Chapter 12 #2
I carefully looked across the nightstand while trying not to disturb anything.
A small bottle of prescription eye drops sat beside the lamp near a folded fundraiser pamphlet from the Historical Society tea.
Nothing inside the room immediately screamed clue or murder.
Instead, the room looked exactly like what it was supposed to be: a temporary bedroom belonging to a wealthy Southern woman attending charity events in Kentucky.
A loud thump sounded somewhere downstairs.
Both of us froze instantly.
My pulse jumped hard enough I could hear it in my ears.
“What was that?” I whispered sharply.
Dottie held up one hand for silence while turning toward the hallway.
Another sound followed several seconds later. Metal clanked softly against something downstairs before silence settled over the farmhouse again.
I grabbed the edge of the dresser automatically. “Somebody’s here.”
“Could be pipes,” Dottie whispered.
“That did not sound like pipes, but I don’t know anything about these old houses,” I said, leaning in closer to her ear and eyeballing Florence’s closet in case we needed a quick hiding spot.
Neither of us moved for a couple of minutes. We looked at each other, gave a shrug, then slipped back into the hallway and quietly moved toward Tara Kelly’s suite two doors down.
The difference between Florence and Tara’s rooms became obvious immediately.
Tara’s suite looked immaculate. Every toiletry item lined the bathroom counter in perfect rows while a navy garment bag hung untouched from the closet door.
Legal pads and folders stamped with the Kentucky state seal sat stacked neatly on the desk beside an expensive leather briefcase and several charging cords wrapped carefully together.
“Good gracious,” Dottie muttered while looking around. “This woman organizes everything.”
I walked slowly toward the desk while scanning the papers. Typed schedules. Fundraising notes. Event itineraries. Everything looked polished and tightly controlled.
We quietly left Tara’s room and moved farther down the hallway toward Alice Charles’s suite.
Unlike Florence’s polished elegance or Tara’s political perfection, Alice’s room looked practical and lived-in.
Hiking boots sat beside the closet near rolled-up trail maps while forest service folders covered the desk near the windows.
A green Daniel Boone National Forest jacket hung across the armchair beside a canvas field bag overflowing with paperwork.
The room smelled faintly of peppermint and cedar.
“Well,” Dottie muttered quietly while looking around. “This feels cheerful.”
I moved slowly toward the desk while scanning the clutter. Forestry permits. Conservation reports. Trail restoration paperwork. Environmental brochures.
Then I noticed the planner.
It sat half-open beside the lamp with a pair of reading glasses resting across the pages.
“What’d you find?” Dottie whispered while moving beside me.
“I don’t know yet.”
I picked up the planner carefully and started flipping through the pages. At first, everything looked ordinary enough. Committee meetings. Conservation luncheons. Forestry events.
Then the same name started appearing repeatedly.
Tex.
There weren’t any full details, just short little notes scattered across several weeks.
“Trail clearing with Tex.”
“Forest wellness setup with Tex in the woods.”
“Meet Tex near lower ridge.”
“Cascades consultation.”
“Reiki follow-up.”
My stomach tightened.
“These go back a couple of weeks,” I whispered. “And they are all about Tex.”
I flipped farther backward while mentally piecing together Queenie’s timeline from earlier at the laundromat. Then it hit me.
“These all started after Alice offered Queenie the extra ten thousand dollars for the seating chart,” I told her. I remembered how Queenie told me Alice had contacted her a couple of months ago, and how convenient was it that Alice suddenly had Tex in her planner over the last couple of weeks?
“You sure?” Dottie’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“Yes.” I nodded slowly while turning another page. “Queenie said Alice approached her about that table two months ago.” I pointed toward the planner. “These start right after.”
Neither of us spoke for several long seconds.
The realization settled heavily between us.
“Alice hated Florence Sparks. Alice desperately wanted to sit at that table. Alice had repeated private contact with Tex for weeks leading up to the fundraiser,” I said, voicing my thoughts out loud. “And now Tex sits in custody while Alice walks around free.”
Another car door slammed outside.
The sound echoed sharply through the quiet farmhouse.
Both of us jumped.
“Oh Lord,” I hissed quietly.
Dottie rushed toward the window and carefully pulled the curtain aside just enough to peek outside. “Big black car,” she whispered. “Lots of serious-looking men.”
Voices drifted faintly through the downstairs hallway a second later. Low muffled conversation mixed with the sound of the screen door creaking open downstairs.
