Page 5 of The Case of the Vanishing Valuables

She nodded. “They are all on this floor. We try not to put residents in the upstairs rooms, as many of them are unsteady, and we wouldn’t want anyone to fall down the stairs.”

“Of course not. So where should we start?” Ray glanced up to see if anyone would volunteer.

“You can look at mine.” Daisy jumped up from her chair. Pretty spry for an old human. “It’s the first one right over here.”

Chapter

Four

Based on the name, Tranquility Terrace was supposed to be peaceful, but Daisy’s room was chaos. Post-it notes covered nearly every surface—yellow, pink, blue—like an office supply explosion. They were plastered to the walls, the mirror, the door, and even the lampshade, all with scribbled reminders that seemed to run the gamut from “Feed the fish” (I glanced around; there were no fish) to “Remember to lock door.”

Despite the clutter, the space was charming—a two-room suite with an original fireplace, a private bath, and intricate Victorian woodwork and rugs that added character.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Leonard,” Daisy said, wringing her hands nervously.

Ray gave her a reassuring smile and nodded. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry.”

I followed him, stepping carefully around the avalanche of Post-it notes littering the floor. I’d seen cluttered places before, but this? This was next-level chaos. Daisy’s room looked like her brain had exploded and left reminders everywhere.

“So, what exactly went missing?” Ray asked, flipping open his notebook—though judging by the blank pages, I figured he could’ve saved himself the effort.

“My mother’s brooch,” Daisy said, pointing at a glass dish on her dresser. It was, predictably, covered in more Post-it notes. “I always leave it right there.”

Ray peered at the dish, which was filled with loose buttons, bobby pins, and—of course—a Post-it note that read “Brooch goes here.” Nothing about this scene screamed “highly organized,” and yet Daisy seemed genuinely convinced she had it all under control. That made one of us.

“You’re sure the door was locked?” Ray asked.

Daisy’s head bobbed up and down like a dashboard bobblehead. “Oh yes, I always lock it. I even wrote a note.” She gestured to another Post-it on the back of the door, which read “LOCK THE DOOR.”

I hopped onto the dresser and sniffed around. The glass dish smelled like nothing useful, and the Post-it notes spoke more about Daisy’s forgetfulness than her jewelry.

With a wobbly smile, Daisy glanced nervously at me. “I was wondering if Earl might have… um, special abilities like Mortimer. Maybe he could sense things—things normal people wouldn’t notice, like hidden intentions.”

Where was Mortimer, anyway? I had a feeling that cat might know something.

Ray cleared his throat, trying not to laugh. “Earl’s sharp, but he doesn’t predict the future or anything like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Daisy said, glancing at me again. “I was hoping maybe he could sniff out the culprit, literally.”

I rolled my eyes. I was good, but I wasn’tthatgood.

Ray moved the conversation along. “No sign of forced entry, though?”

Daisy shook her head. “No, nothing. The windows stay locked, and I’m very careful about the door.”

“What about the staff or other residents?” Ray walked over to the door and glanced at the “LOCK THE DOOR” note. “Anyone acting strange?”

She chewed her lip. “No. Well, Rick the handyman seems nervous lately, but he’s very polite. I don’t think he’d do something like this.”

Right, because politeness was the international standard for trustworthiness.

Ray jotted down “handyman” in his notebook like he was connecting dots on a corkboard. “And when did you first notice the brooch was missing?” he asked.

Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink. “I tend to… misplace things sometimes,” she admitted, gesturing to the room full of Post-its. As if that wasn’t obvious. “But I know I left the brooch in the dish before lunch a week ago Tuesday. When I came back from my walk in the garden—it was gone.”

Ray squinted at her. “Are you sure you didn’t move it somewhere else?”

Daisy pulled out a small, dog-eared notebook from her cardigan pocket and flipped through the pages like she had to prove it. “That’s why I write things down,” she said, holding up a page with a note reading “Brooch on dresser.” “I’m very organized.”

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