“’Course. Mainly because they didn’t bother putting up a firewall. Told you it would be easy. One moment while I search … Here we go. Take a look at this.”
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 30
Subject: Meeks Mail
Hi Sylv,
Boy were you having a crystal ball moment when you asked me to take a sneak peek for snail mail in Gerry’s room while you gave that cheeky young detective a dressing-down over the search warrant. Or lack of it!
Gerry wrote a ton of letters and got an avalanche back, but he must have had a secret bonfire because I only found a single page tossed in the trash. It was a close-run thing. One of the maids came in to empty the wastepaper basket just as I was leaving. Anyhoo, I’ve attached a scan of it here for your perusal. It shows a deranged mind, if you ask me. The handwriting alone should get a person locked up. Who calls themselves a Wrong Writer and signs a letter with a number, not a name?
What’s clearer than California is that our Gerry’s been telling tales out of school about the meals and staff here. Makes me think we should censor all our residents’ mail. Though it’s tough to argue with the comment about our receptionist not having the sense God gave a canary!
That said, I hold my hand up to signing Gerry out with one of the women calling herself “A. Relative.” She reminded me of the gardener’s daughter. Remember that Italian man we had to manage out because he lacked communication skills? Despite the age gap, he and Gerry were as thick as thieves. Always chattering away in Italian and exchanging books—a constant source of mystery to me because Emilio could barely speak English. No, I lie. I suspect he spoke it perfectly, but it suited his contrary nature to pretend otherwise.
Did you know that Gerry spoke four languages? I can’t imagine why. He had no passport and shuffled paper his whole life. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around his arrest. Quiet, dull Gerry lifting an heiress’s $50 million diamond necklace WHILE SHE WAS WEARING IT!? You couldn’t make it up. Then I got to thinking that maybe his very dullness was the clue we all missed. Ms. Stevenson in room 12 has a theory that he was a spy in World War II. Maybe she was onto something.
Back to the gardener’s daughter. I only ever met her once, and I have no memory for faces, so don’t take my word for it. There was just something about her attitude that reminded me of him.
Up to you whether you show the letter to the cops. If Detective WhatsHisFace gets his paws on it, he’ll lock Gerry up and throw away the key. Who knows why Gerry did what he did, but he’s always been kind to me. Personally, I’d accidentally on purpose drop it in the common-room fire.
Keep me posted on developments!
Stace x
Stacie Beggs
Senior Living Coordinator
Harper clicked on the attachment. A pale blue letter popped up. Stacie was correct about one thing: the handwriting was atrocious. The black ink was so illegible that Kat and Harper skimmed the parts about the dire meals and canary-brained receptionist and went directly to the neatly printed section in different handwriting at the end.
Dear G,
Here’s your brief. Watch yourself but don’t be nervous. The Wrong Writers have your back.
Date: September 27.
Pickup: SO at 3pm.
Operatives: Full House
Target: WL9, 11pm–11:45pm.
Degree of Difficulty: 11!!
Main Event: WW7RH 11pm–Midnight
Yours in Truth,
WW6
Harper closed the site and turned to Kat. “That clears up one thing. Whatever else Gerry Meeks is, innocent he’s not.”
Kat was rereading the note. “The media nicknamed them the Wish List gang, but maybe they really call themselves the Wrong Writers. WW6 could stand for Wrong Writer Six. There’s also a Wrong Writer Seven. Do you think that means there are seven members of the gang?”
“The Wrong Writers sounds more like a creative-writing group for failed novelists,” said Harper. “Maybe that’s what they have in common. They’re stealing stuff for extra cash so they can write bestsellers in the lap of luxury.”
An internet search returned nothing but writing tips. Harper yawned. “I’m going to take a break and make a hot chocolate. Want one?”
Kat nodded vaguely. She kept looking at the words she had written on her pad. Watch yourself but don’t be nervous. The Wrong Writers have your back.
She’d heard the phrase before, she was sure of it. All she had to do was figure out where.
THE CLUE CLUB
It was a shock to see Riley’s face again.
