do for you?”
“Alice Ann Marple sent us over. We’re looking for any old or antique typewriters you may have.”
He scratched his head and looked around at the piles and piles of stuff surrounding us.
“Typewriter . . . typewriter,” he muttered. “Let me check my inventory. Come right this way.”
Mr. Grey darted to the right and squeezed his way past the enormous bookshelf. Then he weaved his way through a row of wicker chairs and around a mirrored door that was leaning against the wall until he came to a rolltop desk that was completely covered in more paper. He picked up a large notebook and began to thumb through pages that were covered in rows of nearly illegible scrawls of ink.
“Ah, yes!” he exclaimed, pointing at a row in his ledger. “We do not have a typewriter.”
“Uh, okay,” Ned replied, glancing at me. How is this helpful? he mouthed.
I just shook my head at him. Trust me, I mouthed back.
“Does that mean you used to have one but it’s been sold?” I asked.
“Indeed it does,” Mr. Grey said with a nod.
“That’s too bad,” I replied, thinking quickly. “Did you happen to sell it to someone local? I’m a collector and would pay top dollar.”
Ned raised his eyebrows at me. Nice, he mouthed.
“Of course, of course,” Grey replied without hesitation. “I sold it to that famous writer. What’s her name again? Lacey O’Neil? She was wearing a big hat and sunglasses so I wouldn’t recognize her, but I knew who she was.”
He shook his head before he continued, “That typewriter wasn’t even in very good shape. In fact, there were a few keys that were broken when she bought it.”
Ned and I looked at each other and quickly said good-bye. I grabbed his hand and hurried him out the door. “We’ve got to question Lacey again—come on, we’re driving to Moon Lake.”
I was glad to leave the dust and papers behind and be outside in the sunshine.
“One more second, Ned. Let me ring Paige’s buzzer again. Maybe she came home while we were talking to Mr. Grey,” I said. But Paige still wasn’t home, or just not answering. We started to go to my car when I noticed the storefront on the other side of Memory Lane. It was unmarked, but there was a logo of a quill and a jar of ink etched into the glass door. That had to be the writers’ space that was connected to the art gallery. We didn’t have time to check it out—we had to get to Lacey.
I was sorry that Ned and I couldn’t enjoy the scenery or a hike as we drove out to Moon Lake.
Right before we pulled into her driveway, Ned asked, “What about Lacey’s stalker? Did you check him out? These notes seem to have ‘stalker’ written all over them. No pun intended.”
I had to smile at Ned. I knew he was trying to calm my nerves. “I did check up on him. I placed a few calls before you came this morning and confirmed that he’s still in Florida.”
We got out of my car, and it took all my self-control not to run to the porch. I rang the bell and we waited. I rang again, willing Lacey to be home.
Finally the large oak door opened. Lacey looked at me like she didn’t recognize me. But an instant later she exclaimed, “Nancy! It’s lovely to see you again so soon. Is everything all right? Have you found the guilty party?”
But I wasn’t as warm and friendly to her. “May we come in, please? This is my boyfriend, Ned Nickerson.”
“Please do. Come in and have some tea,” Lacey said. “Rick’s in his studio working, but I’ll go get him.”
Just like yesterday, Lacey didn’t act uncomfortable or guilty in the least. Ned and I sat down in cushy green armchairs in the living room, while Lacey disappeared into the back of the house. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of tea and her husband.
“Nice article, Nancy,” Rick remarked as he shook my hand. “Are you any closer to solving this mystery and recovering the stolen statue?”
“Rick!” Lacey scolded him. “Isn’t clearing my name more important?”
“Of course,” he replied. “But I’m sure that finding that statue will clear your name.”
He turned to Ned and me. “The sheriff and his assistant were here earlier today with a search warrant. They were looking for the sculpture.”
I looked at Lacey expectantly.
“Of course they didn’t find it, because it’s not here,” she told me. “But they’re getting a warrant to search my writers’ space next.”
As Lacey fixed herself a cup of tea, I took out the typewritten notes I had received. I took a deep breath and began.
“I know you were adamant yesterday defending yourself. But not only did someone make sure I got these notes”—I paused and held them up—“but we found out from Stephen Grey that you were the one who bought the typewriter they most likely were written on.”
Lacey and Rick exchanged glances. “May I see those, please?” she asked. She took the papers and slowly read the messages.
“I didn’t write these notes!” she exploded. Her face turned red.
I held my breath as I waited for her to explain.
“The typewriter is at Oakwood Writers’ Workshop, of course,” she replied. “But no one uses it. It’s there merely as decoration. And perhaps inspiration for the writers. You must know, Nancy, that hardly anyone uses typewriters anymore.”
I nodded. “True. But anyone who uses the space had access to the typewriter and to the secret entrance to the art gallery.”
“No one has access to the art gallery through that entrance except Lacey and Clancy,” Rick chimed in.
“For both your sakes, I really hope you’re wrong about that,” I said.
