One we’d partaken in before. And been punished for.
I finished off the last of my omelet and orange juice then dabbed with a napkin. Bee was still busy, so I filled the few minutes with a stare out of the window at the sun-filled street, the beginnings of early morning activity starting up across the road.
People got in their cars and drove off to work, or folks strode down the streets in their warm coats and woolen gloves.
“Miss Holmes?” Mrs. Rickleston had appeared next to our table.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt, dear, but I’ve just received this at the front desk for you. A young girl dropped it off.” Mrs. Rickleston proffered a letter in a sealed envelope. My name was written in full in a long sweeping hand on the front.
“Oh, thanks.” I accepted it from her and waited until she’d retreated to the reception area before turning to Bee. “That’s weird. I haven’t gotten an actual letter in ages. Who doesn’t have email nowadays?”
“It doesn’t have a stamp on it,” Bee noted, putting down her fork and scooching her chair around to my side of the table. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“I don’t think so.” I turned the envelope open, but there was no return address on the back. Of course, there wasn’t. It hadn’t been sent by mail. A girl had dropped it off. How strange.
“Here.” Bee grabbed her butter knife and handed it over.
I slit the top of the envelope with some effort then turned it upside down and emptied the contents into my lap. A piece of folded paper fell out. I lifted it and opened it up.
Ruby,
It’s been a while and this letter might come as a shock to you. I’m writing because you left me and I need the money you owe me. Meet me by the lake with the ducks tomorrow at noon.
Daniel.
The air in my lungs disappeared. Daniel? My ex, Daniel? The same man who had disappeared without a trace? Who had ghosted me? I blinked, trying to reread the words on the page, but they had turned into blurry squiggles.
“You’re shaking,” Bee said, extracting the letter from my grasp and reading it herself. She stiffened. “Is this supposed to be from…?”
“Yes. My ex.”
“But—it says here that you left him?”
I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. Was someone playing a trick on me? If so, it was cruel.
“And you didn’t owe him any money, I assume?” Bee asked.
“Not at all. We kept our finances separate. He was the one who left, he was… gone one day. I only found out he was fine from his family, and even they were reluctant to talk about it. I don’t know what happened or why, I—”
“It’s OK.” Bee squeezed my arm. “This is just another mystery for us to solve.”
I stared at the letter, struggling to concentrate. Bee summoned a waiter and asked for a glass of soda to sweeten me up and chase off the shock. But I wasn’t sure anything would do that.
Either someone had found my weakness and decided to play a cruel trick on me, or Daniel was back.
14
The shock had finally worn off after a helping of Mrs. Rickleston’s delicious pancakes. “It can’t be Daniel,” I said, as I set my knife and fork down. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would he have disappeared, broken our engagement and my heart, only to find me in a small town in Massachusetts?”
“I agree.” Bee dabbed her lips with her napkin—she’d had a second helping of pancakes. She picked up the letter and flipped it open, scanning the contents again. “But who would have this type of information about you?”
“Mrs. Rickleston mentioned a girl had dropped it off. Maybe, if we find her, we’ll have a lead.”
“You don’t think a young girl wrote this.”
“No, of course not,” I said, “but whoever did probably paid her to drop off the letter. Since Mrs. Rickleston knows everyone, they can’t risk doing it themselves.”
“What about this meeting?” Bee closed the letter and slid it back into the envelope. “Do you want to go?”
“I’m not sure.”
I rested my chin in my palm and peered out at the street again. The sun had risen higher, cars drove by, and I scanned the people walking outside. Muffin’s atmosphere was so charming, but who knew what lurked beneath the surface.
I had a right to be paranoid this time.
“It seems like a trap,” Bee said. “Someone’s trying to get you to show your face.”
“The murderer?” I asked.
“Maybe. It would make sense that whoever it was didn’t want you snooping around town. And the truck has just been broken into.”
“My journal was stolen.” The cold sweep of realization washed over me.
“Then that’s how they must have found out. They’re using it against you.”
Strangely, I had nothing but relief for that concept. The last thing I wanted was to run into Daniel again. I wasn’t ready to confront that part of my past. It was the reason I’d left New York in the first place. So I wouldn’t have to deal with the stares and the whispers and the potential confrontation that might amount from it.
“Then it’s definitely a trap,” I said. “I’d be interested to go, but I don’t want to be stupid.”
“Yeah, walking into a murderer’s snare isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” Bee handed me the envelope and I tucked it into my handbag to keep as evidence.
“Then the plan remains the same for now,” I said. “We head out to the crime scene and Misty’s house, and we take it from there. Maybe we’ll find some evidence that incriminates someone. And then we can give that to the police and go to this meeting tomorrow with ‘Daniel.’ What do you think?”
A gleeful, gap-toothed grin appeared on Bee’s face. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Going back to the bakery had turned out to be a terrible idea. The place was locked with a police department seal still on the front door. Cupping our hands and placing them to the glass had only provided us with a darkened glimpse of the bakery’s grubby linoleum and the empty counters.
