Maggie paused, trying to recall when she last went into the drawer. Maybe she’d forgotten to lock it. But the memory she retrieved was a clear picture of placing the Clabber items under other documents, turning the key, and tugging at the drawer to make sure it was properly locked. In fact, she remembered locking all four drawers on the desk.
She checked them. Each was unlocked.
Her heart heavy with fear, she opened the drawer and pawed through its contents until she found the file marked “Receipts.” She was relieved to see the copies she’d made of the Clabbers’ brochures and Beverly’s ring. Then she dug to the bottom of the pile to find the originals. She saw nothing. Fear blossomed into panic as Maggie yanked out the drawer and dumped everything in it onto the floor. She went through the papers and loose ends over and over again. But the ring was gone, as well as the original brochures.
“My goodness, what is going on out here?” A sleepy Gran’ appeared in her bedroom doorway, her lace-trimmed cream nightgown gently billowing from the breeze of the ceiling fan above her. “I was afraid we had mice, or one of those giant flying palmetto bugs had found their way in. I still have the occasional nightmare from when I thought I heard someone in my room and turned on the light only to find one of those disgusting winged roaches wandering through my perfumes.”
“Gran’, have you been in this drawer? Did you take a ring and some brochures from it? It’s okay if you did; I just need to know.”
“I would never do such a thing without telling you. Why, are they important?”
“They’re what I found hidden in the Clabbers’ room. A signet initial ring and brochures from a Scottish castle and English country manor.”
“And they’re missing?”
Maggie hesitated, hating to admit it. “Yes.”
“Oh, dear.” Gran’ sat on the couch. “That’s not good at all, is it?”
“No. It is not good.”
Neither of them voiced it, but the same thought was in both of their minds. Someone had come into their home with the express purpose of finding what the Clabbers had hidden and Maggie had rehidden.
And the odds were pretty good that the evidence thief was Beverly Clabber’s killer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Gran’ cautioned. “It could be a common burglar. I’ll see if my jewelry is gone and you do the same.”
“I don’t have anything worth stealing.”
“Well, the burglars don’t know that.”
The women went into their bedrooms and checked on their valuables, which in Maggie’s case meant sentimental costume jewelry like a charm bracelet she’d received for her seventh birthday featuring images of the Spice Girls, a pop group she’d idolized at the time. She and Gran’ then reconvened in the living room.
“Nothing’s missing,” Maggie reported.
“Nothing of mine either.” Gran’ said. “I never thought I’d be disappointed not to be robbed.”
“So all they wanted was Beverly Clabber’s things. How did they even know I had them? Or that she had them?”
“I think if we knew that, we’d know who killed the poor woman. By the way, hiding the copies in that ‘Receipts’ folder was very clever of you. At least you still have something to work from.”
“To be honest,” Maggie confessed, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I just grabbed the nearest empty folder.”
“My dear, learn to take a compliment.” Gran’ stood and stretched. “I’m going back to bed.”
Maggie stared at her grandmother. “You can sleep now?”
“Well, I don’t see any use in the alternative. I’d much rather be killed in my sleep than lie awake waiting for it.”
“Gran’, that’s so brutal.”
“I prefer to think of it as practical. Good-night.” Gran’ walked to her room but stopped in the doorway. “Although do throw the deadbolt tonight for a bit of extra insurance.”
Gran’ disappeared into her room and Maggie stared at the mess on the floor. No ring or brochures magically materialized, so she put everything back in the drawer, which she then maneuvered into place. The only item she kept out was the folder with the copies.
She got up, threw the deadbolt, then returned to the desk and turned on the desk lamp. Unlike Gran’, there was no way she could sleep. Instead, she pulled out the copy of the McDonough Castle brochure and powered up her tablet. An Internet search yielded the website for the castle, and Maggie studied it carefully. The “About” tab took her to a chatty page that shared the castle’s history as the ancestral home of the Murrays, Scottish-landed gentries who could trace their peerage back to the late seventeenth century. The eldest Murray laid claim to the title Duke of Dundess.
At the bottom of the page was a crest, and under that a monogram. Maggie pulled out the copy of Beverly’s ring; the florid script on it was an exact match to the McDonough Castle monogram’s calligraphy. Clearly, Beverly had some connection to the place. Was she just a McDonough Castle fangirl? Maggie knew the obsessive love people developed for a certain part of the world. The Cuties were the perfect case in point. Maybe Beverly was a British Castle Cutie. If Maggie was going to discover whatever it was that motivated Beverly to ape the monogram’s calligraphy, she needed to learn more about the castle, which meant going beyond the first page of the search.
But first, she stared at the crest. She could swear she’d seen it before but couldn’t place where. She closed her eyes, took some meditative breaths, and tried clearing her mind.
*
The next thing Maggie knew, sunshine was streaming through the windows and Gran’ was gently shaking her. “Wake up, darlin’. You fell asleep right on top of your computer.”
Maggie roused herself and looked at the computer screen. Her castle search was gone, replaced by gobbledygook. At some point, she must have passed out with her head resting on the keyboard and hit a bunch of keys.
“Jan is back,” Gran’ said as she adjusted the tie on her bathrobe. “The police can’t charge her with anything until they get the results from the DNA test. Heavens, listen to me. In my life, I never thought I’d sound like some character from a TV police show. Back to business; the Cuties are staying here with her, but our other guests are preparing to check out.”
“No,” Maggie said, frowning. “I need more time.”
Gran’ went into her room to dress for the day and Maggie retyped her Internet search, this time listing it as “information on McDonough Castle and Cobs Manor.” On the second page, she found the connection between the two historic sites featured on Beverly’s brochures. Cobs Manor was also an ancestral home of the Murrays, sort of a summer place.
She canceled her search and entered “Duke of Dundess—McDonough Hall.” An obituary for Hamish Murray, a.k.a. Lord Livingston, Duke of Dundess, filled her screen. A solitary sort, he had passed away only a few months ago at the age of ninety-two, survived by no one. She entered another search specifically for the late duke, and a brief article from one of Scotland’s leading newspapers, The Herald, popped up. It was titled “American Royalty?” and explained that because Hamish left no heirs in the British Isles, his attorneys had to cast a wide net. They managed to track down a very distant relative in the United States, guaranteeing that the dukedom wouldn’t go extinct.
Maggie sat back and digested this information. Was horrible Hal Clabber slated to be the next Duke of Dundess? She had read enough Jane Austen to know that inherited titles only passed to sons, not daughters—at least in the nineteenth century. Maybe things had changed in the last two hundred years. She searched “inherited peerages” and was disappointed to see a long list of articles about an ongoing battle in Britain to allow daughters to inherit when no son was in the picture. Apparently, things hadn’t changed, which pointed to Hal Clabber, which made no sense since he had died of natural causes while his wife was the murder victim.