Текст книги "Once Upon a Thriller"

Автор книги: Carolyn Keene

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 6 страниц)

CHAPTER NINE

Framed

I RAN OUTSIDE AND CALLED George, quickly updating her on what I had discovered. “What do you think?” I asked.

“I don’t buy it,” George said. “It’s just too, I don’t know . . . convenient.”

I agreed. I didn’t actually believe Lacey had stolen the statue either, but clearly she had to be considered a suspect.

George continued, “Since the statue was just on loan to the gallery, Lacey doesn’t have a real motive for stealing.”

“You’re right,” I said. “The motive question is definitely a problem. But that doesn’t change the fact that she had ample opportunity.”

“But it’s all so obvious,” George replied. “It’s almost as if someone chose stealing the sculpture because it would make Lacey a prime suspect.”

“Exactly! Lacey’s being framed, just like the character Lucy Luckstone in her novel Framed.”

“That makes sense,” George answered. “Kind of. Do you think she’s also being set up with the fire? Who would want to frame her, Nancy?”

I kept walking down the street and noticed the Avondale Library. I sat down on a bench in front to continue our conversation.

“I understand those crimes could be connected to Lacey and her books, but what about the intruder at our cabin, and the canoe, and me almost being run over?” I asked her.

Nothing answered me.

“Hello? George? Are you still there?” I asked.

George spoke. “Nancy, when were you almost run over? Are you okay? See what happens when Bess and I aren’t around to chaperone you?”

Oh no . . . I’d never told them about my near accident. “I’m fine. Really. But because of it, I’m hoping to get a face-to-face meeting with Lacey O’Brien.”

George laughed a bit on the other end of the phone. “Only you, Nancy, only you could have that happen. But nice work. If you need us to come back to Avondale, just say the word.”

We hung up, and I walked back to my car. Instead of first calling Lacey, I decided to drive right to her house. Maybe by surprising her I would get more information. Or perhaps a confession?

I used my phone’s GPS to navigate from town back to Moon Lake and 34 Crescent Lane. Lacey and Richard’s cabin was set back from the road, covered, it seemed, by giant oaks and pine trees. I pulled into the long driveway and in two minutes was knocking briskly on the front door.

Within seconds, Cecilia Brown—aka Lacey O’Brien—flung open the door and greeted me by grabbing both of my hands tightly in hers and squeezing them, hard.

“Please tell me you’re still feeling okay, dear,” she gushed as she swiftly pulled me into the house.

“Of course!” I replied. “I’m feeling just fine. Honest.”

Her cheeks reddened, and she looked down at her feet in what seemed to be embarrassment.

“I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” she said softly. “I know who you are.”

Wow. Did she know I was writing an article? And that I suspected her of staging her crimes from her books?

She continued, “I recognize you from the lake on Saturday. You had two other young women with you. I’m so very sorry Rick and I didn’t come out to help you. I truly regret it. It’s just that—well, we’ve had people stalk us from Moon Lake in the past, and we’re never sure who to trust.”

Lacey wrung her hands nervously, then said, “We did call the sheriff, but there’s still no excuse for our not coming out there ourselves to make sure you were okay.”

I was stunned. That Lacey—Cecilia—was so honest and forthcoming took me by surprise. Could this truly be someone masterminding a local crime spree?

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” I answered. “Luckily, we were just drenched to the bone, shaken up somewhat, but nothing more serious.”

“Why don’t we sit down and make ourselves comfortable,” she replied, and I followed her into a warm and comfortable living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. We settled in on an overstuffed couch.

“We were not stalking you, but we did hear that this is where Lacey O’Brien lives. And when you and I had our run-in in town, I had no idea you were Lacey O’Brien.”

I paused and then admitted, “I’m not here about our run-in this morning, though. I’m here because I’d like to interview you for an article I’m writing for the River Heights Bugle.”

Again, Lacey looked embarrassed. “I see it wasn’t hard for you to connect the dots about who I am. I’m so sorry, but I don’t grant any interviews about my work,” she explained. “I made a decision many years ago not to allow interviews, so now I’m afraid I’m stuck. If I make an exception for one paper, the floodgates would open. I hope you understand.”

Once again, she seemed genuinely sorry.

“The story isn’t about your writing,” I said. “It’s actually about a number of crimes that have taken place around Avondale this weekend.”

“What does that have to do with me?” she asked, looking me squarely in the eyes.