But that failure was behind us now.
I followed in Bee’s footsteps as we darted along the fence that bordered Misty’s property. Or it had been her property. Who knew what had happened afterward. Had Olivia gotten everything? Or perhaps it had been her ex-husband, Tom?
That would’ve explained why they were so cozy, now.
It was late afternoon, but the house next-door to Misty’s was empty, missing its curtains and its window panes covered in a layer of dust. Misty’s home was brick and set back from the road behind a high fence. The side fence, however, the one we stalked along, wasn’t as tall.
The flowerbeds under Misty’s windows were completely empty, and she had no porch to speak of. A selection of empty bottles sat outside the front door—not milk, but wine, champagne and beer. A broken wind chime spun in circles under the eaves, clacking noisily.
“Creepy,” I whispered.
“Agreed. Now, let’s get over this fence without anyone getting suspicious.”
“No offense, but we look pretty suspicious. Two women wearing black coats and gloves climbing over the fence into a dusty yard?”
“No time to worry about that now,” Bee said, and clambered over. She landed, stumbled and caught herself.
“Ten points for elegance.”
“Why thank you,” she said.
I followed her, stumbled myself—I tripped and Bee caught me. “See? Not as easy as it looks,” she said.
“I take back my initial assessment.” I brushed myself off, resisting the urge to duck low. We were pretty much hidden from the road behind Misty’s tall fence.
Bee walked to the front of the house and up the steps. She stopped, frowning at the bottles lying on their sides. “I don’t mean to judge, but it looks like somebody might have had a problem.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, though,” I said. “She could have had a drinking problem, but could that have anything
to do with the murder?”
Bee tried the front door. “Locked. Do you have a hair pin?”
I fluffed my short brown hair. “Sorry, no. You’re not seriously telling me you can pick the lock on the door?”
“Not now, anyway. Let’s check the windows. You take that side of the house, and I’ll try this one.”
We split up and headed in opposite directions. I wasn’t about to break a window to get into the house, but I tried every one. All of them were sash and locked tight, most with their curtains drawn.
“Here,” Bee hissed from the corner of the house, gesturing frantically. “I found one.”
I hurried after her, through the battered and dry flowerbeds and toward the other side of the house. Bee had found an open window into a bathroom.
“Boost me up,” Bee said, “and I’ll come around and open for you.”
I formed a cradle with my hands, and Bee, who was meant to be in her 60s and not a gymnast, heaved herself through the window and slid out of sight, kicking her feet. Something broke inside the bathroom, and a few thumps sounded.
“Are you OK?” I whispered.
“Fine,” she replied, in a strangled voice. “Go to the front door.”
I scooted around to the front, nervous about breaking into and entering Misty’s house.
The front door opened, and a waft of stale air drifted out. It smelled of dust and old milk.
“Wow,” I said. “That smells…”
“Lovely, isn’t it? Now, get in before someone sees you.”
I entered and the floorboards in the house squeaked underfoot. There were two floors, and we split up again, Bee staying downstairs and me heading up and into Misty’s bedroom. My nose tickled at the odd smells. The bed was made, the bright green spread neat, and a pair of Misty’s slippers waited at the foot of the bed. It kinda creeped me out—Misty had made her bed on the morning of her death and just never come back again.
“Get yourself together woman.” I walked through the room. The boards didn’t squeak here, except for one that rattled a little when stepped on—it was right next to Misty’s bed. That had to have been annoying. Every time she got up, she would’ve heard it. I frowned and pressed my foot onto the board then stamped once. It sounded hollow.
“That’s weird,” I muttered, bending down and peeking under the bed. There was nothing under it, thankfully.
I placed my fingers on the loose board and pressed down on it again. It rattled. I knocked on it, and there was that hollow sound again. I inserted my fingers into the gap at the end of the board and gave a tug. It came free easily.
Would you look at that?
A decorative box had been secreted underneath the floorboards. I extracted it.
I got up and rushed to the door. “Bee,” I called, allowing my voice to project, but not yelling. “You’ve got to see this.”
Footsteps hurried through the house, and Bee appeared at the foot of the stairs. “What is it?”
“I found a box.”
“A box?”
“Yes. Under the floorboards.”
Bee was up the stairs like a bullet out of a gun.
We opened the box, standing over the gap next to the bed.
The secret trove was filled with stationery, envelopes, and a few letters. My heart tha-thumped in my chest. Stationery. And it looked similar to the style of letter I’d gotten.
“Hold this,” I said, and handed her the box. I shoved my hand into my pocket and brought out the envelope.
Bee extracted one from the box, and we compared.
“The same,” Bee said. “Curious.”
“Downright weird. Do you think someone broke in and stole the stationery?”
“That or Misty’s come back from the dead to taunt you,” Bee said. “What are all of these anyway?” She extracted the notes that had been written on and paged through them. “Rubes, look at this.” She gave me one.
I scanned the page and compared the handwriting to the letter I’d received from ‘Daniel.’ They weren’t a match.
