Fortunately, the Pemberley Inn lay less than a hundred yards from the What the Dickens Diner. As she walked the short distance, Alice’s body ached with fatigue, and she wondered what she’d gotten herself into—and how she’d get herself out of it. Should she go back to the city?
She grimaced, hating the idea of crawling back to the city.
Mom never backed down, she thought. No matter how big the challenges were.
That thought kept her going as she crossed a bridge over the river that ran through Blithedale and approached the old mansion.
When she’d lived in Blithedale, the place had been a ramshackle house rumored—among kids, at least—to be haunted. Since then, someone had fixed it up. On the surface, however, it only shared a name with Mr. Darcy’s country estate from Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice. It was a charming Victorian with a wraparound porch, slate roofing, and a turret with a cockerel weather vane. More New England than England.
By the gate to the front yard stood a bronze statue of a man in a suit. A plaque below said, “Mayor Thomas Reginald Townsend.” There was that name again. Townsend. It couldn’t be mere coincidence—the Townsend brothers must have old roots in town. Below the plaque was a brass box, its hinged lid hung open. If it had once held an object inside, it was gone now.
At the Pemberley Inn reception, a step inside the front doors, a woman with a patch over one eye was tapping away at a computer. She welcomed Alice with a smile, and didn’t even blink her one visible eye at seeing her in a dirty wedding dress.
“You were admiring the statue,” the woman said. “Old Mayor Townsend, we call him. He wasn’t the first mayor. But he was the first to develop a vision for the town.”
“Are Darrell and Todd Townsend related?”
“Only by blood.”
The implication wasn’t lost on Alice. Old Mayor Townsend’s vision apparently had not been passed down.
As the woman found an unoccupied room on the computer, her eyepatch glinted. It was covered in red gemstones.
The woman was focused on the computer screen, but she must have noticed Alice staring, because she said, “They’re rhinestones.”
“It’s beautiful,” Alice said, and she meant it.
“Thanks. I like your dress, too. If you need it dry cleaned, I can send it out for you.”
Alice gazed down at her outfit. When she’d bolted from the church, she hadn’t exactly had a clear plan in mind, let alone considered that she’d need clothes. She didn’t even have a tooth brush.
“I need a change of clothes,” she said.
“Love Again is down the block. It’s a consignment store. If you go in the morning, Esther Lucas, who runs it, will help you out. Oh, and here.”
She reached under the counter and brought up a little pouch. Alice unzipped it and found a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, even a tiny hair brush.
“You’re a life saver,” she said.
Alice handed over her credit card. She did a quick mental calculation. She had plenty of money in her savings, but it wouldn’t last forever. She no longer had a job—running out on Rich had meant breaking with her fiancé as well as her boss—and she didn’t know when she’d get another. She didn’t even know what she’d do tomorrow.
“Can I start by reserving three days?”
“Why don’t I note your reservation for a week? If you change your mind, just let me know. No extra cost.”
“OK,” Alice said, too exhausted to think about what life would look like in a week.
“Alice,” the woman said, handing back her credit card. “I’m Ona. I hope you have a nice stay.”
Ona led Alice up a set of stairs with an old, polished banister. On the walls hung what at first glance looked like old family portraits, but one of the faces stood out to Alice, and she paused on the steps.
“Is this—?”
Ona nodded. “In his role as Mr. Darcy for the BBC adaptation of Pride & Prejudice. He’s always been my favorite Darcy.”
Alice admired the other tributes to Austen. Each portrait was of a character, often hinting at an actor who’d played the part in a film or TV adaptation. A portrait of Marianne Dashwood hung next to that of her sister, Elinor, and nearby was the dashing Mr. Knightley.
They reached the second floor landing, where a small card table stood with two chairs, and Alice noted that someone had left a game of backgammon half finished. Then realized it must be another Austen artifact. She tried to recall which book would allude to backgammon.
“Emma?”
“Very good,” Ona said. “Yes, Emma plays backgammon with her father. But how about this one—can you guess what this is?”
A male mannequin stood in a corner. It wore what looked like a cream undershirt, and Alice knew at once what it was.
“That’s a flannel waistcoat. Which is actually not what we’d think of as a waistcoat. It’s more like long underwear. Colonel Brandon mentions wearing one in Sense & Sensibility, and totally turns off Marianne.”