Yes, they’d seen her on the news, but there was something about physically holding the photo Harper had printed out that made Kat feel as if Riley were in the room with them. It lent urgency to their quest and made Riley flesh and blood again.
It wasn’t a posed picture, and Riley wasn’t smiling. The assistant hotel manager’s shaky camerawork had blurred her features. She was a small, out-of-place figure glimpsed behind a gaggle of glamorous celebrities who collectively displayed more teeth than a great white as they grinned at someone out of shot.
Though Riley’s face was washed-out by the low-on-ink printer, the disbelief on it was unmistakable. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was staring in the opposite direction from everyone else.
Gerry Meeks wasn’t visible. Nor was Cynthia Hollinghurst or her diamond necklace. But the time stamp (11:06 P.M.) on the photo and Riley’s appalled expression were enough to make them 99 percent certain that the snapshot had captured the robbery.
Encouraged by their progress, the girls redoubled their efforts to identify the gang members.
“We don’t have time for absolute proof,” said Harper. “Wild guesses are fine. Any outlandish hypothesis will do.”
Kat was one step ahead of her on the wild guesses and outlandish hypotheses.
She’d already added the Italian gardener and his daughter to the list of possible gangsters, because there was no evidence that Gerry had other friends at Shady Oaks.
“Who’d blame Emilio for pretending he couldn’t speak English when Stacie Beggs was around?” commented Harper. “If she’s anything like her emails, she’s deeply annoying.”
Emilio’s surname had been in a gardening newsletter on the Shady Oaks website. From there, Harper had tracked him to a park in her hometown, West Hartford, Connecticut, where an Emilio D’Angelo was head gardener. A short bio on the park’s blog mentioned his daughter, Bianca, an artist based in Napa Valley, California.
“California’s on the west coast of the United States, and New Jersey’s on the east,” said Harper, hopping onto Bianca D’Angelo’s Instagram page. “The chances of her swinging by Shady Oaks to take Gerry on an outing are pretty slim.”
“She might have only done it once,” countered Kat. “One of Gerry’s visitors was described as long-limbed and elegant. That sums up Bianca.”
Kat leaned closer to Harper’s screen. “Wait, go back. See that photo of her smiling outside a jazz bar in New Orleans? The painting the gang stole came from a New Orleans gallery. I’m putting Bianca down as an art thief.”
Harper laughed. “What happened to people being innocent until proven guilty?”
“If we’re going to save Riley, we don’t have the luxury of giving them the benefit of the doubt,” Kat told her. “For the next thirty-six hours, they’re all guilty until proven innocent.”
“Eek! You might be right.”
Harper was staring at a page from Bianca’s high school yearbook. “Is that a mullet on her head? I’m amazed she wasn’t arrested for crimes against hair. She did get it styled for the prom, though. What a difference. Don’t she and her football player boyfriend look cute all dressed up?”
She squinted at the tiny photo. “Hmm, there’s something familiar about him. I wonder why. Oh, here’s Bianca’s yearbook list.
BIANCA D’ANGELO
Voted Girl Most L
ikely to: Save a Rain Forest or Become the Next Agatha Christie
Best Friend: My sister, Elena
Dating: Rob!
Hobbies: Oil painting, Reading, and Creative Writing
Goals: Turning My Hobbies into a Career That Pays the Rent!
Heroes: Frida Kahlo (artist) and Antonio Camilleri (author)
“Ever heard of Antonio Camilleri?”
“I think he’s an Italian mystery writer,” said Kat. “There’s a TV series based on his books. I’ve watched one or two with my mum. You could be right about the gang members being failed novelists. So far, they seem to have books in common.”
Harper was scrolling down the page. “Oh no! Bianca’s sister died from cancer two years after they left high school. Bianca and Emilio must have been devastated.”
“That’s horrible. I wonder if Bianca moved to California to get away from the memories. Did she marry the football player?”
“No, but they stayed close. There’s a photo of her hugging him in the hospital and another of him playing guitar in a band called the Three Chords.”
The temperature had dipped dramatically in the cabin. Kat went to put another log on the fire while Harper kept scrolling.
