Once Upon a Thriller

  Contents

  Dear Diary

  CHAPTER ONE Burned

  CHAPTER TWO The Missing Wallet

  CHAPTER THREE Capsized!

  CHAPTER FOUR No Trespassing

  CHAPTER FIVE Cracking the Code

  CHAPTER SIX Shadowed

  CHAPTER SEVEN Close Call

  CHAPTER EIGHT The Secret Door

  CHAPTER NINE Framed

  CHAPTER TEN Stalked

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Opportunity Knocks

  CHAPTER TWELVE The Final Clue

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Facing the Facts

  Dear Diary

  Dear Diary,

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  IT’S NO SURPRISE THAT MY nose is always stuck in a book. I can’t get enough of a good biography, historical novel, or fantasy story. But my favorites are edge-of-your-seat, page-turning mystery stories. And when Bess, George, and I were in the middle of a raging storm on Moon Lake, I wished I were just reading a mystery, not smack in the middle of one.

  * * *

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Burned

  “COME ON. HURRY UP AND let’s go!” I called to Bess and George as I popped open the trunk of my car. I had parked in front of George’s house and was in a rush to get going.

  “Leave it to you to be right on time, Nancy,” Bess teased as she and George walked down the front steps of the porch and headed toward me, overnight bags in hand. George glanced at her watch.

  “Whoa, Bess is right!” George said. “It’s nine a.m. on the dot.” She grabbed Bess’s bag and tossed it and her own into the trunk before slamming it shut.

  “Well, that’s when I told you I’d be here,” I answered. “And I’m really looking forward to getting to the lake early so we can settle into our cabin and go for a hike before it gets too hot.”

  “Ugh,” Bess groaned. “Not a hike! You and George promised me this would be a relaxing weekend.”

  “And it will be,” I said. “A short hike this morning, followed by a canoe ride this afternoon. Then tomorrow we can sleep in and read and relax before we go waterskiing after lunch.”

  Bess rolled her eyes at me. I could tell she would have preferred spending the entire weekend doing nothing but sitting on the shores of Moon Lake with a magazine and a bottle of nail polish to touch up her manicure and pedicure. But there’s no way I could manage that—I would get way too antsy.

  Besides the outdoor activities, I also planned to read the latest Miles Whitmore mystery, Terror on the Trail. Lately, I couldn’t get enough of his books. I never figured out “whodunit” till the very end, and I’m an amateur detective. That’s how crafty a writer he is.

  I pulled away from George’s house and maneuvered my car toward the highway. Once we got going, it was only about fifty miles to Avondale, which is where Moon Lake is located. If we didn’t hit any traffic, we’d be there in under an hour.

  “We’ll make it up to you, Bess,” George said. “You have complete control over music for the entire weekend.”

  “Really?” Bess asked, incredulous. “I’m not sure I believe you. You always hate any group I like.”

  “Really. I promise,” George said. I was impressed. George can be incredibly opinionated when it comes to music. She and Bess are my best friends, and they also happen to be cousins. But the two are as different as Beethoven and The Rolling Stones. Sometimes it’s hard to believe they’re related.

  “Well, I suppose that’s something,” Bess said with a sigh. She plugged her MP3 into the radio and out blasted Grayson & James, her latest favorite group.

  I saw George in the rearview mirror, and I knew she was working hard to restrain herself. I saw her putting on her own headphones to drown out Bess’s music.

  “I know, I know,” Bess half apologized, sensing George’s frustration. “But this is great driving music, isn’t it, Nancy?”

  “I actually like this song,” I admitted sheepishly. I was trying to keep the peace between my friends, but I was also being truthful—the song was catchy and fun. And with that, we all settled in to enjoy the ride.

  We pulled up to our rental cabin on Moon Lake almost exactly an hour later. Towering green pines surrounded the cabin, and the setting looked inviting. I couldn’t wait to get started—within minutes, the car was unpacked and our hiking boots were on.

  “I promise it will be a short hike, Bess,” I told her as I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail. “Let’s just do one loop around the lake. We’ll be back in time for lunch.”

  “All right,” Bess grumbled. “Let’s get this over with.” She tightened the laces on her boots and the three of us headed for the trailhead, which happened to be just a few paces from our cabin.

  As we hiked, I took in the beautiful scenery and tried to let my mind wander. That can be tough for me, as I always have some mystery on my mind—a real one or one in a book.

  But this weekend at the lake I really planned to focus on my friends and the great outdoors.

  “Right, Nancy?” I heard George say. She was looking at me as though she’d been talking to me for five minutes without a response. Which, come to think of it, was quite possible.

  “Oh, uh, sorry, George,” I replied. “I guess I was lost in my own world.”

  “I said, that’s our cabin right there, isn’t it?” George repeated, pointing to the little wooden structure peeking through the trees a few hundred yards ahead of us.

  “It is,” I replied, glancing at my watch. “Wow, that was quick.” It had taken us less than an hour to hike the three-mile loop around the lake. Even Bess agreed that it had been pleasant and not particularly taxing.

  “Great!” George said. “Because I’m ready for Hannah’s lunch.”

