Page 64 of Death at the Deep Dive

He ran up the staircase, greeting the painters on the second level. On impulse he asked the head guy to paint the little sitting room at the end of the hall.

“Sure. What color?”

“I don’t care. Something bright and cheerful.”

The man scratched his chin. “Okay. Like what? You mostly picked cool-toned greens and blues and ivories.”

“I don’t care. Anything.”

One of the other painters leaned over and whispered something. The head guy brightened. “We’ve got some yellow ochre left over from another job. Will that do?”

“Perfect.” Ellery continued on his way to the master bedroom. He stepped inside, locked the door behind him—it’s just the normal noises in here!—and rolled aside the faded carpet.

The trap door was about the size of a coffin (now there was a cheery thought). Ellery pulled it open and, after a moment’s hesitation—hereallydid not like spiders—dropped down to the tiny hidey-hole beneath.

The hiding space was not tall enough to stand upright in once the door was closed. But he had no intention of closing that door. Hand on the ledge, he squatted down—this was actually a terrific storage space; why didn’t he clean it out and utilize it?—and studied the narrow shelves at the far end. Dust blanketed everything.

Everything and nothing.

Ellery’s eyes watered, he sneezed, mopped his face on his sleeve, and took a closer look.

Nope. Nothing.

Damn. Well, really, what had he expected?

Or maybe…

He squatted down, peering. He should have brought a flashlight…

Hey…

He let go of the ledge, crawled forward.

“Eudora, you old fox…”

Below the shelves was a short space, and pressed flat against the wall, so that its binding wouldn’t show, was a brown leather book.

Ellery carefully withdrew the journal and straightened. He gripped the ledge, vaulted out of the space, and sat down on the bare floor. He opened the journal about halfway and glanced at the date at the top of the page. In the shaft of fitful sunshine streaming through the window, he could see the clearly printed wordsJune 1963.

His heart jumped. He hadn’t really believed he was going to find it. Didn’t believe the journal still existed.

He scanned the first sentence.

I can’t believe I’m going to be a navy wife.

When I said so to Vernon last night, he laughed, showed me the license again, and said, “There’s no getting out of it now.”

I don’t want to get out of it. That’s the truth.

Ellery sucked in a sharp breath, murmured, “Oh no.”

Oh no, because whatever had happened, it wasn’t good. Eudora had not ended up a navy wife, and Vernon had disappeared off the face of the planet.

“Please don’t be a murderess.”

A little waft of paint-scented breeze—and roses?—from beneath the closed door stirred the pages.

Ellery glanced at his watch. He had left Nora alone at the bookshop for far too long. She’d be starving by now. He snapped shut the book, jumped to his feet, and went to the door.

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