“Read it,” Bee said, opening another.
Attention Miss. Kelly,
Your payments are overdue. If you want to continue this relationship, you’ll have to pay up. That or the sensitive information you don’t want revealed will come out.
M.
“Blackmail,” I said. “Misty was blackmailing Harper.”
“So, it wasn’t just a punch up in the street. Harper said she’d only asked for money. She said nothing about blackmail.”
“Exactly,” I said.
15
I’d hoped never to return to Harper Kelly’s art gallery—a vain wish because my eyes couldn’t take the brightness, and I just wasn’t the type of person who hung around sipping champagne and chatting about expressive colors.
“Here we go again,” Bee said, stopping in front of the gallery. The glass doors were open once again, but the gallery was quiet today. The counter near the front didn’t hold its usual tray of champagne.
“Is it open?” I asked. “Silly question. Of course it is.” I highly doubted Harper would’ve left the doors to the gallery ajar if she wasn’t open for business.
“It’s dark inside.”
Bee was right. The interior of the gallery was dimmer than it had been the last time—and not just because of the paintings. The lights had been dimmed. I checked my watch. It was late afternoon, and the sun darted behind clouds and reappeared again in the slate-colored sky.
“Spooky,” I said.
Bee rolled her eyes at me. “Come on, let’s find her.”
We entered and stopped just inside, a breeze tugging at our coats. Classical musical tinkled from the speakers as usual. We’d found Harper near the back last time, so I headed off in that direction. The colorful artwork was still there, but it wasn’t as taxing on the eyes.
“Miss Kelly?” My voice rang through the empty space and bounced off the abstract shapes in their frames. “Miss Kelly, are you in here?”
“You’d think she’d have put up one of those ‘back in five minutes’ signs if she’d left.”
“Very small town thing to do.”
“Exactly.” Bee wandered off to the left and disappeared behind some of the displays.
I headed toward a door at the back of the room. Possibly, it led into the office. Could Harper be in there? “Miss Kelly?” I rapped my knuckles on the polished wood. “Are you in there?” I tried the brass knob, but the office door was locked. “Shoot. Where is she?”
I circled back to the paintings with their shades of yellow and blue, wincing at their scrutiny. Apparently, Harper liked eyes. Painting lots of them, at least. It was very ‘Big Brother’ and I held back a shiver.
The gallery was quiet. The tinkling piano music cut off.
What on earth?
“Bee?” I hissed. “Bee?” No answer.
Oh heavens, what now? My blood rushed in my ears, and I tiptoed forward, peering around the standing displays, just in case.
A clatter sounded from nearby, behind one of the displays, and my heart leaped into my throat.
I opened my mouth to call Bee’s name again but no words would come out.
You can do this.
I fumbled in my purse for my pepper spray and brought it out with trembling fingers. I checked the nozzle was pointed in the right direction—away from me. Knowing my luck, I would wind up spraying myself and presenting an easy target for the killer.
It’s not the killer. Relax.
The clatter came again then a muttering, shuffling noise around the back of a display.
This is it. On three.
Three, two, one…
I leaped around the side of the divider bringing up the pepper spray. “Freeze!”
Bee let out a yelp and hopped on the spot, lifting her hands. She lowered them again, glaring at me. “Ruby, what on earth are you doing? You scared my heart right out of my chest.”
“What am I doing? What are you doing?” I tried
not to stammer. “Why didn’t you answer me? And what happened to the music?”
“I didn’t hear you. And I tripped over the darn stereo cord thingy. It must’ve come out of the socket. I was kind of preoccupied, anyway.” Bee gestured to the desk in front of her. She’d found her way to the reception area near the front and was behind it, messing around with the desk drawers.
“What are you doing?”
“Snooping. When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” Bee said. “And we’re the mice. I have a feeling there might be a tasty bit of cheese in this drawer. We just have to be quick about it. But it’s locked. You don’t have a—?”
“No, Bee, I don’t have a hairpin. We went over this already, remember?”
“Right.” She fisted her hips. “Well, shoot.”
“What about the computer?” I gestured to the laptop sitting on the desk right in front of her. If we were going to sleuth, and potentially get caught, we might as well do it right. “People keep everything on their computers. You never know what we might find.”
“Can’t figure out the password,” Bee said, and kept fiddling with the desk. “By the way, were you really going to spray me?”
“If you were an evil murderer, definitely.”
Bee grunted.
I squeezed past her and bent over the laptop, my gaze darting to the front of the gallery in case the assistant or Harper decided to reappear. I tapped my fingers on the keys.
If I was Harper’s password, what would I be?
I tried the obvious combinations first, like ‘12345’ and ‘admin,’ but no luck. Apparently Harper was more creative than that.
Think, Ruby. This is an art gallery computer. Or Harper’s personal laptop that she carries around with her.
Creative. That was the keyword. But not the password. I wracked my brain, going over what Harper, Bee and I had talked about earlier in the week.
“Picasso,” I whispered.
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