  Back at the cabin, I went into the kitchen to get the basket Hannah had packed for our weekend. Hannah Gruen is my dad’s housekeeper, and she loves to keep all of us well fed and nurtured—she’s got lots of love to share. I couldn’t wait to dig into some of her famous fried chicken and homemade coleslaw.

  But the basket was nowhere to be found. Suddenly an image of it popped into my head. It was sitting on the counter—the counter at my house in River Heights, that is.

  “Bad news,” I groaned. “I left the lunch basket Hannah packed for us at home.”

  “That’s because you were rushing like crazy to get up here,” George said. “What’s my stomach supposed to do?” she joked.

  Bess smiled broadly. “I guess we’ll just have to make a trip into town, then,” she suggested. “It’s not far away, and I’m pretty sure Avondale has a bunch of cafés and cute stores.”

  She emphasized the word “stores,” and knowing Bess, she was eager to squeeze in some shopping along with lunch.

  “Great,” I agreed. “Because I also left Terror on the Trail at home, so now I have nothing to read. Hopefully there’s a bookstore in town too.”

  “Terror on the what?” George asked. “Do you ever stop trying to solve mysteries?” She tapped her tablet, which was perched on a nightstand. “You know, Nancy,” she continued, “you wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t so resistant to e-books. You could take ten books with you at once.”

  “As long as she remembered to actually bring the reader,” Bess pointed out.

  “Ha, ha,” I said drily. “But you know what? When it comes to books, I like the feel of the pages in my hands, and even the smell of them.”

  “That’s Nancy,” George teased. “Always with her nose in a book—literally. Now let’s go—I’m starving!”

  Ten minutes later we pulled into the town of Avondale. And Bess was right—there were plenty of quaint stores and shops. But that’s not what caught my attention. Two fire trucks were
stopped in the middle of the street, and an acrid smell filled the air.

  We parked and quickly made our way toward the crowd that had formed.

  “Was there a fire?” I asked a man with a golden retriever close by his side.

  “Looks that way,” he replied, shaking his head and gesturing toward a nearby building. A sign in front of the shop was in the shape of an open book. “And at Paige’s Pages, of all places.”

  Nearby, three young women had their heads together, whispering—but loud enough that we could hear them.

  “And now we won’t get to meet Lacey O’Brien,” one of them said.

  “I can’t believe it, Carly!” another replied. “And I’ve read all her mysteries.”

  That word got my attention. I moved closer to the girls.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know what happened? We’re just here for the weekend, but what’s going on here? I was trying to get to the bookstore, but it looks like that’s going to be, uh, difficult.”

  “We were here for the bookstore too,” the first girl replied. “Lacey O’Brien was supposed to do a reading and a book signing—you know, the mystery writer?”

  “I’ve heard of her, sure,” I replied.

  “She’s like a local celebrity around here,” the second girl, who had dark, curly hair, said. “Well, except that people hardly ever see her. I heard this book signing was the only one she was doing all year.”

  “And now we’re out of luck, aren’t we, Mandy?” the third girl added. “No signing today.”

  The girls continued chattering, and I took a few steps back. But I could still hear them clearly. In fact, everyone around us could. A firefighter near us was talking with a distraught-looking woman with graying hair who was pointing to the store.

  “Did you realize there was a fire in her latest book, Burned?” Mandy whisper-shouted to her friends.

  “You’re right!” Carly answered. “That’s a weird coincidence. You don’t think Lacey had anything to do with this fire, do you?”

  “Well, at least something finally happened here. Nothing exciting or mysterious ever happens in Avondale,” Mandy said.

  I wouldn’t be so sure, I thought. That’s what everyone thinks until something actually happens.

  At that moment, one of the other firefighters approached us.

  “Everyone, please step back,” he announced. “We need to get our equipment out of the store.”

  “Sure, no problem,” George said. We all moved back, but Mandy had ideas of her own and went right up to the fireman.

  “What happened?” she demanded. “We really, really wanted to see Lacey O’Brien today. And now we might have to wait another year until we do.”

  I could have sworn the fireman rolled his eyes. But he patiently answered her question. “From our initial investigation, it looks like some faulty wiring in an old chandelier,” he replied. “That happens a lot in older buildings like this one.”

  Mandy gasped. “It does?” she asked, an amazed look on her face. “Because that’s exactly how the fire started in Lacey O’Brien’s last book! Except the wiring in the chandelier hadn’t really caused the fire. It was arson!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Missing Wallet

  I TURNED TO GEORGE AND Bess to see if they had been listening. One glance at their faces told me they had heard everything. In fact, there was an almost collective gasp from the crowd around us.

  “Hmm,” the firefighter replied. “That’s very interesting. But until we do a more complete investigation, we can’t make that assumption, miss.”

  Mandy turned back to her friends. “Well, I can, and I will,” she whispered to them.

  The crowd broke up and Bess, George, and I walked slowly down the main street.

  George cleared her throat. “Nancy, if this is arson, then it’s really none of our business, right?” she began. “We can just go about our weekend plans, can’t we?”

  “Without you looking under every rock,” Bess chimed in.

