Once Upon a Thriller (Nancy Drew Diaries #4)(3)

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.”