On Friday, Alice kept busy at the fundraiser stand. Ona had come dressed up in Regency period costume—one of her many Jane Austen-inspired outfits she’d collected over the years, she explained. This outfit consisted of a riding jacket over a white muslin gown.
“It’s called a Spencer jacket.” Ona twirled around, showing off. “Dashing, isn’t it?”
Alice smiled. “You look great.”
Ona relieved her for a lunch break, and Alice took the time to check on Bonsai & Pie. It was still closed. No one had heard from Andrea. But Chief Jimbo continued to insist that everything was all right.
But what if Andrea was the killer, and she’d skipped town?
Alice sold lots of books. By the time Saturday morning came, Bunce himself grudgingly admitted that she’d sold more books in a couple of days than he’d done all year.
“If you’re so good at this, why don’t you buy the bookstore?” he grumbled.
“I can’t afford it. My savings might cover the cost of inventory, but buying the property and fixing it up…? No way.”
He snorted, and as he shuffled off, he said, “Young people. No sense of financial planning.”
Alice would’ve liked to point out that he himself didn’t seem to know so much, since he’d run his business into the ground. But it wouldn’t do any good antagonizing Bunce. Instead, she focused on her next customer, the next glass of lemonade, the next flyer for the fundraiser.
An SUV drifted down Main Street. The window rolled down, revealing Darrell Townsend inside in the driver’s seat, his brother Todd next to him. She expected him to glare at her. After all, they were ruining his plans.
But Darrell smirked. It sent goosebumps down her arms. What did he know that she didn’t? Why was he still so confident? He revved the engine and drove away.
Alice forced herself to forget about Darrell. She wouldn’t let him sour their party. Especially not when things were going so well.
A bluegrass band, a local trio called the Pointed Firs, set up to play. One played a guitar, another a banjo, and the last a washboard. They were friends of Ona’s and happy to play for free. Becca brought coffee urns and disposable cups. Kris joined Alice behind the stand, helping to serve customers.
“I love doing something for this town,” she said. She leaned closer to Alice. “If we don’t stop Townsend Development, he’ll bulldoze the whole town.”
“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Go Team Blithedale!”
Kris grinned and gave Alice a thumbs up, then got back to handing out cups of coffee to guests.
The band played the old song “Shady Grove” while a throng of people gathered around the stand on the sidewalk, spilling into the street. Chief Jimbo arrived to put up barriers, reducing Main Street to single-lane traffic, which he directed.
People ate Becca’s muffins and drank her coffee and browsed the books Alice put on display. The Oriels showed up and they greeted Alice with genuine warmth. Maybe sharing their secret had made them feel like Alice was halfway toward becoming a friend. It was funny how secrets affected people—a secret told could either create a bond or break it.
People around her laughed and talked. A couple of pre-teen sisters danced to the music, and their white-haired grandmother joined in.
Alice smiled. The festive mood was contagious. She watched people intending to pass the fundraiser, even walking past, then stopping to confer (“we’ve got time” and “sure, let’s do it”), and coming back to the party.
When the bluegrass trio took a break, Ona got on a soapbox and cracked open a copy of Pride & Prejudice and began reading. It turned out that she was a natural at reading Austen’s prose, including giving each character their own distinct tone of voice.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
That got a laugh from the audience.
Nearly all eyes were riveted on Ona. Kris was busy with the many people who wanted coffee and muffins. Alice had taken charge of selling books, and it had gone so well that the pile had dwindled.
An idea formed in her mind. She had an excuse to leave.
She found Bunce at the edge of the crowd, frowning up at Ona, his arms crossed on his chest. “I’ve never enjoyed Jane Austen,” he complained. “But at least Ona knows how to read.”
It was as close to a compliment as Bunce ever came. Even he was captivated by Ona’s performance.
Alice explained that they were low on books.
“You go get them,” Bunce snapped. “Remember the deal: You do the work. I’m busy watching this silly performance.”
Completely engrossed, he was obviously unwilling to miss a moment of Ona’s reading. Alice smiled to herself. Even Bunce wasn’t immune to Ona’s charm. Nor to Jane Austen’s.
Alice turned on her heels, and touched her pocket to check that she still had the key Becca had given her, when Bunce called her name.
“Miss Hartford, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I am?”