  My mouth dropped open, but I wasn’t really surprised. My friends knew me better than anyone, except maybe for Ned. And they knew it would be close to impossible for me to resist a suspicious fire and a well-known writer who happened to specialize in mysteries.

  “I guess I’m an open book,” I agreed with a soft laugh. “No pun intended.”

  “Well, before we start,” George said as we walked, “can we grab some lunch first? I won’t be much help unless I eat.”

  “Why don’t you and Bess find someplace, while I ask a few more questions? Just text me where you go, and I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes. Okay?” I said.

  “Perfect,” George agreed as she and Bess headed down the street.

  I turned back toward the spot where the firefighter had been talking with Lacey O’Brien’s fans. Most everyone who had gathered was gone, except for the firefighter who Mandy had questioned. He was busy talking on his phone and I waited a moment until he seemed like he was wrapping up his conversation.

  “Excuse me,” I asked. “But do you know when the bookstore might reopen? And when Lacey O’Brien will be signing her books?”

  “I think you’re out of luck,” he replied. “The store won’t be reopening for a few weeks at least. It wasn’t a bad fire, but there’s a lot of smoke and water damage. The owner, Paige Samuels, has quite a mess on her hands.”

  “Do you think those girls were right?” I asked innocently. Then I thought fast. “My brother’s a volunteer firefighter and has never dealt with arson before.”

  “I really don’t know and can’t say just yet,” he replied. “It looked like bad wiring to begin with, but it could have been anything. As I said, we’ll be doing a full investigation, but it’s too soon to tell right now.”

  He excused himself and headed over to the other firefighters. I nodded and backed away. Then I pulled out my phone to see if George or Bess had texted me. I had one new message from George: MEET US AT THE AVONDALE DINER, CORNER OF PARKSIDE AND MAIN.

  I headed up the street, passing an eyeglasses store and a bakery. Baskets of purple and pink impatiens hung from the streetlamps, and I had the feeling that Mandy was probably right that nothing exciting ever did happen in Avondale. It was quiet and quaint with a small-town feel. So why now—why a fire? And who? And did the fire really have anything to do with Lacey O’Brien’s book? Or maybe even Lacey O’Brien herself?

  At that moment I passed the Cheshire Cat Inn. In front a woman was sweeping the sidewalk, mumbling to herself. She had curly, dark-brown hair with a distinctive streak of gray in it. As I got closer, I realized she was talking to someone—an older man in an apron who stood half-hidden in the doorway to the bakery.

  “She had it coming to her, if you ask me, Arnold,” I heard her say.

  “Now, now, Alice,” the man scolded gently. “I know you and Paige have never been the best of friends, but no one deserves to have her shop practically burned to the ground.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. They were talking about the bookstore and the owner. I had to find out more.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But I think I’m a bit lost. Is this the way to the Avondale Diner? Parkside and Main?”

  “You’re going in the right direction,” the man—Arnold—replied. “This is Main Street here. Just keep walking two more short blocks and you’ll come to Parkside. The diner’s on the other side of the street. Best peach pie around, by the way,” he added, and smiled.

  “Thank you,” I said, and started walking, but then turned back.

  “One more thing. I was hoping to get a copy of Lacey O’Brien’s latest mystery at the bookstore, but her signing was canceled.” I gestured toward the few people still lingering in front of Paige’s Pages. “Do either of you know of another place in town that sells books?”

  The woman stopped sweeping. “I sell all of Ce—I mean, Lacey’s—novels in my gift shop,” she replied, somewhat too cheerily. She stepped into the lobby of the inn and
motioned for me to follow her.

  “Thanks, that’s perfect,” I said. I followed her into the lobby, which was dim, dark, and covered in ornate, flowery wallpaper. An enormous antique grandfather clock stood against one wall. Just beyond it was a small arched entryway that led to a tiny nook of a room. In addition to a wide variety of antiques, it was packed with Cheshire cat–themed gifts, from salt and pepper shakers to clocks to tea towels and Alice in Wonderland books and toys.

  “This is a lovely place,” I said as I studied an antique Tiffany lamp in the entryway to the gift shop. “It’s so charming.”

  “Thank you,” she answered. She seemed surprised at the compliment. “It’s nice to see a young person like yourself appreciates dusty old antiques the same way I do. Most girls your age are more interested in cell phones and technical gadgets.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m Alice Ann Marple, by the way. Lacey O’Brien’s from around here, you know. Tourists know she’s a local writer, so guests are always asking for her books.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Nancy Drew,” I said. “I’m a writer myself,” I fibbed. “And a big mystery fan.” I gestured to the rack of Lacey O’Brien’s novels, which was tucked between a display of antique picture frames and a shelf of cat figurines. There were at least ten different titles to choose from.

  “I’m sure you know, but this one’s her latest,” Alice Ann began, picking up a copy of Burned. The front cover showed an old house lit up in bright flames. “But this one’s my favorite.”

  She handed me a copy of a book called Framed, which had an image of a shadowy figure in an oversize picture frame on the cover.

  “You know, all of her books are set in a town that’s similar to Avondale,” Alice Ann continued. “Some people even think they’re based on real crimes, but I think that’s just ridiculous. I went to high school with her, and she had quite an active imagination.”