I shook my head. “But who buys the ribbons without the typewriter?” I asked. “I was really hoping for a typewriter. I couldn’t recall whether you had one in here or not.”

I smiled, and Alice did as well. She didn’t seem rattled at all when I mentioned looking for a typewriter.

“You might try Memory Lane on Oakwood,” she suggested. “Stephen Grey is the owner, and he might have something like that in stock. Just tell him I sent you.”

“Okay, thanks,” I replied. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Alice Ann gushed. “I really am so grateful for your article. Not that I’m pleased about the crimes that have taken place, of course,” she added, her face growing serious. “I hope you don’t think I’m an opportunist like all these tourists who have been calling this morning.”

“No, no, not at all,” I murmured.

“I mean, I’m not at all happy about the reason I’m seeing so much new business. It’s just that the inn has been struggling so much recently I’ve thought about throwing in the towel and retiring early. But this new business should be enough to keep us afloat at least through the end of the year, which is when we usually see a bump thanks to the ski resort in nearby Sugarville.”

“I understand,” I told her. “Don’t worry, we don’t judge you.”

“Well, thank you,” she replied, her cheeks reddening a bit. “I’m a little embarrassed to be profiting from the crimes, but what can you do? It is what it is.”

Ned and I nodded in agreement. Truthfully, I did agree with her. If she hadn’t committed the crimes, then it wasn’t her fault that was the reason tourists were flocking to the Cheshire Cat.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I told Alice as we headed for the door. “Oh, one more thing. Any idea where I can find Paige Samuels? I wanted to ask her when she thought the bookstore would be reopening and if she was going to reschedule the Lacey O’Brien signing.”

“Really?” Alice Ann replied, looking more than a little curious. “Well, she often has lunch at the diner, so you might try to find her there. Or you can swing by her place. She lives in an apartment on Oakwood Lane, right above the antique shop, in fact.”

Alice prattled on. “I don’t know where she’s been keeping herself. I know the fire put her store out of commission for a time, and she’s probably mad as blazes at Lacey . . . for so many reasons dating back to high school that I couldn’t even begin to tell you about, but, no, I haven’t seen her.”

“Thanks, Alice Ann,” I said. I was grateful when the phone rang and Alice Ann stopped gossiping.

Ned and I headed out into the warm morning.

“Well, she sure is something,” Ned said softly as we left the inn. “Doesn’t want to profit off the crimes, huh?”

“How can’t it be Alice Ann?” I whispered to him. “We’ve got a motive now—her business was suffering and now it’s booming. She doesn’t particularly like Lacey or Paige, either.” I paused. “But we still need actual proof. We’ve got to find that typewriter.”

Ned nodded.

As we walked past my car, he plucked a piece of paper from the windshield and held it out to me. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked.

Oh no! Not another note. Again, it was typed in all caps:

MS. DREW: YOU SEEM TO HAVE TROUBLE FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS. DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU. . . .

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Opportunity Knocks

MY STOMACH DROPPED TO MY feet. Who was watching me?

“There goes that theory,” I said with a shudder. “There’s no way Alice Ann could have put that note on my car; she was with us the entire time. And we just passed my car on our way from the bookstore to the inn.”

I chewed my lip as I thought things over. Then I glanced down at the latest note again. I needed to find that typewriter—it was our best clue. And I was worried about what would happen next . . . to me, or someone else in Avondale.

“Let’s go to Memory Lane, then,” Ned suggested. “Maybe the owner knows of someone in town who’s a collector.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, giving him a grateful look. “Thanks again for coming along today.”

“Happy to help,” Ned said, reaching over and giving my hand a squeeze. “You’ll get to the bottom of this. I just know it.”

A few minutes later I parallel parked in front of Memory Lane. There was a doorway just next to the entrance that had two buzzers. The top one was labeled SAMUELS. I rang and waited a minute or so before ringing again. When there was no response after the third ring, I gave up, and Ned and I headed into the antique store.

The shop was dim, dusty, and absolutely crammed from floor to ceiling with antique furniture, light fixtures, candlestick holders, china, cameras, and clocks. Ned and I made it about two feet before we were stopped by an enormous antique bookshelf filled with crumbling old books. We couldn’t figure out how to get around it, so instead I called out for help.

“Hello, Mr. Grey?” I cried. “Is there anyone here? We could use some—uh—assistance.”

“Coming, coming!” a muffled voice replied from what sounded as though it was somewhere below us. A minute later a man with horn-rimmed glasses popped up behind me.

“Hello! So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I was just in the basement organizing some stock. What can I do for you?”

“Alice Ann Marple sent us over. We’re looking for any old or antique typewriters you may have.”

He scratched his head and looked around at the piles and piles of stuff surrounding us.

“Typewriter . . . typewriter,” he muttered. “Let me check my inventory. Come right this way.”

Mr. Grey darted to the right and squeezed his way past the enormous bookshelf. Then he weaved his way through a row of wicker chairs and around a mirrored door that was leaning against the wall until he came to a rolltop desk that was completely covered in more paper. He picked up a large notebook and began to thumb through pages that were covered in rows of nearly illegible scrawls of ink.

“Ah, yes!” he exclaimed, pointing at a row in his ledger. “We do not have a typewriter.”

“Uh, okay,” Ned replied, glancing at me. How is this helpful? he mouthed.

I just shook my head at him. Trust me, I mouthed back.

“Does that mean you used to have one but it’s been sold?” I asked.

“Indeed it does,” Mr. Grey said with a nod.

“That’s too bad,” I replied, thinking quickly. “Did you happen to sell it to someone local? I’m a collector and would pay top dollar.”

Ned raised his eyebrows at me. Nice, he mouthed.

“Of course, of course,” Grey replied without hesitation. “I sold it to that famous writer. What’s her name again? Lacey O’Neil? She was wearing a big hat and sunglasses so I wouldn’t recognize her, but I knew who she was.”

He shook his head before he continued, “That typewriter wasn’t even in very good shape. In fact, there were a few keys that were broken when she bought it.”

Ned and I looked at each other and quickly said good-bye. I grabbed his hand and hurried him out the door. “We’ve got to question Lacey again—come on, we’re driving to Moon Lake.”

I was glad to leave the dust and papers behind and be outside in the sunshine.

“One more second, Ned. Let me ring Paige’s buzzer again. Maybe she came home while we were talking to Mr. Grey,” I said. But Paige still wasn’t home, or just not answering. We started to go to my car when I noticed the storefront on the other side of Memory Lane. It was unmarked, but there was a logo of a quill and a jar of ink etched into the glass door. That had to be the writers’ space that was connected to the art gallery. We didn’t have time to check it out—we had to get to Lacey.

I was sorry that Ned and I couldn’t enjoy the scenery or a hike as we drove out to Moon Lake.