He dangled a set of keys in front of her.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
Phew. That was close.
It would’ve been bad if Bunce had realized that she could get into the bookstore without his keys.
She unlocked the door to Blithedale Books and slipped into the gloomy interior.
The ramshackle shelves and dirty floor. The dust motes swirling in the air. The place looked so unchanged, it surprised Alice. So much had happened since she’d come to Blithedale, returning to the red door for the first time since childhood.
Did she have time to visit her hideaway?
Probably not.
But she would do it anyway.
She found the wardrobe with the red door exactly as she’d left it. She opened the door and it creaked. The whole thing shook. The cushions were as flat as ever, and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland still lay hidden underneath.
She sighed, clutching the book to her chest. She wished she could remove the wardrobe and take it with her. Yet she also knew that would never be enough. The wardrobe was her personal hideaway, but she could never sacrifice the rest of the bookshop—and judging by the initial success of the fundraiser, she might not have to. They would raise the money. They would help Bunce fix up the bookstore, sell it the Oriels or someone else, and ensure Blithedale Books returned to its former glory.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, hoping whatever remained of her mom’s spirit might hear her. “I won’t let you go.”
After a few minutes of sitting still, she heard the sound of the bluegrass band strike up another song. Her mind was too full of questions about Vince’s death to fully concentrate. Later, she would find time for her hideaway. Then she’d experience once more that feeling of closeness with her mom. Later.
With a sigh, she got to her feet and replaced the book under the cushion and closed the red door again.
She moved among the bookshelves, picking out books they could sell at the stand. She focused on classics and popular fiction: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Cannery Row by John Steinbeck, Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers, Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret by Judy Blume, Sweet Danger by Margery Allingham, Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, Possession by A.S. Byatt, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, Artists in Crime by Ngaio Marsh, Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark, and The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas.
The pile of books got heavy.
That’s enough. Now, let’s see if that pendant’s hiding back here…
Weaving in and out of the bookshelves, Alice found herself at the very back, standing at the foot of the scaffolding. She gazed upward. That was the cross-brace that had held the necklace. She looked down at the floor. Then over her shoulder.
How much time did she have to spare before someone noticed her absence?
She set down the pile of books. Scanning the floor, she focused on catching anything that reflected. If there had been a pendant on the necklace—the one Andrea might have worn—then it ought to have landed somewhere close to the feet of the scaffolding.
Bent over, she gazed at each linoleum tile. The clean ones, of course, had nothing on them at all. After the coroner removed Vince’s body, someone cleaned the tiles, leaving no trace of his death.
The area close to the bookshelves revealed nothing. Nor did the area within the scaffolding. She’d almost given up, when she thought she caught a glint of gold near the wall.
The scaffolding beams pressed against the back wall. By one of these metal bars, right where it met the floor and the wall, the gold winked at her.
She knelt down. There was something there. But the metal scaffolding wedged it against the brick wall. She tried to free it, but without luck.
Looking up at the metal structure above her, she bit her lip. How easy would it be to move the scaffolding, even just a little? And was it safe? Presumably, it had been built to stand strong. Even if she nudged it, it shouldn’t be a problem.
Should it?
She stood next to the scaffolding, and gripping the metal bars with both hands, she put all her strength into lifting and shoving it. Her knuckles scraped against the brick wall. The scaffolding moved a little.
She let out a breath of air and laughed, thrilled that her efforts were already working.
But it wasn’t enough. When she bent down to check the pendant—she could see it was a pendant now—it was still too firmly lodged. One more shove…
She gripped the metal bar and gave it a big heave.
Yes!
The pendant rolled out from its hiding place.
Alice gave a whoop of joy.
She crouched down and picked up the pendant. A single gold heart.
That was when she heard the crack. It sounded as if someone was crushing a cracker underfoot. The scaffolding shook, and for a moment, she had the insane idea that the metal was all crumbling.
What’s happening? Metal doesn’t sound that way.
Then a brick fell from high above, striking one of the metal bars and breaking into pieces. A shower of dust followed by another brick. And then half a dozen hammered down on the scaffolding and the floor, an ear-deafening, clattering percussion.
She saw it, but she couldn’t move, fear rooting her legs to the floor.
The wall…the ceiling…
It was coming down. Right on top of her.