Truth time. I was a little nervous to directly confront Lacey and was hoping she wasn’t currently writing a mystery entitled Murder at Moon Lake, but I had to take the chance. I probably should have looped in Sheriff Garrison and Ian, but I kind of knew they wouldn’t approve of what I was doing.

“My article reports the ways the perpetrator of the crimes is stealing ideas from your books—Burned and Framed. The police and the fire department have determined that the bookstore fire started due to wiring in an old chandelier that had been tampered with—exactly like what happened in Burned. And besides Mr. Tate, you’re the only one with a key to the gallery’s back room and easy access to the statue. I’m afraid that you’re at the top of my suspect list.”

Lacey paled. And then grew angry.

“That’s awful,” she said. “And, frankly, I resent your accusations. However, for your information, I was home the morning of the fire—Paige called me to tell me about it. I certainly couldn’t be two places at once!”

She went on heatedly, “There is no way I could be your culprit.”

I exhaled. What a relief.

“Now I’m the one to apologize, Lacey. But I hope you understand that I had to play my hunch,” I said.

There was somewhat of an awkward silence before I spoke again.

“It’s quite possible then that you’re being framed.”

“Me, framed?” She laughed lightly, and I realized it was the first time I had seen her smile. But then she paused as though trying to determine whether she should reveal something.

“About ten years ago a big fan of my work called me every day. He figured out where I lived and trailed me around town for a number of weeks. He was basically harmless, but I ended up getting a restraining order because it was very unsettling. The last I heard, he had retired to Florida and was doing well. That’s the main reason Rick and I became so reclusive and protective of our privacy. We didn’t want to go through something like that again,” she said.

“Have you heard from him recently?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t,” she replied with a shake of her head. “I actually have no reason to suspect him, but we do have a history, so it’s one possibility.”

“Anyone else?” I said.

She shook her head again. “I’m afraid there’s no one I can think of.”

I took down the former stalker’s name anyway. Though it didn’t sound like a promising lead, I intended to look into it. Then I gave her my number and asked her to call if she thought of anything else. “If anyone comes to mind, please let me know. Who knows what they’ll do next to set you up?”

“I’ll definitely be in touch if I think of anything,” Lacey said. “Nancy, I should let you know that I’m going to tell my husband Richard what’s transpiring. I don’t want either of us letting down our guard.”

She walked me to my car and warned me to be careful.

“I know Avondale has a peaceful facade, but one never knows what lies beneath.”

Even though it was warm outside, Lacey’s words chilled me to the bone.

Another exhausting day. I drove back to town, looking forward to the quiet of my room at the inn. Now I had to write the article, and by the time I was done with it, I realized I hadn’t solved a thing and had actually created more questions than I had answered.

Just after seven thirty, I hit send with my article to Ned. Then I called to let him know it was on its way.

“You sound beat, Nancy,” Ned said. “Maybe I should drive to Avondale tomorrow and help you out.”

“I’m fine. If I can’t figure this case out in the next two days, I promise to turn it over to the sheriff,” I told him. I was about to hang up, when there was a knock at my door.

“Hold on a minute, Ned. Let me see who this is.” I padded past the Dr. Seuss chair and opened the door.

Nobody was there.

But on the ground was an envelope with my name. I opened it, wondering what it could be, a thin slip of paper fluttered out. I picked it up and read the typewritten note:

STOP PRESSING YOUR LUCK. IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL GET OUT OF TOWN NOW.

CHAPTER TEN

Stalked

“NED, I’LL CALL YOU RIGHT back,” I said, and hung up.

I peered at the note and realized it had been typed on an old-school typewriter rather than printed out from a computer. I looked at the letters closely and realized that all the Ts were more faded than the other letters, as though that key on the typewriter didn’t work quite so well.

I looked up and down the hallway and didn’t see or hear a soul.

Suddenly my phone rang, and I jumped. “Hello? Who is this? What do you want?”

“Nancy? It’s me, Ned. You said you’d call back in a minute—what happened?” He sounded panic-stricken.

“Ned! I’m sorry—but I think I will take you up on your offer. Can you come to Avondale first thing tomorrow?” I said.

“Of course I’ll come. But are you all right tonight?” Ned asked.

I assured him I would lock my door, not open it for anyone, and meet him at the Avondale Diner at eight a.m. We said good night and I got into bed, still tired and now a bit scared.