Every muscle in my body tightened instantly.
“They’re inside,” I whispered.
Dottie looked toward me quickly. “Put the planner back.”
“No,” I whispered back. “We are keeping it.”
I shoved it in my bag as the heavy footsteps crossed the kitchen floor downstairs.
Then the staircase creaked, and my heart slammed hard against my chest. Dottie motioned wildly toward the bathroom. We scrambled silently across the room just as the footsteps climbed higher up the staircase.
One step at a time, the old farmhouse groaned beneath heavy boots.
I eased the bathroom door almost shut behind us while both of us squeezed beside the marble sink, trying not to breathe too loudly, just enough so I could see through the crack of the door.
The footsteps reached the upstairs hallway.
Then they stopped. I turned to look at Dottie, pulling my finger up to my mouth so she didn’t talk because I could see the men had stopped just inside the door of Alice’s room.
I threw my arm back against Dottie, out of habit like I would do in my car if we were suddenly going to crash, just as a shadow crossed beneath the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door.
My pulse hammered so hard against my ribs I was positive whoever was out there could hear it through the walls.
Dottie leaned down toward my ear. “If I die in Alice Charles’s bathroom, I’m hauntin’ everybody involved,” she whispered.
“This is not the time,” I mouthed back.
The floor creaked, and both of us froze completely.
From our hiding spot beside the marble vanity, we could only see part of Alice’s room reflected in the bathroom mirror, but honestly, it gave us a much better angle than trying to peek through the crack in the door would have.
A man stepped into view, wearing a dark-gray suit tailored so sharp it probably cost more than my entire camper.
He was tall, with silver hair combed perfectly back from his forehead and polished loafers that barely made noise against the hardwood floor.
Another man followed him, carrying a leather briefcase while a third quietly shut the bedroom door behind them.
“Well?” the silver-haired man asked while loosening his tie slightly. His voice carried the tired irritation of someone used to cleaning up rich people’s messes. “Find anything?”
The sound of rummaging filled the room. Closet doors slid open. Hangers scraped against the rod while drawers opened and shut harder than necessary.
“Boxes,” another man finally said from somewhere near the closet. A second later, cardboard scraped across the floor, followed by the sound of packing paper crinkling.
“What’s in it?” the younger man asked while flipping through papers at Alice’s desk.
“China cups,” the first one answered right before a loud crash exploded through the room. Porcelain shattered against the hardwood floor hard enough to make me jump against Dottie. “Cheap little things too.”
I widened my eyes at Dottie immediately.
Teacups.
Vintage teacups.
The exact things Cheryl Paisley had mentioned going missing from Tough Nickel Thrift Shop.
Dottie’s expression changed too. Her eyebrows rose slowly while her mouth dropped open just enough for me to know she was thinking the same thing I was.
“Nothing yet over here,” the younger man said while moving toward Alice’s desk. Papers shuffled loudly. “But if Florence Sparks documented anything about the governor, it’ll be here.”
I slowly widened my eyes toward Dottie.
Dottie’s mouth dropped open silently.
The silver-haired man rubbed both hands down his face before looking toward the ceiling in frustration. “This situation is already a disaster. The governor does not need Florence Sparks’s affair becoming public on top of a suspicious death.”
I nearly inhaled my own tongue. Dottie clamped one hand over her mouth so fast her elbow knocked lightly against the bathroom wall.
Every single man in the bedroom froze.
I stopped breathing entirely.
The silver-haired man slowly turned toward the bathroom door.
“What was that?” he asked quietly.
Dottie’s eyes got huge.
I stared back at her in complete horror.
The younger man near the desk shrugged. “Old house.”
Nobody moved for painfully long seconds. Finally, the silver-haired man waved one irritated hand.
“Just find the damn planner, notes, letters, anything tying Florence to the governor before the press gets hold of it,” he instructed.
My grip tightened around my purse instantly because that planner was inside my bag.
Dottie slowly looked down toward my purse, too, and then back up at me with an expression that clearly said we were both about to die.
The men started moving around the room quickly after that. Drawers opened, and the box of china scooted as they looked in the closet again. Hangers scraped loudly against the closet rod while papers shuffled across the desk.
“These social women document everything,” one of the men muttered while flipping through Florence’s fundraiser pamphlets. “Birthday lunches. Charity events. Affairs.”