04 Once Upon a Thriller (10 page)

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

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.

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 the 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?”