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.

“Ned! I’m sorry—but I think I will take you up on your offer. Can you come to Avondale first thing tomorrow?” I said.

“Of course I’ll come. But are you all right tonight?” Ned asked.

I assured him I would lock my door, not open it for anyone, and meet him at the Avondale Diner at eight a.m. We said good night and I got into bed, still tired and now a bit scared.

Not surprisingly, I had trouble falling asleep. A million thoughts filled my head. I must have been closer to who was behind this mystery than I realized. Who’d left that note, written with a typewriter?

I sat up in bed. Typewriter . . . there was one right on the desk in my room. I turned the night table lamp on and walked over to the desk. I took a sheet of the Cheshire Cat Inn stationery and put it in the roller.

I typed the same words in the note: STOP PRESSING YOUR LUCK. IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL GET OUT OF TOWN NOW.

I ripped out the paper, inspected the Ts, and almost started crying, but from relief: This wasn’t the same typewriter used to write the note sent to me. I’d been so worried that someone had snuck into my room. But maybe, just maybe, if I found the typewriter that was used for the letter, I would find out who was behind the crimes.

The next morning I was already on my second cup of tea, reading my article in the River Heights Bugle, when Ned arrived at the diner. He listened closely while I filled him in on everything that had happened—everything I hadn’t written about in the article, that is—over the last few days.

“So you’ve talked to Paige, Lacey, Alice Ann, and Mr. Tate. It could be any of them, Nancy,” Ned said.

It was great seeing Ned. And great to be able to bounce theories off him. After we talked, we both were in agreement about two things: We didn’t think Lacey was the culprit. And in order to find who was, we had to find the broken typewriter.

I figured we’d swing by Paige’s Pages first, and then stop at the Cheshire Cat Inn. Both seemed to be likely spots for an antique typewriter. But the bookstore was dark and the web of police tape still decorated the front door. I cupped my hands around my face to block out the bright sunlight and peered inside, but the store looked deserted. I realized I didn’t know how to reach Paige other than by stopping by the shop, but then I remembered Alice Ann. Maybe she would be able to tell me where to find the bookstore owner.

“Nothing?” Ned asked as I backed away from the darkened window.

“Nope,” I replied, shaking my head. “Let’s walk up the street to the Cheshire Cat Inn. Wait till you see this place.”

When we entered the inn, Alice Ann was front and center behind the receptionist’s desk, chatting with someone on the phone. When she saw me come in, her face lit up. She gestured that she would be just a moment, and I nodded before Ned and I ducked into the gift shop.

“Wow, she sure has a thing for cats,” Ned remarked as he took in the array of cat-shaped knickknacks crammed into the tiny space.

“Mm-hmm,” I replied absently as I surveyed the space for typewriters. Antiques and old-looking memorabilia were everywhere. My eyes took in a shelf of antique scissors (strange items for an inn gift shop, I thought) and old-fashioned writing devices like fountain pens and quills. In addition to the spinner rack of paperbacks that housed all of Lacey O’Brien’s books, there was a shelf of dusty old dictionaries, encyclopedias, and Avondale High School yearbooks. But there was no typewriter.

“Nancy!” a voice cried out behind me, and I turned to see Alice. Shockingly, she grabbed me and gave me a friendly hug.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Hi, Alice. Good morning.”

She laughed. “I hope you had a restful night. I was looking for you this morning, but you were out bright and early. But now I can thank you in person.”

“Thank me?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. “For what?”

“Ever since your article was published in the River Heights Bugle this morning, my phone has been ringing off the hook,” Alice replied, a huge grin on her face. “We’ve had a tough summer at the inn, and it’s been hard to book rooms. But it seems that people all over the county are curious about Avondale and Moon Lake since your story came out. We’re completely booked for the next three weekends, and I imagine we’ll be full for the rest of the summer by the end of the day. It seems people want to make a weekend trip to Avondale so they can retrace the steps of the copycat criminal. And relax by the lake, of course.”

“That’s a little disturbing,” Ned replied, a troubled look on his face.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” Alice admitted, and her brow wrinkled for a moment in dismay. Then she shrugged. “But it’s been great for business.”

At that moment the phone rang again, and Alice dashed back to the reception desk to answer it. Ned and I continued to browse the shop while she finished the call. About fifteen minutes later she returned.

“Sorry about that,” she explained a bit breathlessly. “Now, what can I do for you two?” She studied Ned carefully and raised her eyebrows questioningly at me.

“This is Ned Nickerson,” I replied. “Ned, this is Alice Ann Marple.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Alice said as she shook his hand.

“You too,” Ned replied. “Nancy told me about your little shop, and I know how much she loves antiques.”

“Actually, I was really looking for an old-fashioned typewriter,” I jumped in. “Would you happen to have any of those?”

I watched her closely to see her reaction, but Alice Ann barely blinked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she replied. “But I do have some vintage typewriter ribbon tins. They’re very collectible.” She pointed to a shelf of colorful lidded tins.