Page 105 of Murder on the Page

Swinging around, I studied the space. Where would Rick have hidden a couple of keys? I scoped out the bureau and rifled through the drawers. I inspected the nightstand. I checked beneath the coffee table. Nada.

I spotted Rick’s briefcase on the couch. I rummaged through the outer pocket, but didn’t find any keys. I peered into the interior and paused when I spotted an envelope embossed with Bramblewood Savings and Loan poking from the computer slot. I gingerly plucked it out. It had been sealed at one time but was now open and empty. Was this the envelope that had held Marigold’s one hundred thousand dollar withdrawal? Would Rick have been brazen enough to deposit the money in his personal account, or was the money in the room somewhere?

Perhaps hidden between the mattresses or in the closet? I went to peek in the latter, but froze when I heard Tegan say loudly, “Allie went home.” It sounded as if she was projecting to the last row of a theater. Was she trying to warn me? Had Rick caught sight of me in his room? Maybe Helga had stepped outside and asked my whereabouts.

“Yes,” Tegan went on. “She was here because she wanted to make sure I got home safely. I’ve been so frazzled since Auntie died, and with Winston hounding me . . .” Her voice drifted off.

I tiptoed to the drapes and peeked out. Rick had moved from the shadows and was standing beside one of the lanterns, but he wasn’t looking in the direction of the inn. He was staring up at the stars.

Quickly I snapped a picture of the bank envelope with my cell phone and reinserted the envelope into the briefcase. I slipped out of Rick’s room, returned the room key to the key cabinet, as instructed, and hustled to the van. Darcy let out a low rumble. I shushed him, flicked on the ignition, and sped down the drive while peering into the rearview mirror. I didn’t see Rick or Noeline come into view. I was in the clear.

Minutes later, as I was doing triple duty—transmitting the image of the envelope to Zach, while rounding the corner to my street and unzipping Darcy’s carry crate so he knew freedom was seconds away—my Apple Watch buzzed my wrist. On the screen blinked a security company notification that an alarm was going off at Dream Cuisine. Someone had breached the rear door. It was probably a false alarm, but if I didn’t clear the problem, the police would come, and I’d be charged a fee. I made a U-turn and told Darcy to hunker down.

I arrived at Dream Cuisine in under three minutes and parked in the alley behind the building. I slung my tote over my shoulder and lifted Darcy in his crate. The rear door wasn’tajar, but it was unlocked, which gave me pause. I always bolted it.Always.

Glancing right and left, not seeing anyone lying in wait for me, I eased the door open. I didn’t detect movement, but that didn’t mean anything. I wouldn’t be able to hear someone creeping about with the alarm system blaring. A prowler could be hiding. Darcy didn’t make a peep, however, which calmed me. I flipped on a light that illuminated the area—I was alone—and tapped in the four-digit code. Miraculously, the alarm switched off on the first try.

I made a tour of the site, hoping nothing had been stolen. Everything appeared in order, but I wanted to count items, in case I needed to file an insurance claim. My cell phone jangled. The security company was calling. I answered and told the woman the passcode: “I love books.” I apologized for the mistake. She told me it was no problem. Things happened. The police would not be dispatched.

I closed the door and bolted it, tossed my keys onto the desk, and placed Darcy’s crate on the floor. He poked his head out. I petted his ears and cooed that it was all right. He could get out if he liked. I wasn’t going to be baking. He mewed his relief and scrambled out. In a couple of sprightly leaps, he landed at the top of a set of shelves affixed to a wall and nestled down. I fetched a clipboard and a pen and retraced my steps, counting the pans hanging from hooks and the knives on the magnetic rack.

Something wentcreak.

Darcy caterwauled. I whirled around, my tote swinging wildly, and saw the door to the pantry opening.

Rick O’Sheedy emerged with a Beretta aimed in my direction. He was twirling a ring of keys in his other hand—quick-release keys like mine—and I wilted. He’d swiped a duplicate key from my key ring.When?I wondered, until it dawned on me. It had to have been the other night when the shutterclacked and thumped the side of the house. Seconds later, the front door blew open. Rick must have raced in, swiped the key, and darted out before I could grab the fire poker and catch him in the act.

“Why are you here?” I asked, doing my best not to sound scared spitless. “Didn’t Helga offer you dessert?”

“I saw you sneaking out of the inn. I followed you the moment you left.”

If only I’d checked the rearview mirror.

“You continued toward home,” he continued, “giving me just enough time to come here, trip the alarm, and slip inside the pantry.” He smirked. “You’re smart, but you’re too curious for your own good, young lady.”

Darcy hissed.

“My cat hates when anybody calls me a ‘lady,’ ” I quipped.

Rick’s mouth curled up in a sneer. “Ha-ha.” He wagged the gun. “Walk into the refrigerator.”

“I forgot to wear my anorak. I’ll pass.”

“I said go.”

“Actually, you said ‘walk.’ ”

“Don’t make me shoot you,” he growled.

I sized up what weapons I had at my disposal. A kitchen was full of them, like knives and sauté pans. But he’d shoot me before I could grab one of them. Then I remembered my tote. It was as heavy as an anvil, I reasoned. Ask my mother.

“Marigold hired a detective to investigate you,” I said.

“So I heard.”

“You read the PDF?”

“What PDF?”

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