Once Upon a Thriller (Nancy Drew Diaries #4)(21)

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.

Right before we pulled into her driveway, Ned asked, “What about Lacey’s stalker? Did you check him out? These notes seem to have ‘stalker’ written all over them. No pun intended.”

I had to smile at Ned. I knew he was trying to calm my nerves. “I did check up on him. I placed a few calls before you came this morning and confirmed that he’s still in Florida.”