by Cate Conte
I went behind the desk and sat on Grandpa’s leather swivel chair. Comfy. I tipped back a bit and surveyed the kingdom. He’d set his place up nicely. There was a fluffy gray rug under the chair and a blanket hung over the back for the cold winter days down here. He had pictures of us on his desk—him and Grandma, my whole family, and an individual picture with each of us granddaughters. It made me smile. If I weren’t here to snoop I’d be really sentimental right now.
The desk itself was smaller than I remembered. There were two drawers on each side. I wondered if one of them had a secret compartment. But I wasn’t going to look for that now. I had bigger fish to fry.
I rifled through the few things on top of the desk. A couple of bills, the latest issue of The Atlantic. Grandpa had always read voraciously. Books, magazines, newspapers. Some of my favorite childhood memories involved the reading nook up on the third floor, snuggled up with Grandpa while he read me something. He’d brought me to get my first library card, and introduced me to The New Yorker before I was even a teenager. It made me realize we hadn’t spent as much time reading together, or sharing books, as I’d hoped we would when I returned.
I needed to find some time for those things. I didn’t want to waste the time we still had.
That is, if he was still talking to me after all this.
I took a deep breath and dove into the desk drawers. Top right drawer held his extensive collection of gel pens and desk supplies. He’d always been an office supply store enthusiast. There was also a pile of old drawings and handmade cards my sisters and I had done as kids. We’d always been crafty kids, guided by our mother, and every holiday or other special occasion she’d encouraged us to make Grandma and Grandpa something. It was sweet that he’d kept them.
The bottom right drawer held files. I scanned the hanging folders. They were all labeled with benign titles like “Insurance Bills” and “Medical Information.” Nothing glaringly obvious like “Evidence from a Possible Murder Case.” Still, I looked in each folder to see if they were disguising anything.
Nothing.
I started on the left side. Top drawer held all of his police chief stuff, including the retirement plaque he’d received. Funny, he had his other commendations displayed around his office but not this one. Totally Grandpa. To him, retirement wasn’t an achievement, it was something that had been inevitable. He’d be working in that department today if he could be, and probably on patrol rather than behind the desk. It was simply in his blood, which was why I knew he was still finding ways to get involved with certain cases.
I checked the bottom drawer. This one had a stash of candy. No paperwork. I had to smile. Grandpa had been put on a strict diet years ago, and Grandma had been his conscience. Apparently he still felt he had to sneak candy as if she still watched him like a hawk. Which I’m sure she did. I grabbed a Kit Kat and tore the wrapper off, searching under the bags for any hidden compartment while I munched my snack. I came up empty.
I went back through the other drawers with more care, reaching way into the back and feeling around for holes or false panels. Nothing. I made a sound of frustration. Had I been wrong the whole time? What was wrong with me, thinking Grandpa had walked away with evidence the police department could potentially use in this case?
I plopped back down in his chair. It inadvertently rolled when I did so, but I felt one of the wheels jam on something. I had looked down to make sure I hadn’t dropped any candy that was about to get smushed into the rug and reveal my presence down here when I noticed the rug seemed a little lopsided. I pushed the chair out of the way and dropped to my knees, feeling around. Yep, there was something there, but under the rug. I pulled the rug back tentatively.
And blinked to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
A notebook. And not just any notebook. A black Moleskin notebook.
It really was here. I pulled it out and sat back on my heels on the rug, my hand hovering over the cover. I was kind of afraid of what I might find in here. It could be as simple as an outline for the next fictional plot of Holt’s book.
Assuming this was even Holt’s notebook. I stifled a hysterical giggle. What if I’d gone through all this and this wasn’t even his? Then I sobered. What else would Grandpa be hiding under his rug?
Maddie. Open the stupid notebook and see what’s in it, the rational voice in my head commanded.
I braced myself and opened it. The first page was a crudely drawn timeline with notes jotted down at different points. I squinted and made out a few words like death, fight, explosion. I hoped this was fiction. I flipped the page. A list of names with hair color, eye color, and a few facts for each. I didn’t recognize any of the names. Then again, they could be made up. I had no idea. There were some notes about horses, too, which was kind of random. Names, dates, races. Old dates, from thirty or forty years ago. Names of what I assumed were racetracks. I had no clue. Horse racing was something I didn’t agree with, as an animal lover. But I understood a lot of people felt very passionately about it and about their horses.
Jason Holt—if this was his notebook—had very messy handwriting. I could barely make out what was on the next few pages. Some phone numbers, a few cryptic phrases that looked like some form of shorthand I’d never seen before. Not that I was an expert in shorthand, but jeez. This guy could’ve been a doctor. This was what people were fighting over? I’d be surprised if anyone could figure any of it out, let alone assume it meant anything.
This went on for more than half the notebook. Honestly, I was starting to get bored. And sleepy, finally. Trying to decipher this mess was making my eyes bleed. I flipped ahead a few pages, torn between not giving up until I found whatever made this notebook worthy of being stuck under the rug and going back upstairs to bed to try to finally get some sleep.