Again, Rick and Lacey glanced at each other. What was in that look? Did they seem concerned about something? Maybe I had been right about Lacey’s innocence, but could Rick have been involved?
“How can we help?” Rick asked.
“I think Nancy really needs a list of people who are members at Oakwood,” Ned suggested helpfully.
I nodded.
“Just give me a few minutes and I’ll print the membership list from my laptop,” Lacey said.
The next five minutes seemed to take an eternity.
When Lacey returned with the sheet of paper in her hand, I jumped up from my chair. I scanned the list from top to bottom three times. One name made me stop—and I realized I had to get back to town, now.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Final Clue
I DIDN’T WANT LACEY—OR RICK—TO know I suspected anyone on the list, so I handed it back to her and thanked her.
As they walked Ned and me out, Lacey told us about a last-minute fund-raiser that they were holding tonight at Mr. Tate’s art gallery. With the theft of the Bride of Avondale statue, his gallery was in jeopardy of closing because of the lapsed insurance policy, and the local art community had organized the event.
Rick glanced at me and said, “You and Ned should come. Lacey and I will get you tickets. And you can ask your friends who had the canoe mishap the other day to come as well. It’s the least we can do.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “We’ll try to be there.”
Once we were in the car, I turned to Ned. “We’ve got to hurry,” I told him. “We have to get back to the Cheshire Cat Inn and then to that fund-raiser!”
“The Cheshire Cat?” Ned looked at me, incredulous. “But it can’t possibly be Alice Ann—you said so yourself!”
“Trust me on this one,” I said. “There’s something there that I need. Let’s go!”
I drove carefully but quickly, hoping Alice Ann hadn’t locked up the gift shop for th
e day. I figured she was attending the fund-raiser that evening too, and she probably needed some time to get ready. As I drove, Ned called Bess and George to see if they could make the trip to Avondale in time for the fund-raiser. I figured Ian would be there, so it wouldn’t be hard to sway Bess, but I wasn’t so sure about George.
“Neither of them answered their phones, but I left messages,” Ned said.
“Perfect,” I replied. “Hopefully they’ll be able to make it.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence as I puzzled over all the clues. I was pretty sure I had figured out who was behind the crimes, but there were still a few loose ends that needed tying up.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Ned said, breaking the silence.
“You’ll know soon enough,” I replied.
Before I knew it we were back in town. I parked in the lot behind the inn and hurried inside, Ned struggling to keep up with me.
I slipped into the dark lobby and headed straight for the gift shop, almost crashing into Alice Ann as she turned the key to lock the door to the tiny room.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t lock up just yet. Can you let me back into the shop?”
“Nancy?” Alice Ann asked. “Whatever for? I’m running late for a fund-raiser at the Clancy Tate Gallery.”
“I know,” I replied. “I am too. But first, there’s something in your shop that I need to borrow, just for the evening.”
“Borrow?” Alice Ann asked, raising her eyebrows. “This isn’t a library, you know. People tend to buy the things they like, especially if it’s something to wear to a fancy event.”
“It’s nothing like that,” I explained. “I need to look at your Avondale High School yearbook collection. I’m this close to solving the mystery of the bookstore fire, the art gallery theft—oh, everything!”
Alice Ann smiled brightly.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” she asked. “In that case, go right in.”
She unlocked the door and pushed it open, practically shoving me inside. Then she flicked the lights back on and hustled me over to the bookshelf where I had seen the yearbooks earlier that day.
“Which one do you need?” Alice Ann asked. “And I knew you weren’t just a reporter working on a story—you’re really a detective, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” I replied. There was no sense keeping up my cover story when I was this close to solving the case and knew that Alice Ann wasn’t who I was after. “I am. And right now I’m really hoping you have the yearbook from the year you graduated. That’s the year that Paige, Rick, and Cecilia graduated too, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Alice Ann replied, a puzzled look on her face. She pulled a dusty book off the shelf. “Here it is. But our high school days were years ago. I really don’t see how that’s going to help you,” she said.
Suddenly I had a pang of doubt. What if I couldn’t find the proof I was looking for? What if the hunch I had was just that—a hunch?
Alice let me take the book back to my room, and she closed up the shop. Back in room Two-B, I sat down on the Dr. Seuss chair and began flipping through the yearbook.
“Who—or what—are you looking for?” Ned asked, looking over my shoulder.
“Pictures of Rick Brown,” I replied.
I turned a page, skimming captions of sports teams and school clubs. But finally I found him: an image of Rick in a tuxedo, standing arm in arm with a pretty girl with curly hair in a lovely, off-the-shoulder evening gown.
I had never been so happy to see an old prom picture in my life!
Luckily for Ned and me, the Clancy Tate Gallery fund-raiser wasn’t a black-tie affair. Since it had been planned at the last minute, everyone was dressed casually, so we didn’t stick out too much in our khakis and sneakers.
