After dropping off her bags of clothes at the Pemberley Inn, Alice waited outside of Blithedale Books for an opportunity to sneak in.
Easier said than done. It was broad daylight and, near the front door, a cluster of flowers in tribute to Vince drew every passerby’s attention. A wreath made of wildflowers. A votive candle. A hammer with a black ribbon tied around it.
Plus, it seemed every citizen of Blithedale that wasn’t ogling the tribute to Vince was staring at Alice. A couple passed and the woman turned around to gaze at her and whisper to her partner.
Even if Alice couldn’t hear the words, she knew what they were.
Runaway bride.
Well, once she proved that Vince Malone had been murdered, maybe they’d change their tune.
Amateur detective.
She smiled to herself as she remembered sitting in her hideaway behind the red door, her legs curled up under her and Nancy Drew’s The Clue in the Crumbling Wall lay open on her lap. She’d devoured Nancy Drew, not to mention the Hardy Boys and Judy Bolton books and dozens of other detective novels. These days, when she picked up a novel, it was more often than not a mystery. Ellery Adams. Elizabeth George. Elly Griffiths.
Maybe there was some truth to what Becca said. Maybe she had inherited a talent for detection from her mom. And if she was honest with herself, had she ever truly given up on her childhood dream of solving a real-life mystery?
Here’s your chance.
There was a lull in the traffic, and no pedestrians close enough to be paying attention to her.
She moved to the bookstore’s front door. As she worked the key into the lock, she couldn’t ignore the closure notice. The simple printout had been tacked to the door and said,
“CEASE AND DESIST—all persons are hereby ordered to CEASE and DESIST any and all use and occupancy and to not do any further work on this land or structure.”
It was stamped with the Town of Blithedale’s seal (a farmhouse with a river snaking around it) and signed by Chief Jimbo. It was marked with today’s date—Chief Jimbo must have posted it early.
That was good news. She still had almost two full days until the authorities would decide what to do with the bookstore. Two days to prove Vince was murdered.
She turned the key and there was an audible click so loud that it made Alice turn and glance up and down the street. Everyone for miles must have heard it.
But, for once, no one was looking her way.
She pulled open the door and slipped inside.
The bookstore was dark. With her back to the door, she got her bearings, getting used to the gloom. Dust and the distinctive smell of musty paper hung heavy in the air. She listened and heard a distant rustling. No doubt mice in the walls. Otherwise it was quiet.
When the contours of the bookshelves came into focus, she moved across the linoleum and down the first aisle. Before she could admit to herself where she was going, she stood by the red door. She ran her fingers over the flaking paint. Something tugged at her heard, and she swallowed, her throat feeling tight. What she wouldn’t give to sit inside her hideaway and block out the world and read her books…
But she couldn’t hide now. She had a murder mystery to solve.
She turned away from the red door.
Moving through the maze of bookshelves, she made her way to the scaffolding. As she approached it, she slowed down. She dug out her phone and turned on the flashlight and sucked in a breath, expecting to see Vince’s body still on the floor.
But of course the body had been removed. She didn’t believe in ghosts. The idea didn’t spook her in the least.
Besides, the scene of the crime bore no signs of violence. There wasn’t even the hint of a blood stain on the floor. The only sign that something was amiss was that the linoleum at the foot of the scaffolding had been scrubbed clean, revealing that it was originally beige instead of brown.
Whoever had cleaned up—she doubted it was Bunce—they had been thorough. It probably meant there wouldn’t be any telltale clues.
She gazed up at the top of the scaffolding.
Don’t make me go up there.
But of course she had to. There was a metal ladder fastened to the side of the scaffolding, making it easy enough to climb. She grabbed one of the metal rungs and put her foot on the bottom one and took a deep breath.
With every step she took, the whole structure shook.
In fiction, detectives climbed towers, leaped from one roof to another, and jumped off balconies, only to land safely on cafe awnings. As a reader, she’d shared their confidence. Now she felt none. Maybe if she’d been more committed to reading nonfiction, she’d have a better sense of the dangers of scaffolding. What were the accident rates for these rickety things, anyway?
Halfway up, she had to stop and breathe deeply to stave off a panic attack. What if she’d been wrong? What if unsafe scaffolding had killed Vince, and she was about to join him? Another ghost haunting Blithedale Books…
She was seriously considering climbing back down, when she heard the front door open. She froze. Then realized how exposed she was, and forgetting all about unsafe scaffolding, she scurried up the ladder and threw herself over the top. She landed on the platform with a clatter. Then lay still, her breath gushing in her ears, as loud as Niagara Falls.
“Did you hear something?” a voice said. It was Bunce.
“A ghost?” The other man laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve become superstitious, too. Come on, let’s take a look around before anyone finds out we’re here.”
Alice recognized the voice, and peering over the edge of the scaffolding she confirmed it. Even in the gloom, she recognized Bunce’s hunched over figure and, next to him, the bulky man in a business suit.
Darrell Townsend.