Once Upon a Thriller

  Amazingly, we made our way to shore, kicking hard as we towed the boat through the thickening sheets of rain. Luckily, we didn’t see any lightning or hear any thunder as we slogged through the lake. It was slow going, but we finally got close enough to the shore so we could stand and dump the water out before we pulled the boat the rest of the way in.

  We collapsed on the ground, soaking wet and exhausted. Dragging that canoe was one of the most physically challenging things we had ever done together. Once we were somewhat rested, I stood up, looked around, and saw that the property was covered in NO TRESPASSING signs.

  “Not exactly rolling out the welcome mat, right?” Bess commented. “I guess I understand why that person on the beach disappeared.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let those signs stop me,” I replied. “If that was Lacey—or someone else—I want to meet whoever wouldn’t help three people stranded on a lake in the middle of a storm.”

  “And we’ve got to make it back to our cabin,” Bess said, which was something I hadn’t actually considered.

  The rain had let up somewhat, so George and Bess parked themselves under a tree, while I climbed the wooden steps that led from the shore to the cabin.

  I pounded on the back door, waited a good two minutes, and then pounded again. “Hello? Ms. O’Brien?” But nobody came to the door.

  When I backed away from the cabin, though, I caught a flutter of curtains at the window beside the back door.

  “Hello?” I called out loudly. “Is someone there? We’re just looking for a place to dry off for a few minutes until the storm passes. Hello?”

  Still nothing. I waited another minute, but the door remained firmly closed. The curtains didn’t move again.

  I returned to the beach and to George and Bess. The canoe was emptied, leaning on its side. Just as quickly as the storm had formed, it had let up.

  “I thought I saw the curtains flutter when I knocked on the door, but I could have been mistaken,” I told them, shaking my head.

  “What now?” Bess asked.

  “We get back in the canoe and then head back to our cabin,” I replied with a shrug. “And we try to figure out why Lacey O’Brien or whoever that was on the beach earlier refused to help us. If that was her, no wonder she has a terrible reputation in town.”

  George bit her lip thoughtfully. “It was pretty rude,” she agreed. “Maybe the fire was set to sabotage her book signing—she may have enemies right here in Avondale.”

  At that moment, a small motorboat with two men aboard headed toward the shore. I could see the words AVONDALE POLICE stenciled on the hull.

  “You folks okay?” one of the men shouted. “We received a call that a canoe had capsized in the storm. And that trespassers were on this property.”

  “We’re fine,” Bess called back. “Just cold, wet, and exhausted.”

  The boat pulled up to a small dock, and the second officer climbed out. He was much younger than the first and had dark brown hair and eyes. More importantly, he was carrying an armload of thick, heavy blankets.

  He walked across the beach and handed one to each of us.

  “Thanks!” Bess said, a smile crossing her face. “I haven’t been so happy to see a blanket in a long time.”

  He smiled back at her, blushing slightly and revealing two enormous dimples. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds for a second. Bess lowered her eyes and her cheeks reddened. It was all a little ridiculous, considering what had just happened to us.

  George rolled her eyes.

  The other officer started talking. “Ladies, I’m Sheriff Garrison. I’m relieved you are all okay, but you must have known how dangerous it was for you to be on the lake with a storm of this magnitude. And trespassing is a serious offense in Avondale. What were you doing here, anyway?”

  “The storm came up suddenly and we headed for the nearest shore. Then we tried to get help from the owner of the cabin. We didn’t mean to trespass.”

  “I understand, but the ‘No Trespassing’ signs are there for a reason. The owner of this cabin likes her privacy and is very wary of any strangers who could be stalking her,” said the sheriff.

  Bess spoke. “We really didn’t mean anything by this, sir. We promise to steer clear for the rest of our visit. I apologize for all of us.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I will let you off with a warning—this time. But if I hear another complaint about you three, I’ll bring you into the precinct. That’s a promise.”