Ona laughed. “You know your Jane Austen.” She unlocked a door next to the mannequin and said, “As a reward, you’ll get the Colonel Brandon Suite.”
A four-poster bed dominated the room, but there was also a small escritoire, a chair, and a wardrobe large enough to contain Narnia.
“This is beautiful.”
Ona handed her a tourist brochure for the area and a map of town, going on to mention the practical matters: the cost per night, checking out, and the fact that the inn didn’t provide breakfast or other meals.
“There’s the diner for that. I can’t compete with Becca, nor do I want to. Plus, there’s a new cafe in town that you might want to try out. Delicious pies.”
Alice looked at the tourist brochure. It featured a photo of the old mayor on the front. In the photo, the box was closed.
“What was in that box?”
She pointed. Ona bent over the map.
“Supposedly, the box contained Old Mayor Townsend’s journal, in which he noted his ideas for how to develop Blithedale into ‘a blissful home for happy souls.’ His words, not mine. But about a week ago, someone broke into the box and stole the journal.”
“Stole it? Why would anyone steal an old journal? Was it worth a lot?”
“Only to us locals. The old mayor had some great ideas about how to make a town thrive. I heard a rumor that Darrell Townsend might’ve stolen it simply to erase his great-grandfather’s legacy and pave the way—pardon the pun—for his own concrete vision of Blithedale.”
“You really think he stole it?”
Ona shrugged. “Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past him. And yet…”
“And yet?”
Ona laughed. “Becca called ahead and warned me about you.”
Alice was taken aback. “She warned you about me?”
“About you being a natural detective. She thinks you take after your mom, and she apparently solved a bunch of mysteries in town. Anyway, I’ll leave you to mull over who stole Old Mayor Townsend’s journal.”
She bid Alice goodnight and closed the door behind her.
Alice sat on the bed, holding her clutch against her. What was this about her mom solving mysteries? She remembered her mom doing favors for people—was that it? She’d have to ask Becca about it.
She let herself fall backward and stared up at the canopy. Right now, she needed to work out what to do. Old Mayor Townsend’s journal meant nothing to her. It was Vince’s death that troubled her—if she couldn’t do something about the murder, the bookstore might close permanently. It might even fall into the hands of Darrell Townsend, who had no interest in reviving the store Alice’s mom had so lovingly created.
Her clutch buzzed, vibrating against her chest. She pulled her phone out. More missed calls from Rich. Another flurry of texts. They all amounted to the same message: “Where are you? I can come get you, if you’ll tell me where you are.”
She drafted a reply: “Rich, I’m safe. I’m sorry I hurt you. I need time and space to think. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk.”
That would buy her some time, and hopefully, he wouldn’t try too hard to track her down. Though knowing Rich, that was wishful thinking.
She hesitated to hit send, looking at the engagement ring he’d bought her. Then she slipped it off her finger and put it in the drawer of the bedside table.
Raising her phone, she read her message to Rich again. It would have to do. She hit send and shoved the phone back into the handbag.
As she retracted her hand, she felt Becca’s envelope.
She raised herself onto one elbow and forced the envelope flap open. Turning it upside down, she shook it, and an object tumbled out.
A key.
Attached to the key by a string was a small, handwritten paper label. It said, “A very little key will open a very heavy door.” And then a number, 13.
What could it mean? Alice’s brain felt as thick as molasses, but she forced her thoughts forward. A number might be the number on a door.
She slipped off the bed and went out into the hallway.
Her own room was number 14. On the other side of Colonel Brandon, the door was labeled with a brass 13. She tried the key in the lock, but it was all wrong.
“Come on, Alice,” she chided herself. “Why would Becca give you a key to one of the rooms at the inn?”
“Wait a minute…” She slapped her forehead. “Of course.”
Maybe the key fit a lock in another building.
She rushed back into her room and straight to the escritoire, where she’d left the brochures Ona had given her. She unfolded the map of the town. It was an illustrated map, showing cartoonish versions of the local landmarks. Luckily, the illustrator had numbered the buildings on Main Street.
She let out a little “ha,” pleased her theory had been correct.
Number 13 on Main Street was clearly marked.
Blithedale Books.