“Does the band have a website?”
“A one-pager. Guess they didn’t hit the big time. They split up a couple of years ago … Oh, wow. Now I know why Rob’s so familiar.”
“Why? Why?”
Kat rushed over to look at the screen.
“He was one of the Lautner brothers. Years ago, when Dad and I were still living in Connecticut, Rob and Michael Lautner were college football stars and local heroes.”
“Are we talking British football or American football?”
“We’re talking about what Americans call football, not what you Brits call football and we call soccer,” said Harper with a grin. “Michael got some minor injury early on and quit, but Rob was on track to be a superstar. He was signed by one of the top NFL teams. Everyone was so happy for him. But before he could sign the contract, he got called up by the U.S. Army Reserve and sent to Iraq.”
Kat gave her an anxious look. “Please don’t tell me he was wounded in Iraq and could never play football again.”
“No, he came home without a scratch. But days later, he was knocked off his motorbike and lost both his lower legs. I remember the headlines. The whole town went into mourning.”
Kat felt quite depressed on Rob’s behalf. “Then he can’t possibly be a Wish List gang member. No one would turn to crime after a tragedy like that.”
Harper was speed-reading a magazine article about Rob. “Hmm, I wouldn’t rule him out just yet. Rob might have changed and become bitter after his dream died. Hey, hold on—he’s married to a nurse now: Kiara Thompson. Credits her with saving his life. They share a passion for books and she’s into oriental art … What if he stole the Ming vase to thank her for taking care of him after his accident?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” said Kat. “Have you noticed how everything keeps circling back to books, though? Does the story say anything about Rob enjoying writing? Is he working on his memoirs?”
“Nah, but the reporter does ask him if his brother likes reading as much as he does.”
“And does he?”
“Apparently, Michael’s a trucker these days. A long-distance semi driver. Rob says his brother is dyslexic and never took to reading but now loves listening to audiobooks as he drives.”
Kat said slowly, “A trucker would be a good person to have around if you were planning heists across the country.”
Harper shot her an admiring glance. “Yes, he sure would. Let’s add Michael to our list. And check out this photo of Rob’s wife. She has thick, curly hair, like one of Gerry’s visitors. Coincidence or not? How’s our gang looking now?”
Kat fetched her watercolor pad and filled in the gaps.
WISH LIST GANG?
Gerry Meeks—Retired Insurance Salesman, New Jersey
Emilio D’Angelo—Gardener, Connecticut
Bianca D’Angelo—Artist, California
Rob Lautner—Ex-Football Player, Saratoga, NY
Kiara Thompson—Nurse, Saratoga, NY
Michael Lautner—Lorry Driver, Everywhere, U.S.A.
Petite woman?
Pleased with their efforts, they took a break at around 10:00 A.M., working their way through a bag of chips and a jar of salsa. Rebel made puppy eyes at Kat, but she refused to share.
“Salt’s bad for you,” she informed the husky, “but if you keep being an angel for a little while longer, I’ll give you an early dinner.”
She passed the bag to Harper. “I can’t believe how much we’ve found out. Do people realize how much of their lives are online?”
“Some do, some don’t.” Harper shrugged. “Some just don’t care.”
She did internet searches with one hand while eating chips with the other. “Hey, it turns out that Rob Lautner’s a personal trainer in Saratoga these days. Works with disabled athletes and veterans. An all-around good guy—supposedly.”
“Everyone in our wild-guess gang is supposedly nice,” said Kat. “Or at least they were before they became America’s Most Wanted Robbers. Something catastrophic must have happened to turn them wicked. Have you found out any more about Gerry’s past? Maybe he really was a spy.”
“He’s been retired for thirty years, so I doubt there’ll be much online, but I’ll take a look.”
There were scores of stories on Gerry Meeks’s arrest, but only one mention of his former life in an insurance forum.
“They should market this as a cure for insomnia,” Harper said, scrolling through page after page of turgid discussions about premium increases and fake insurance claims.
Eventually, she found Gerry’s name in a chat between two insurance workers.