  He walked away and started talking on his phone, leaving us with the younger officer. We were speechless. How had this weekend taken such a disastrous turn?

  He smiled. “I’m sorry my uncle was so rough on you guys,” he apologized. “But folks in Avondale really take their privacy seriously. I’m Ian Garrison, by the way. I’m interning over the next couple of months for the sheriff’s office. It looks like you could use help getting back to wherever you’re going. Right?”

  I nodded. “We’re heading to our cabin on the southeast corner of the lake,” I explained. “I think we’ll be fine. But if you’re going in that direction, we wouldn’t mind the company.”

  “We’re heading that way too. Just consider us your police escort.”

  “Nancy,” I replied as I took his hand. “And that’s Bess and George.” I pointed to my friends.

  “Nice to meet you all,” he said.

  George and I portaged the canoe down to the shore, Bess carried the paddles, and we climbed in and pushed off. We got back, slowly but surely, the motorboat officers watching our every move.

  By the time we got back to our cabin, the weather had cleared. And I couldn’t believe it, but it was close to dinnertime. What a day it had been.

  “Can we get you anything to drink before you leave?” I asked Sheriff Garrison.

  “No thanks,” he replied. “I have to get back. But remember, stay out of trouble while you’re here.” Then he smiled and said, “But barring an emergency, Ian here is done for the day.” He gestured to his nephew.

  “That would be great, thanks,” Ian replied with a shy smile in Bess’s direction.

  Sheriff Garrison took off, and Bess and I went into the kitchen to get the drinks.

  As I sliced some lemons to add to a pitcher of iced tea, I said to Bess, “I was hoping you might be able to pump Ian for some info on the fire.” I smiled at her in what I hoped was a winning fashion. “You know, since he seems to really like you.”

  “He does not,” Bess protested. “But I’ll ask a few questions if it helps.”

  We headed back out onto the porch with the ice-filled pitcher, four glasses, and some snacks.

  “This is great, thanks. So, where are you all from?” Ian said.

  “River Heights,” George replied. “We’re just up here for the weekend.”

  “What do you think so far?” Ian asked.

  “The lake is beautiful if you can manage to stay in the canoe,” I joked. “And we got to check out Avondale earlier today as well. That bookstore fire looked really terrible.”

  I glanced at Bess to see if she would take the lead.

  She turned to Ian and asked, “Who would want to torch a bookstore? We heard some people say that Lacey isn’t too popular around here, even though she’s a famous mystery writer. And Paige seems to have an enemy or two as well.”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to discuss ongoing investigations, but we really don’t know that much yet. I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt,” Ian said. “The fire chief and Uncle Bob—uh, I mean the sheriff—were in the bookstore all morning collecting evidence. They still have to evaluate everything officially, but just between us, that fire was definitely not an accident.

  “They found traces of kerosene, though they also found some frayed wires on an old chandelier,” he continued. “It looked like someone cut through the wires to make it look like that’s what started the fire. Now they’ve launched a full investigation.”

  So it was official: Someone had started the fire on
purpose. But who was the target? Paige? Lacey? Or someone else? I was contemplating my next move when the ringing of Ian’s cell phone cut through my thoughts.

  “Hey, Uncle Bob,” he answered. “Is everything okay?”

  The sheriff. It was difficult not to eavesdrop, since Ian was sitting just a few feet away.

  “Really?” he asked. “Of course . . . I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The call over, he looked at us, seemingly in shock.

  “Thanks for the iced tea,” he said, nodding his head at Bess as he spoke. “But our small town has been hit again. Someone stole a valuable, one-of-a-kind statue.”

  He shook his head. “I just don’t understand why this is happening.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cracking the Code

  BESS WAS UP FROM HER chair in a second. “Come on, Ian,” she offered. “I’ll give you a lift back.”

  George and I walked Bess and Ian to the car. “Do you have any more details?” I asked.