Not surprisingly, I had trouble falling asleep. A million thoughts filled my head. I must have been closer to who was behind this mystery than I realized. Who’d left that note, written with a typewriter?

I sat up in bed. Typewriter . . . there was one right on the desk in my room. I turned the night table lamp on and walked over to the desk. I took a sheet of the Cheshire Cat Inn stationery and put it in the roller.

I typed the same words in the note: STOP PRESSING YOUR LUCK. IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL GET OUT OF TOWN NOW.

I ripped out the paper, inspected the Ts, and almost started crying, but from relief: This wasn’t the same typewriter used to write the note sent to me. I’d been so worried that someone had snuck into my room. But maybe, just maybe, if I found the typewriter that was used for the letter, I would find out who was behind the crimes.

The next morning I was already on my second cup of tea, reading my article in the River Heights Bugle, when Ned arrived at the diner. He listened closely while I filled him in on everything that had happened—everything I hadn’t written about in the article, that is—over the last few days.

“So you’ve talked to Paige, Lacey, Alice Ann, and Mr. Tate. It could be any of them, Nancy,” Ned said.

It was great seeing Ned. And great to be able to bounce theories off him. After we talked, we both were in agreement about two things: We didn’t think Lacey was the culprit. And in order to find who was, we had to find the broken typewriter.

I figured we’d swing by Paige’s Pages first, and then stop at the Cheshire Cat Inn. Both seemed to be likely spots for an antique typewriter. But the bookstore was dark and the web of police tape still decorated the front door. I cupped my hands around my face to block out the bright sunlight and peered inside, but the store looked deserted. I realized I didn’t know how to reach Paige other than by stopping by the shop, but then I remembered Alice Ann. Maybe she would be able to tell me where to find the bookstore owner.

“Nothing?” Ned asked as I backed away from the darkened window.

“Nope,” I replied, shaking my head. “Let’s walk up the street to the Cheshire Cat Inn. Wait till you see this place.”

When we entered the inn, Alice Ann was front and center behind the receptionist’s desk, chatting with someone on the phone. When she saw me come in, her face lit up. She gestured that she would be just a moment, and I nodded before Ned and I ducked into the gift shop.

“Wow, she sure has a thing for cats,” Ned remarked as he took in the array of cat-shaped knickknacks crammed into the tiny space.

“Mm-hmm,” I replied absently as I surveyed the space for typewriters. Antiques and old-looking memorabilia were everywhere. My eyes took in a shelf of antique scissors (strange items for an inn gift shop, I thought) and old-fashioned writing devices like fountain pens and quills. In addition to the spinner rack of paperbacks that housed all of Lacey O’Brien’s books, there was a shelf of dusty old dictionaries, encyclopedias, and Avondale High School yearbooks. But there was no typewriter.

“Nancy!” a voice cried out behind me, and I turned to see Alice. Shockingly, she grabbed me and gave me a friendly hug.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Hi, Alice. Good morning.”

She laughed. “I hope you had a restful night. I was looking for you this morning, but you were out bright and early. But now I can thank you in person.”

“Thank me?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. “For what?”

“Ever since your article was published in the River Heights Bugle this morning, my phone has been ringing off the hook,” Alice replied, a huge grin on her face. “We’ve had a tough summer at the inn, and it’s been hard to book rooms. But it seems that people all over the county are curious about Avondale and Moon Lake since your story came out. We’re completely booked for the next three weekends, and I imagine we’ll be full for the rest of the summer by the end of the day. It seems people want to make a weekend trip to Avondale so they can retrace the steps of the copycat criminal. And relax by the lake, of course.”

“That’s a little disturbing,” Ned replied, a troubled look on his face.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” Alice admitted, and her brow wrinkled for a moment in dismay. Then she shrugged. “But it’s been great for business.”

At that moment the phone rang again, and Alice dashed back to the reception desk to answer it. Ned and I continued to browse the shop while she finished the call. About fifteen minutes later she returned.

“Sorry about that,” she explained a bit breathlessly. “Now, what can I do for you two?” She studied Ned carefully and raised her eyebrows questioningly at me.

“This is Ned Nickerson,” I replied. “Ned, this is Alice Ann Marple.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Alice said as she shook his hand.

“You too,” Ned replied. “Nancy told me about your little shop, and I know how much she loves antiques.”

“Actually, I was really looking for an old-fashioned typewriter,” I jumped in. “Would you happen to have any of those?”