It was wall-to-wall Avondale when we walked in. In just a few days, I already recognized faces, from Alice Ann to Lacey to Paige and even Mr. Tate and Mandy. It seemed like there was a great deal of support for Mr. Tate and his gallery.
I knew that the fund-raiser was the perfect cover for me to finally get to the back writers’ room. I would try to convince Mr. Tate to give me the key so I could look around for myself.
“Ned, you stay here and mingle,” I told him. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Tate alone.”
But I couldn’t get close to him with the all the people who were listening to his story of the statue’s theft.
I walked to the rear of the gallery, to the locked door to the writers’ space. I wanted to will it open and wished there was a magical phrase like “open sesame” that would somehow make it so.
But something magical did happen: The door opened and out walked Mandy.
“Mandy! What are you doing here?” I started to shriek, but quickly lowered my voice. “I mean, what are you doing in there?” and motioned my head toward the door.
“Hi, Nancy.” Mandy smiled. “I had to escape this crowd. Really, how boring can it get? People just telling Uncle C how wonderful they think this boring gallery is, over and over again,” she said. “I couldn’t stand it.”
“But I thought only your uncle and one other person had the key to this door. Was it left unlocked?” I asked.
“Unlocked? No,” Mandy answered. “The writers’ room isn’t a secret to me. I know where the key’s hidden, so I take it anytime I want. Like I said the other day, my uncle is pretty clueless. Nice, but clueless.” She laughed a little bit.
And then she said, “I hang out here a lot. Sometimes with my friends, sometimes with the writers. Ms. Samuels is even there right now.”
“Paige? Paige is in the room?” I said.
Mandy nodded and then took off. So I slowly, quietly opened the door and couldn’t believe my eyes: Paige was there, just as Mandy had said. And in her hands was The Bride of Avondale!
“Sheriff Garrison,” I screamed. “HELP!!!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Facing the Facts
PAIGE TURNED AROUND AND GASPED.
There stood not only me, but Sheriff Garrison, Ian, Ned, Lacey, Rick, Mr. Tate—and what seemed like the entire population of Avondale.
“Ms. Samuels, just what do you think you’re doing?” asked the sheriff.
“I’m—I’m—,” she sputtered.
“Caught red-handed, I’d say,” Lacey said, and walked into the room.
I thought Paige was going to pass out, but instead she placed the statue on a shelf—right next to an old typewriter—and then she sat down at one of the writer’s desks.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “I didn’t mean for—”
Sheriff Garrison interrupted her. “Stop right there, Ms. Samuels. You have the right to remain silent.”
And then he and Ian walked calmly over to the owner of Paige’s Pages and escorted her to their police car.
One week later Bess, George, and I were sitting in my kitchen, having apple pie and chocolate butterscotch cookies—just the treats we were craving.
George took a sip of lemonade and said, “So Sheriff Garrison was ready to arrest Lacey O’Brien for the crimes? The ‘intruder’ at our cabin turned out to be a bear—that’s what he said, right? See, Bess. I told you he and Ian needed help. It’s a good thing Nancy was there.”
Bess rolled her eyes but smiled at her cousin. “And Paige was so jealous of Lacey’s success and her marriage to Rick. But still, to go to those lengths?”
I sighed. After Paige’s arrest, Alice Ann had actually visited her in jail. I don’t know if she went just to find out more gossip or to finally be a friend, but Alice found out that Paige had always felt she was competing with Lacey, as far back as high school. But she never came out ahead—even though she had attended the prom with Rick. That’s the photograph I saw in the old yearbook.
When the bookstore started doing poorly, Paige planned to close it. But then she devised a plan to make money from the insurance company—an idea taken straight from Lacey’s mysteries. The fire was meant to look like an accident. But once
she realized that the fire and police departments suspected foul play, she started to cover it up.
I took my plate to the sink and let the water run over the leftover crumbs.
“I think there was a part of her that wanted to get caught,” Bess added. “Why else would she join the writers’ space and hide the statue in her own locker? She was bound to be found out, especially after getting the writer’s room key from Mandy.”
Bess had a good point. I wondered whether, when I’d picked up the paper with her locker combination on it at the grocery store, Paige had been deliberately dropping clues.
“Well,” I told my friends, “I’m glad no one got hurt. Broken hearts, maybe, but nothing else. And now I’ve got one more mystery for you to solve.”
George groaned. “Please, Nancy. Say you’re joking. How much more can we take?”
I started to laugh. “Where do you think I put the latest Lacey O’Brien mystery? I can’t find the book anywhere!”
Dear Diary,
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A few months later, Ned and I took a day trip to Avondale. We had read that Lacey and Rick Brown bought the bookstore—now called Brown’s Books—and completely renovated it, expanding the mystery and children’s sections.
And inspired by the town’s new notoriety, Alice Ann began hosting Murder Mystery weekends at the Cheshire Cat Inn to continue to draw new tourists. I hear they’re a smashing success. But as far as I’m concerned, I think I’ve had my fill of mysteries at Moon Lake.
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