  He opened the car door and said, “The piece was by artist Rick Brown. It was taken from one of the small art galleries in town. The Bride of Avondale, I think my uncle said.”

  “Two crimes in less than twelve hours?” George questioned once they drove off. “I know that may not be much for River Heights, but from what we’ve heard about Avondale, it’s pretty suspicious, isn’t it?”

  “I agree,” I said. “I know I’ve heard the name Rick Brown, but I can’t remember where.”

  “Maybe you saw one of his pieces in a museum, or read about him in art class,” George suggested.

  “Wait a sec,” I said. “I remember.” I jumped up and ran into the house to grab the two Lacey O’Brien books I had bought earlier in the day. I came back to the porch and opened one of them to the “About the Author” page and skimmed it quickly.

  “I knew it!” I said triumphantly. “I read about the author on the way to the diner before. Rick Brown is Lacey O’Brien’s husband.”

  “That’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?” George said. “I mean, first Lacey’s supposed to appear for a reading but there’s a fire at the bookstore. Then her husband’s statue is stolen from an art gallery on the same day.”

  I took a sip of tea and closed my eyes for a second.

  “Do you remember those two girls at the bookstore fire this morning? One of them mentioned that it seemed awfully similar to the plot of Lacey O’Brien’s book Burned.”

  George nodded. “Right,” she agreed. “But what does that have to do with the stolen sculpture?”

  “Well, Burned is about a fire in an old building, and Framed is about a theft from an art museum,” I told her.

  “Seriously?” she said.

  I nodded. “And another one of Lacey’s mysteries is Drowned. Think about what happened to us on the lake before. It sounds like someone’s copying the crimes from her mystery novels,” I said.

  George gave me one of her George looks and said, “Okay, so we could have drowned today in Moon Lake, but why would anyone target us? No one knows who we are. And besides, how could anyone have known we’d go out on the lake and be caught in a storm?”

  “But remember Alice Ann—and that waitress—told us where Lacey lives. I just have a feeling it’s connected somehow. I know you’re beat, but maybe we should start reading Burned and Framed now. There just might be more clues to what’s next.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s next for me, Nancy: sleep. You can wait up for Bess, but I’m going to bed.”

  The next morning I woke up early and waited to tell Bess and George what I had discovered. I had looked at both books, letting George get her beauty sleep. Burned opens with a mysterious fire at an antiques store. The arsonist tampers with the wiring in an old chandelier to make it look as though the fire is accidental. The rest of the plot involves an international ring of criminals who traffic in fake and stolen antiques. The heroine in the novel—a journalist named Lucy Luckstone—breaks the story and eventually solves the case with the help of Detective Buck Albemarle.

  The two characters appear again in the novel Framed. This time a thief steals a valuable painting from an art museum while Lucy Luckstone is on a behind-the-scenes tour. Lucy is framed for the theft, and Detective Albemarle has to clear her name.

  I didn’t know if Drowned would have revealed anything helpful, but I didn’t have a copy of it.

  I was on my second cup of tea when Bess came into the kitchen.

  “So, what did you find out?” Bess asked eagerly as she helped herself to a mug of coffee. “Any insight into the Avondale crime spree?”

  “Well, I think there’s a pretty good chance I’m right about someone borrowing crimes from Lacey’s books,” I explained. “But I don’t even know where to begin in terms of motive.”

  “How about Alice Ann?” George said as she shuffled into the living room. “You said she didn’t seem to like Lacey or Paige all that much.”

  I nodded. “Could it really be that easy? Who else? Lacey?”

  Bess yawned from the couch. “It sounds crazy, but who else knows her books better than the one who wrote them?”

  Bess had made a good point. But as much as I would love to talk to Lacey, we had already been warned by Sheriff Garrison to stay away, far way. I wasn’t sure if anyone would be willing to talk to strangers from out of town, no matter how friendly people from Avondale appeared.