I watched her closely to see her reaction, but Alice Ann barely blinked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she replied. “But I do have some vintage typewriter ribbon tins. They’re very collectible.” She pointed to a shelf of colorful lidded tins.

I shook my head. “But who buys the ribbons without the typewriter?” I asked. “I was really hoping for a typewriter. I couldn’t recall whether you had one in here or not.”

I smiled, and Alice did as well. She didn’t seem rattled at all when I mentioned looking for a typewriter.

“You might try Memory Lane on Oakwood,” she suggested. “Stephen Grey is the owner, and he might have something like that in stock. Just tell him I sent you.”

“Okay, thanks,” I replied. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Alice Ann gushed. “I really am so grateful for your article. Not that I’m pleased about the crimes that have taken place, of course,” she added, her face growing serious. “I hope you don’t think I’m an opportunist like all these tourists who have been calling this morning.”

“No, no, not at all,” I murmured.

“I mean, I’m not at all happy about the reason I’m seeing so much new business. It’s just that the inn has been struggling so much recently I’ve thought about throwing in the towel and retiring early. But this new business should be enough to keep us afloat at least through the end of the year, which is when we usually see a bump thanks to the ski resort in nearby Sugarville.”

“I understand,” I told her. “Don’t worry, we don’t judge you.”

“Well, thank you,” she replied, her cheeks reddening a bit. “I’m a little embarrassed to be profiting from the crimes, but what can you do? It is what it is.”

Ned and I nodded in agreement. Truthfully, I did agree with her. If she hadn’t committed the crimes, then it wasn’t her fault that was the reason tourists were flocking to the Cheshire Cat.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I told Alice as we headed for the door. “Oh, one more thing. Any idea where I can find Paige Samuels? I wanted to ask her when she thought the bookstore would be reopening and if she was going to reschedule the Lacey O’Brien signing.”

“Really?” Alice Ann replied, looking more than a little curious. “Well, she often has lunch at the diner, so you might try to find her there. Or you can swing by her place. She lives in an apartment on Oakwood Lane, right above the antique shop, in fact.”

Alice prattled on. “I don’t know where she’s been keeping herself. I know the fire put her store out of commission for a time, and she’s probably mad as blazes at Lacey . . . for so many reasons dating back to high school that I couldn’t even begin to tell you about, but, no, I haven’t seen her.”

“Thanks, Alice Ann,” I said. I was grateful when the phone rang and Alice Ann stopped gossiping.

Ned and I headed out into the warm morning.

“Well, she sure is something,” Ned said softly as we left the inn. “Doesn’t want to profit off the crimes, huh?”

“How can’t it be Alice Ann?” I whispered to him. “We’ve got a motive now—her business was suffering and now it’s booming. She doesn’t particularly like Lacey or Paige, either.” I paused. “But we still need actual proof. We’ve got to find that typewriter.”

Ned nodded.

As we walked past my car, he plucked a piece of paper from the windshield and held it out to me. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked.

Oh no! Not another note. Again, it was typed in all caps:

MS. DREW: YOU SEEM TO HAVE TROUBLE FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS. DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU. . . .

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Opportunity Knocks

MY STOMACH DROPPED TO MY feet. Who was watching me?

“There goes that theory,” I said with a shudder. “There’s no way Alice Ann could have put that note on my car; she was with us the entire time. And we just passed my car on our way from the bookstore to the inn.”

I chewed my lip as I thought things over. Then I glanced down at the latest note again. I needed to find that typewriter—it was our best clue. And I was worried about what would happen next . . . to me, or someone else in Avondale.

“Let’s go to Memory Lane, then,” Ned suggested. “Maybe the owner knows of someone in town who’s a collector.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, giving him a grateful look. “Thanks again for coming along today.”

“Happy to help,” Ned said, reaching over and giving my hand a squeeze. “You’ll get to the bottom of this. I just know it.”

A few minutes later I parallel parked in front of Memory Lane. There was a doorway just next to the entrance that had two buzzers. The top one was labeled SAMUELS. I rang and waited a minute or so before ringing again. When there was no response after the third ring, I gave up, and Ned and I headed into the antique store.

The shop was dim, dusty, and absolutely crammed from floor to ceiling with antique furniture, light fixtures, candlestick holders, china, cameras, and clocks. Ned and I made it about two feet before we were stopped by an enormous antique bookshelf filled with crumbling old books. We couldn’t figure out how to get around it, so instead I called out for help.

“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.