But a newspaper clipping stapled to the next page caught my eye. It was old, gauging from the yellowed paper. There was a picture of a man in a jockey’s uniform. His face wasn’t very clear. The heading at the top read: “Jockey Murdered, Left in Horse Stall.”
I scanned the article. Curtis Krump, a well-known and highly respected rider who raced Thoroughbred horses, had apparently been struck with a blunt-force object on the back of the head and left in an empty horse stall, where he was found the next morning by one of the workers at the track. The article clearly wasn’t the first report of this incident, because it was more of a recap of what happened, with a line that said they’d still not found the culprit, and a brief history of Krump’s achievements. However, the story noted that authorities were looking for a person of interest who had been at the track before Krump’s last race. No other info.
Under the article, more of Holt’s messy notes. Apparently a horse had also died that weekend, or at least that was my guess from the scribbled Koda-collapse-euthanized. Torrence family horse. Or maybe that was a fictional horse, belonging to a fictional family. Now I really wanted to know what he was working on. I wondered if McConnell was still on the island. Maybe he knew. But then I’d have to confess I’d found the notebook, and honestly, I couldn’t be a hundred percent certain this was what he was looking for.
There was also a name, Dante, and a phone number. A California area code, 626. I used my cell phone to take a picture of the page. Whoever Dante was, he might come in handy. A few lines down, another name: Anna Wakeland. No phone number.
And then, the entire world shifted as my eyes landed on a name I did recognize: Thea Coleman. Underlined, and with about ten question marks next to it.
Chapter 53
My heart thudded in my chest. I’d been right. Whatever Holt had been writing, or researching, he knew Thea. Or knew of her.
So what did he know? And why was she underlined in his notebook? I combed through the next few pages but saw no other reference to her. Just to be safe, I took photos of those pages, too, so I could study them later. About three pages later, the writing ceased. I zeroed in on the last thing he’d written: Anna Wakeland—Arkansas prison, 1994–2
000. Then what??
Those last two words played over and over in my head. Then what? Was this just part of his plot and he hadn’t mapped out yet what fictional thing would happen next? Or was Anna Wakeland a real person? Guess it was back to trusty Google for me. I flipped back and took photos of the pages with the newspaper clippings and the mention of the Torrence family horse, then I closed the notebook and tucked it back under the rug for safekeeping. I replaced Grandpa’s chair over the rug and tried my best to make sure all the papers on top of the desk that I’d looked through were back in roughly the same spot. Grandpa was a stickler for knowing when people had been near his stuff.
I took one last look around, lingering before I turned off the light. I was jazzed that I’d found the notebook, but I felt sad. Grandpa hadn’t confided in me. I guessed because he wanted to solve it on his own, which was a little concerning. One of the reasons my mom had been so happy when I’d moved in and we’d opened the cat cafe was because she thought it would get Grandpa’s mind off of his retirement, of not being in the middle of everything happening on the island. For a while before I returned, he’d been getting in a bit of trouble, rubbing the new police chief the wrong way. A lot of the force still felt fiercely loyal to Grandpa, and they were perpetuating the problem. Ellory was not one of those cops. He respected Grandpa and came to him when he needed to, but he also understood the boundaries.
As for me, Grandpa and I were usually like two peas in a pod. We would tell each other everything. He never encouraged me to get involved in things that had the potential to be dangerous, but I could tell he kind of liked the way we worked together on this kind of thing.
But for whatever reason, he hadn’t confided in me this time. Whether it had something to do with protecting Leopard Man or not, it wasn’t the way we rolled. And it made me feel lousy.
I flicked off the light switch and crept back upstairs, pausing at the top before opening the door to the main house. I didn’t hear a sound. Sweet. I inched the door open and tiptoed through the living room toward the stairs.
“Find what you needed?”
I winced at Grandpa’s voice, matter-of-fact, coming from the couch. He’d been sitting in total blackness, and I hadn’t even heard him breathing.
Damn, he was still good. I should’ve expected that his superhuman hearing would’ve alerted him that I was snooping around in his space, despite the rain and wind cover I’d had. And then I got a flare-up of self-righteous annoyance. If Grandpa had just been straight with me, I wouldn’t have to go snooping around in his basement office. If he hadn’t lied to me about Jason Holt’s notebook, well, none of this would be happening right now. Including dealing with a break-in by someone who was obviously looking for this notebook. Which now I was thinking it had to be Thea Coleman, since her name was in it and all.
I flicked the light on. Grandpa blinked at the sudden brightness.
“What would I have found? Are you hiding something?” I asked, hearing the note of a challenge in my voice.
He surveyed me for a moment, his face unreadable, then sighed and patted the couch next to him. “Come sit.”
I remained standing, arms crossed over my chest. I knew I looked and sounded defensive, but I couldn’t help it. “I’m fine.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I presume you were looking for the infamous notebook?”
I frowned, a little thrown off-balance. I’d expected him to deny or deflect. “I was. And so was someone else, maybe multiple someones. Someone broke in here, Grandpa. You know as well as I do that whoever it was—and I’m guessing I know who it was—was looking for that notebook.”
“So did you find it?” he asked, without any commentary about the rest of my statement.
Now I was really thrown off. I hadn’t thought in advance about how to answer that.
