Page 51 of Death at the Deep Dive

“It’s a work in progress.”

“You can say that again.” Ezra touched the brim of his chauffeur’s cap and proceeded to sedately reverse down the entire length of the drive.

Ellery waved farewell as the chauffeur’s cap grew smaller and smaller, and then he turned toward the steps. He couldn’t help a quick look at the second-floor windows.

Sure enough, sunlight’s reflection blazed in the panes of glass.

Granted, last night’s sighting—no, sighting was too specific. Last night’s optical illusion had happened a few hours later, but still. He was more than happy to accept Jack’s explanation for that perplexing light.

Watson took off to inform the squirrels he was in residence again. Ellery unlocked the front door and went inside. Once again, he was greeted by the smell of paint and sawdust and glue. If possible, the house felt even quieter than it had the day before.

It seemed a lifetime ago that he had found Tackle sitting on his front steps.

He picked yesterday’s ignored mail from the floor, went into the kitchen, and sorted through the bills and postcards. There was a brief note from Dylan, a chatty mini-travelogue from his mother (she and George were currently on location in British Columbia), and aWish you were herefrom Robert Mane, who was visiting family in Oregon.

Robert’s card went straight into the trash. Ellery liked Robert a lot, but that greeting was bound to irritate Jack. In a perfect world, Robert would meet someone terrific on vacation and Ellery could enjoy his friendship without having to worry about making Jack jealous.

Besides, Robert was lonely. Ellery knew too well how it felt.

He glanced out the window. Watson was comfortably curled in one of the new flower beds, blinking sleepily in the sunlight as he kept watch on the squirrel tree.

Ellery smiled reluctantly, shook his head, and considered his plans for the evening. At some point, he’d be hungry, but right now he still had the image of Tackle’s body front and center in his brain.

Keeping too busy to think would be the best remedy for that.

There were still a couple of hours of daylight. If he was going down to the basement, now would be the time.

Washe going down to the basement?

He weighed it.

It would be very helpful to have Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s own perspective on her life for a change, without relying on the memories of people who’d known her as children. He’d been ruminating last night about where those journals might be stashed, and he thought he might have an idea of their general location.

On the other hand, he really hated crawling around damp, spider-ridden spaces. Not least because he had a tendency of getting locked inside them.

But this time of year, most of the spiders would be sleeping, right? Hopefully. And if someone was lurking inside his house, he probably had bigger worries than getting locked in the basement.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he muttered, and went past the pantry to the door leading down to the wine cellar and the basement beyond.

The good news was, the basement light worked.

The bad news was, he could see how dusty and covered in cobwebs everything was.

But his vague memory of where the box containing his aunt’s journals was stashed turned out to be correct. He found the box. He found the journals. And when he flipped open the pages of 1972, he was relieved to see that Eudora had been keeping an actual diary with a detailed record of her—dauntingly busy—daily life as well as her thoughts and feelings.

Yes, she still showed an alarming proclivity for clipping the occasional poem or cat cartoon, but overall, it seemed to be the diary of an ordinary woman living an ordinary life.

This is the longest year ever.(She was being literal. Leap year 1972 had been two seconds longer than any other year in recorded history.)

Congress has voted to send the Equal Rights Amendment to the states for ratification.(Don’t set your heart on that one, Eudora.)

Went to seeFritz the Cat. Not what I expected. (Ellery inhaled so much dust, he saw his life flash before his eyes.)

In short, a treasure trove.

Would it hold the answer to Vernon Shandy’s disappearance? That was probably too much to hope for. But if he could find the journal from 1963, it would certainly be a starting point for determining what, if any, role Eudora had played.

Ellery tossed 1972 back in with the other volumes, heaved the box into his arms, and staggered back up the stairs.

---