Within seconds, Cecilia Brown—aka Lacey O’Brien—flung open the door and greeted me by grabbing both of my hands tightly in hers and squeezing them, hard.
“Please tell me you’re still feeling okay, dear,” she gushed as she swiftly pulled me into the house.
“Of course!” I replied. “I’m feeling just fine. Honest.”
Her cheeks reddened, and she looked down at her feet in what seemed to be embarrassment.
“I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” she said softly. “I know who you are.”
Wow. Did she know I was writing an article? And that I suspected her of staging her crimes from her books?
She continued, “I recognize you from the lake on Saturday. You had two other young women with you. I’m so very sorry Rick and I didn’t come out to help you. I truly regret it. It’s just that—well, we’ve had people stalk us from Moon Lake in the past, and we’re never sure who to trust.”
Lacey wrung her hands nervously, then said, “We did call the sheriff, but there’s still no excuse for our not coming out there ourselves to make sure you were okay.”
I was stunned. That Lacey—Cecilia—was so honest and forthcoming took me by surprise. Could this truly be someone masterminding a local crime spree?
“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” I answered. “Luckily, we were just drenched to the bone, shaken up somewhat, but nothing more serious.”
“Why don’t we sit down and make ourselves comfortable,” she replied, and I followed her into a warm and comfortable living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. We settled in on an overstuffed couch.
“We were not stalking you, but we did hear that this is where Lacey O’Brien lives. And when you and I had our run-in in town, I had no idea you were Lacey O’Brien.”
I paused and then admitted, “I’m not here about our run-in this morning, though. I’m here because I’d like to interview you for an article I’m writing for the River Heights Bugle.”
Again, Lacey looked embarrassed. “I see it wasn’t hard for you to connect the dots about who I am. I’m so sorry, but I don’t grant any interviews about my work,” she explained. “I made a decision many years ago not to allow interviews, so now I’m afraid I’m stuck. If I make an exception for one paper, the floodgates would open. I hope you understand.”
Once again, she seemed genuinely sorry.
“The story isn’t about your writing,” I said. “It’s actually about a number of crimes that have taken place around Avondale this weekend.”
“What does that have to do with me?” she asked, looking me squarely in the eyes.
Truth time. I was a little nervous to directly confront Lacey and was hoping she wasn’t currently writing a mystery entitled Murder at Moon Lake, but I had to take the chance. I probably should have looped in Sheriff Garrison and Ian, but I kind of knew they wouldn’t approve of what I was doing.
“My article reports the ways the perpetrator of the crimes is stealing ideas from your books—Burned and Framed. The police and the fire department have determined that the bookstore fire started due to wiring in an old chandelier that had been tampered with—exactly like what happened in Burned. And besides Mr. Tate, you’re the only one with a key to the gallery’s back room and easy access to the statue. I’m afraid that you’re at the top of my suspect list.”
Lacey paled. And then grew angry.
“That’s awful,” she said. “And, frankly, I resent your accusations. However, for your information, I was home the morning of the fire—Paige called me to tell me about it. I certainly couldn’t be two places at once!”
She went on heatedly, “There is no way I could be your culprit.”
I exhaled. What a relief.
“Now I’m the one to apologize, Lacey. But I hope you understand that I had to play my hunch,” I said.
There was somewhat of an awkward silence before I spoke again.
“It’s quite possible then that you’re being framed.”
“Me, framed?” She laughed lightly, and I realized it was the first time I had seen her smile. But then she paused as though trying to determine whether she should reveal something.
“About ten years ago a big fan of my work called me every day. He figured out where I lived and trailed me around town for a number of weeks. He was basically harmless, but I ended up getting a restraining order because it was very unsettling. The last I heard, he had retired to Florida and was doing well. That’s the main reason Rick and I became so reclusive and protective of our privacy. We didn’t want to go through something like that again,” she said.
“Have you heard from him recently?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t,” she replied with a shake of her head. “I actually have no reason to suspect him, but we do have a history, so it’s one possibility.”
“Anyone else?” I said.
She shook her head again. “I’m afraid there’s no one I can think of.”
I took down the former stalker’s name anyway. Though it didn’t sound like a promising lead, I intended to look into it. Then I gave her my number and asked her to call if she thought of anything else. “If anyone comes to mind, please let me know. Who knows what they’ll do next to set you up?”
“I’ll definitely be in touch if I think of anything,” Lacey said. “Nancy, I should let you know that I’m going to tell my husband Richard what’s transpiring. I don’t want either of us letting down our guard.”
She walked me to my car and warned me to be careful.
“I know Avondale has a peaceful facade, but one never knows what lies beneath.”
Even though it was warm outside, Lacey’s words chilled me to the bone.
Another exhausting day. I drove back to town, looking forward to the quiet of my room at the inn. Now I had to write the article, and by the time I was done with it, I realized I hadn’t solved a thing and had actually created more questions than I had answered.
Just after seven thirty, I hit send with my article to Ned. Then I called to let him know it was on its way.
“You sound beat, Nancy,” Ned said. “Maybe I should drive to Avondale tomorrow and help you out.”
“I’m fine. If I can’t figure this case out in the next two days, I promise to turn it over to the sheriff,” I told him. I was about to hang up, when there was a knock at my door.
“Hold on a minute, Ned. Let me see who this is.” I padded past the Dr. Seuss chair and opened the door.
Nobody was there.
But on the ground was an envelope with my name. I opened it, wondering what it could be, a thin slip of paper fluttered out. I picked it up and read the typewritten note:
STOP PRESSING YOUR LUCK. IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL GET OUT OF TOWN NOW.
CHAPTER TEN
Stalked
“NED, I’LL CALL YOU RIGHT back,” I said, and hung up.
I peered at the note and realized it had been typed on an old-school typewriter rather than printed out from a computer. I looked at the letters closely and realized that all the Ts were more faded than the other letters, as though that key on the typewriter didn’t work quite so well.
I looked up and down the hallway and didn’t see or hear a soul.
Suddenly my phone rang, and I jumped. “Hello? Who is this? What do you want?”
“Nancy? It’s me, Ned. You said you’d call back in a minute—what happened?” He sounded panic-stricken.