I didn’t have to. It was apparently written all over my face. Now he grinned. “You are my granddaughter. I’m not surprised.”
“Then why did you go to all that trouble of hiding it in the first place?” I demanded, crossing over to stand in front of him. “And why didn’t you turn it in to the police? They must be looking for it. His writing partner is looking for it. He came here today.”
I waited. He watched me for a second. “Is that all?” he asked finally.
“Do not mock me,” I said. “I have had a crappy week and now you’re hiding things from me. You don’t get to make fun of me, too.”
Now he sobered. “I’m not making fun of you, Doll. Please, come sit. I can explain.”
Sullenly, I sat on the edge of the couch and waited.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“The notebook? Still tucked under your chair.”
He acknowledged that with a lift of his chin. “And you thought I wouldn’t be able to tell?” he asked with a small smile.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad. Grandpa could wear all the kooky clothes he wanted to and play the role of the silly senior cat cafe owner, but underneath it all he was, and always would be, Chief Leopold Mancini.
He was truly one of a kind.
“Does anyone know you have it?” I asked, finally giving in and sinking down on the couch next to him.
Grandpa nodded.
I waited. “Well?” I said finally. “Are you going to tell me who?”
“Our mutual friend,” Grandpa said. “Carl.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding. “And then there’s that. Were you ever going to tell me what the deal is with that?”
Grandpa shook his head. “It’s not my story to tell, Madalyn. And Leopard Man is your friend, and he would never want anything to come between the two of you.”
I had no good answer to that. “So how did you know that the notebook was important?”
“After it was clear that this man’s death wasn’t really a tragic accident. And when Carl told me about how he knew Jason Holt when he was young.”
That, I wasn’t expecting. “Wait. So Leopard Man knew him? How?”
Grandpa’s lips set. “You have to be patient, Maddie. I promise you, you’ll get the full story when the time is right.”
I wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, I threw up my hands. “Fine. Whatever. Leopard Man is nowhere to be found, so who knows when that will be? It’s been days since I’ve seen him. Since he snuck out in the middle of the night.”
Grandpa said nothing.
“What are you going to do with the notebook?” I asked. “Are you really not going to turn it in?”
“There were some things in there that I didn’t want to see fall into the wrong hands,” Grandpa said slowly. “And once we get that all figured out, then we can give the property to its rightful owner.”
“And that is…”
“I don’t know yet,” Grandpa said. “Hence why I’m holding on to it.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, out of patience. “You know Thea Coleman’s name is in there. Clearly, Holt knew something about her. Why are you protecting her?”
“What’s going on down here?” Val peered down from the top of the stairs.
“Nothing, hon,” Grandpa called up. “Did we wake you?”
Val came down a few steps, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt that had to be Ethan’s, fuzzy pajama bottoms, and slippers. Guess it wasn’t just me who was already cold. “No. I was having trouble sleeping anyway. But I didn’t expect everyone would be up having a party.”
“This is far from a party,” I muttered.
“So what are you doing?” Val asked.
“Just chatting,” Grandpa said.
“I’m going to get some tea. Anyone want any?”
I wanted to scream at my sister to go back to bed. As long as she was standing here, Grandpa wouldn’t say anything else. And I desperately wanted to know what he knew about Thea Coleman.
“No,” I said, probably way more curtly than I’d intended.
“Grandpa?”
“No thanks,” he said.
Val shrugged
and headed into the kitchen.
“Well?” I said, turning back to him and dropping my voice a few octaves. “What do you know about her? Are you protecting her for some reason?”
“I’m not protecting anyone, Doll. Except maybe Carl, who doesn’t deserve to have his life put under a microscope because of other people. He did nothing wrong.”
“Then why did the cops want to talk to him?” I pressed. “And why does no one know his name is Carl?”
“They wanted to talk to anyone who might’ve had information on what happened that night,” he said, ignoring the second half of my question.
“Grandpa. I’m your granddaughter. I don’t need the PR party line,” I snapped. “Did she know that he knew something and killed him because of it?”
My sister, queen of knowing the perfect time to interrupt, came back into the room, stirring her tea. She was about to sit, but I gave her my best look of death that said, Sit and die.
For once, she listened. She about-faced and headed back upstairs. When I heard her bedroom door close behind her, I refocused on Grandpa. “Well? Did she?”
Now he looked offended. “Maddie. If I knew who killed the man, he or she would be in jail.”
“Well, why is her name in the notebook? Do you think she killed him?”
“I don’t know why she’s in the notebook,” Grandpa said. “All I can glean from it is that Holt was doing research on an old scandal in the horse-racing world. Listen, Maddie. I trust you with the secret of the notebook—”
“No, you don’t, Grandpa,” I said, surprised to find my voice choking up. “If you trusted me you would’ve talked to me about the notebook. You also would’ve told me why you were at the beach the other night in that trailer with the two of them.”
I took a small amount of pleasure in seeing his cop face waver ever so slightly. He hadn’t known I’d been there. He’d probably thought there was no way I’d ever know. “We could’ve looked into it together,” I continued, before he could say anything. “But you’re doing your own thing and you don’t want my help, I guess.”