Best investigator I ever met was Gerry Meeks. Retired last year. Specialized in high-dollar fraud. Our boss pretty much broke down and cried when he left. His whole career, Gerry only ever lost one case.
Which case was that?
I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you after! I will tell ya that if anyone deserved a cushy retirement, Meeks did. After his granddaughter died, tho, I heard the life went out of him. Emily was his whole world. Speaking of grandkids, want to get together for a family BBQ and some tennis sometime?
“An insurance investigator?” Kat tried to reconcile the image of a dashing James Bond type with the frail man who’d stumbled into the courthouse. “The best investigator. So not just a paper pusher after all.”
“This casts a whole new light on things,” said Harper. “With Emily gone and nothing to lose, did Gerry decide to help himself to a piece of high-dollar pie?”
“See if you can find anything on that case he lost.”
Harper couldn’t, but she did come across a piece about Emily Meeks’s memorial in a New Jersey newsletter. Gerry’s granddaughter had died of leukemia aged just twenty-three.
The most moving moment of the church service was a speech by her best friend, Georgia Tey, a theater costume designer. To tears and laughter, Georgia revealed that though she and Emily had been friends since they were six, their bond had been cemented as they grew older by a shared love of capybaras and creative poisonings.
“If the FBI had ever gone through the search history of our laptops, we’d have been arrested. Every week, Em and I competed to unlock the puzzle at the heart of whatever mystery we were reading. We’d compare notes over breakfast. If I had a dime for the number of times Emily glanced up from her bagel, knife in hand, and said triumphantly, ‘I guessed the murderer before you did!’ I’d be a millionaire.
“Emily will live on in every line of every book we ever read together. I’ll miss her forever. Thankfully, I’ll always be able rely on Gerry and the rest of the Clue Club to be there in the middle of the night if I call to say, ‘I give up … How do you solve that locked-room murder mystery?’
“I hope you’ll join me in three
big cheers for Emily and the Clue Club.”
“The Clue Club—that’s it!” cried Harper. “That’s the link between them. All we have to do is work out what the Clue Club is or does.”
“I’m a big fan of Sherlock Holmes’s old-fashioned methods,” Kat conceded, “but when you’re racing the clock, sometimes it really does help to have Google.”
THIN ICE
“Give me your best wild guess, Kat Wolfe,” instructed Harper, as if she were a TV quiz mistress. “Don’t worry, there are no wrong answers. Is the Clue Club a book club or a robbery club?”
“Maybe both,” said Kat, sipping at a tall glass of OJ. She and Harper were both owl-eyed after a much-needed afternoon nap on the sofas with the huskies.
“If that’s really how our gangsters met—playing boring board games,” Harper went on. “How does the club work? Do they roll the dice remotely, then send Clue challenges by snail mail: ‘I suggest it was Colonel Mustard, in the library, with a candlestick … Oh, and by the way, let’s steal a priceless painting next Wednesday.’ Doesn’t seem very practical.”
She nudged the box of games she’d rejected with a woolly-socked foot. “Although I have to admit even I enjoy Clue. Six weapons, six suspects, nine rooms, and three hundred and twenty-four possible solutions. What’s not to like?”
“It’s easy to like murder mysteries when they’re just a game,” said Kat, taking another newspaper from the pile she’d brought in from the garage. “We’re dealing with real humans. There seem to be three hundred and twenty-four possible solutions to our case too, and we can’t fathom any of them. Meantime, it’s nearly four P.M. The kidnappers could be in Outer Mongolia by now.”
“Not unless they’ve chartered a rocket ship,” Harper said drily. “The roads around us are either ice rinks or ski jumps. Anyone driving is risking their lives.”
It seemed impossible to believe that the roads would be cleared by the following day, yet their parents insisted they’d be at Nightingale Lodge on Thursday afternoon as planned. The girls had texted them using Harper’s home messaging account. Professor Lamb replied in minutes. His flight was on time, and he expected to arrive at the cabin around 4:00 P.M. the next day.
Kat Wolfe on Thin Ice Page 10