CHAPTER 12

Alice woke in a milky cloud. Her room seemed to have turned a hazy, gauzy white, and what was even stranger was that the mists tickled her nose.

She batted at the mists and swept aside the layers of tulle skirt. She’d slept fully dressed. Apparently, during the night her dress had migrated over her head.

She sat up. Her legs and shoulders and lower back ached. If she’d run a half-marathon—well, at least a 10k run—she couldn’t have been more sore. But at least her head no longer pounded.

She slipped off the bed, the skirt flopping to the floor. She went to the escritoire and picked up the key with the paper label, “A very little key will open a very heavy door.”

Why had Becca given her a key to Blithedale Books? And what had her parting words meant? “The most important thing in life is to stop saying ‘I wish’ and start saying ‘I will.’”

Alice had an idea. She put the phrase about a very little key into her phone and searched the web. The top search result told her what she needed to know. It was a quote from a story by Charles Dickens. Dickens was Becca’s favorite author, so it only made sense that she’d wrap a riddle in his words.

But the riddle wasn’t too difficult to understand.

She went to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Bright sunlight poured in and she put a hand up to shield her eyes.

From this side of the Pemberley Inn, she got a good view of Blithedale’s Main Street. Forested hills rose toward distant peaks, bluish in the morning light. The seemingly endless woods reached right down to town. A river emerged from the trees, its sparkling waters meandering past the inn. Cars drifted over the bridge. Pedestrians walked along sidewalks that were far cleaner than what she was used to in the city—and with fewer cracks, too. No cockroaches or rats, either.

She pulled open the window and the air rushed in. She half-expected it to be the familiar stench of car exhaust mixed with trash stewing in the sun. But instead it was cool, fresh air. She breathed it in, filling her lungs for what felt like the first time in years.

She leaned over the window ledge, stretching out to get a better view.

Even though she and her mom had lived in Blithedale for several years, her memories were only fragments. She remembered a general store where they sold candy. That had been across from the old Victorian. But it was gone now. There had been an old movie theater—that was still down the street, the old-fashioned marquee advertising Casablanca. And hadn’t there been an empty lot next to the bookstore? She thought so. But at some point during the past twenty years, another store had gone up. So much had changed—and yet, when she breathed in the fresh air, it was as if she could taste a certain kind of happiness that she remembered from her childhood.

Down below, a man in a suit and tie had stopped to say hello to a woman walking her dog. A couple walked arm in arm, and they smiled at a kid zipping along the sidewalk on her scooter. The kid called out a “hello, Mr. and Mrs. Jones” over her shoulder.

No one was rushing.

No one was shouldering others aside in a hurry to get to the subway on time.

She was beginning to see why her mom had come here in the first place. The city would’ve been especially tough for a single mom without any relatives nearby. Had she spotted a bookstore for sale in the classifieds and come for a visit? She must’ve fallen in love at once.

Across the bridge, a woman held the door open for a man entering the What the Dickens Diner. In the other direction from the inn, there was a place called Dorian’s Art Shoppe, and next to that, Love Again. That was the consignment store Ona had mentioned yesterday.

And next to that was Blithedale Books. Number 13.

The sight of it squeezed her heart. It looked closed-up and forlorn. Even at this distance, she could see the closure notice on the door.

She sighed and withdrew from the window.

If Chief Jimbo wouldn’t find the killer, then someone else would have to. She remembered what Becca had said about her mom solving mysteries.

What if…?

Don’t be silly, a stern voice in her mind told her. You’re using this as an excuse to avoid the real issue: Rich.

She grabbed her phone and, ignoring both the voice in her mind and the new text messages from Rich, she opened her browser. A quick search confirmed what Kris had told her: Chief Jimbo’s closure notice would only last 48 hours. Then the local authorities would need to decide whether the bookstore could reopen. Most likely Darrell Townsend’s influence would sway the decision in his favor. She’d seen how he pushed the chief of police around, and apparently the mayor stood to gain from Darrell’s plans.

If Alice could find concrete evidence that Vince was murdered, not the victim of a dangerous building, she might influence the outcome. Especially if it turned out to be Darrell who’d pushed Vince. Then the bookstore could reopen. Maybe the Oriels could even be convinced to buy again.

She checked the time. Wow, it was already 9:30 am. She must have slept more than 12 hours. It was Tuesday. By Thursday, Chief Jimbo’s 48-hour closure would lapse—or be extended.

She didn’t have much time.

Before I can sneak into the bookstore, I’ll get cleaned up and change into something more comfortable and

She shook her head. What was she thinking? She couldn’t change into anything. She didn’t have any clothes.

Presumably the consignment store would be opening soon, if it wasn’t already open.

After washing her face and scrubbing her arm pits with a washcloth, she hurried past the Colonel Brandon mannequin in his flannel undergarment.

Her phone buzzed again, and she stopped on the stairs. She dug out her phone and stared at the screen.

Rich had texted her again. The preview sent a chill down her spine. She opened the message to read the whole thing.

“Everything’s going to be OK. I know in my heart that you belong here. You know it, too. I’ll find you, my love, and I’ll bring you back. I promise.”