“Exactly,” Maggie said, pulling her own tablet out of a tote bag.

The two sat in silence, conducting separate searches for any and all information pertaining to Beverly Clabber. “I’ve come up with plenty of references to Harold Clabber, Conway professor, but only one mentions his wife, Beverly,” Maggie said.

“That stands to reason; they were newlyweds, after all. What we need is her maiden name.”

“I’ll search for ‘Beverly Clabber, the former . . .” Maggie typed it into her tablet. “A post or two on a couple of social media sites and that’s it. This woman had a low online profile.”

“By choice or not? That’s the question.”

“She didn’t seem the type to put effort into cleansing her Internet presence. We need her maiden name.”

“And other married names,” Gran’ added. “Mrs. Clabber also didn’t seem the type who’d stay single for eighty years. I doubt Hal was the first man to put a ring on it.”

Maggie laughed. “Gran’, listen to you.”

“I’ve got a radio in my car,” Gran’ said. “I’ve heard that Beyoncé. She’s good. I keep up with the kids.”

“I haven’t found anything remotely useful, have you?”

“I’m afraid not. I wonder if Mrs. Clabber left any clues in the Rose Room,” Gran’ mused.

“The police went through it pretty carefully.”

Gran’ waved her hand dismissively. “That would be Cal Vichet and Buster’s son, Artie Belloise. And I believe the last time they CSI’d a murder scene would be never. Now if we were looking for a lost pet or someone to supervise a crew completing their court-ordered community service, they’d be our go-to fellows.”

Gran’ was right. Pelican PD was the kind of small-town department where all the officers did a little bit of everything, calling to mind the phrase, “Jack of all trades, master of none.” It didn’t help that Chief Rufus set the bar low when it came to overachieving. An enthusiastic rookie was more likely to be chastised for making his fellow officers look bad than lauded for putting in extra effort. Given their inexperience with murder scenes and the culture of indolence endemic to PPD, there was a strong possibility that Cal and Artie had missed a vital clue.

“Plus,” Gran’ pointed out, “neither of those boys knows how to think like an old lady.”

“And how would an old lady think? Hypothetically speaking.”

Gran’ leaned back in her chair, iPad on her lap. “I will do my best to tap into the mind-set of a female senior citizen.”

“I know it’s hard, Gran’, but I have faith in you.”

“If that was sarcasm, it was not appreciated. Now, when a senior woman travels, it’s pretty much a given that she unpacks her belongings. We are not a people who live out of our suitcase like some grad student at a youth hostel. A senior woman also tends to bring her valuables with her, not trusting them to be left at home. This can be jewels, papers, meaningful mementos. Anything important to her.”

“If she decides to hide these valuables somewhere in her hotel—or B and B—room, what would she consider a great hiding place?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Gran’ said. “Her ‘unmentionables’ drawer.”

“Okay, Gran’, this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth—which may be the last time anyone referred to bras and underwear as ‘unmentionables.’”

“Still, I would guess Beverly would consider that drawer inviolate. And I would also guess that neither Cal nor Artie would feel particularly comfortable pawing through her undergarments during their search, so they might speed through that particular task.”

“Interesting.”

“I’d love to see if my theory is right.”

“Of course, there’s no way of telling without taking a look at the room. Which is locked and off limits.”

“True,” Gran’ stretched, then put her iPad on the desk and stood up. “I could use a little air. Why don’t you keep me company? But you might want to change out of your church clothes.”

Maggie went into her bedroom and changed from her skirt and clingy top into shorts and a T-shirt sporting the colorful Cooper Union logo. Then she followed Gran’ outside and onto the wraparound ground-floor veranda of the main house. The older woman stopped at the French doors that allowed access into the Rose Room from the outside. Gran’ glanced around to make sure she and Maggie were alone and then jiggled the door handle. It was locked, but after a few hard jiggles, the ancient latch popped open.

“Rufus wasn’t wrong when he mentioned we have terrible security,” Maggie said. “I think some upgrades may be in order.”

“Put them on the list.”

“That list is a study in deferred maintenance.” Maggie pulled the doors open a few inches and peeked inside the room, which showed no sign of being a crime scene. “I wish I could take a look in those drawers. I wonder when the police will allow us to go back in.”

“Why wait?” Gran’ said. She gave her granddaughter a hard shove, and Maggie tumbled into the Rose Room.

“Gran’, what are you doing?”

“You’re in now, and if anyone asks, you can blame it on me,” Gran’ stage-whispered into the room, making sure to look in the opposite direction. “If you work quickly, no one will even know. I’ll make myself comfortable here on the veranda so that it looks like I’m just relaxing, but I’ll be on guard for you. Remember how I used to love bird watching? It made me quite good at keeping an eye out.”

“But what if someone uses the inside entrance to the room instead of this one?”

Gran’ gestured toward Crozat’s front lawn. “I saw the police all head into that mobile van of theirs, probably for some kind of confab. I can see it from here, so if I notice anyone head into the house, I’ll give you a sign. I know—I’ll say, ‘Go away, you awful mosquitoes.’ Oh my goodness, that works on two levels, because mosquitoes are annoying and these police officers are as annoying as mosquitoes. Quite clever by accident, if I do say so—”

“Excuse me, but I’ve just broken into a crime scene. Can we move this along?”

“Fine. Go spy.”

Maggie was dubious about following a plan concocted by a woman whose only knowledge of detection work came from 1960s Pink Panther movies. But given that she was already in the room, she decided to grab the chance to take a pass at it.

A quick glance around showed Cal and Art had been respectful during their search. Everything was in order and the only evidence of their presence was dust from where they’d lifted fingerprints.

Well aware of how squeaky Crozat’s old floors were, Maggie tiptoed over to the room’s beautifully carved walnut chest of drawers and slowly opened the top one. Since all the Clabbers’ personal items had been removed as potential evidence, the drawer was empty and its lining lay flat against the bottom. She felt safe in assuming that like most women, Beverly would only have used one of the top two drawers for her undergarments. She ran her hand along the bottom of the drawer but felt nothing unusual. She closed it and opened the second drawer, which was also empty. Maggie ran her hand along its bottom and felt a slight, almost undetectable rise in the back right corner. She lifted up the lining and found a thin envelope taped to the bottom of it.

Maggie removed the envelope but resisted the urge to tear it open, knowing that her time was better spent searching the room for other clues. She didn’t debate long where to look next. Maggie knew from past guests that seniors often still naïvely believed there was no better hiding place than under the bed.

She got on the floor and shimmied her way under the heavily canopied nineteenth-century bed whose intricate design matched the room’s chest of drawers. She was relieved to find the area spotless. If we survive this nightmare and ever have any extra income, Marie and Bud are getting a bonus, she thought as she ran her hands along the ancient springs that held up the mattress, feeling for anything unusual.