  George looked thoughtful. “Well, you’re probably the only person in town who’s made the connection between the two crimes,” she said. “Ian and the sheriff might figure it out as well, but something tells me you have a leg up on those two, at least for a little while. The sheriff thinks we’re stalkers, remember?”

  I answered, “I know. But the girls in town did know that the Paige’s Pages fire sounded similar to Burned. Maybe it would make sense if we let people know about the connection between the two crimes. What do you think?”

  George didn’t look too happy. “Do we really have to get involved in this, Nancy? Can’t we let the sheriff take charge, for once?”

  My friends knew me better than that. If there was even a possibility that these occurrences were copycat crimes, then I couldn’t ignore them. And it didn’t mean they would stop—Lacey O’Brien had written a number of mysteries, and the person or persons behind the fire and the theft had more than enough material to keep them going.

  I frowned at George.

  She and Bess both sighed. “Okay, Nancy,” Bess finally said. “What do we do next?”

  I got up from my chair and walked into the kitchen area to pour myself another cup of tea.

  “I was thinking I might give Ned and his dad a story for the Bugle, and if they want to run it, they would be free to do so.”

  Bess nodded. “And you’ll get this story by . . .”

  “Saying I’m a Bugle reporter, of course. And that I’m following Lacey O’Brien’s rare appearance and book signing in the quiet hamlet of Avondale.”

  “Hamlet?” George said.

  “I’m going to give Ned a call right now,” I said. “And then I’ll do the dishes. Promise.”

  My boyfriend, Ned Nickerson, is a part-time reporter and news editor at the River Heights Bugle, his dad’s paper. The Bugle covers a wide area encompassing three counties, including Avondale, so the chances were good that Ned and his dad would be interested in the story.

  I quickly filled him in on what had happened yesterday, and he agreed that both crimes sounded newsworthy.

  “I’ll have to clear it with my dad, but if you write the story, I’ll edit it and get my dad to publish,” he told me on the phone. “When will you be back in River Heights?”

  “I’m not sure. But Bess and George are coming home first thing tomorrow,” I replied. “I hope to do the interviews tomorrow morning and write the article tomorrow night so you can post the story ASAP. Sound good?”

  “Yes, sounds great,” he replied.

  After I hung up the phone, I cleaned up the dishes as
promised. And because yesterday had been such an unplanned adventure, we decided to relax the rest of the day at the cabin—snacking, napping, reading—before George and Bess took off for home.

  After dinner, we decided to play one of our favorite games, Scrabble.

  George was easily the best player among us, and just fifteen minutes into the game, she was well ahead of Bess and me.

  “Triple word score!” she shouted gleefully as she played the word ZEBRAS.

  “Ugh, and you even have a Z in there,” Bess groaned.

  “Not only that, but the Z is on a double-letter-score square,” I added with a pained sigh.

  “Sorry, girls,” George said apologetically, though the smile on her face made it hard to believe she was being sincere.

  I played the word YEAR and was left with the letters A, D, K, and O. I selected a Q and then two Os in a row.

  “Really?” I exclaimed, exasperated. “Two more Os?”

  “Nancy, you just totally gave away your letters!” Bess laughed.

  I shrugged. I was losing badly by this point anyway. I placed the tiles on my stand with a sigh and started rearranging them. Suddenly I remembered the scrap of paper from yesterday.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, practically knocking my tiles over. “I think I know what that number might have been!”

  George and Bess both gave me puzzled looks.

  “Number?” Bess asked. “What number?”

  “The one on the paper Paige dropped in the supermarket,” I reminded my friends.

  “What do you think it means?” George asked.

  “Well, I was rearranging the letters on my stand, and I was looking at the number of points assigned to each letter instead of at the letters themselves,” I explained. “Maybe each of those numbers corresponds to a different letter of the alphabet.”

  I spun my stand around to show them.

  “Well, I guess the game’s over if you’re showing off all your letters,” George joked.

  I glared at her.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she said, waving her arms in apology. “Please, go on.”