Chapter 4
Rowan moved first.
He took the photograph from Clara’s hand, placed it carefully on Evelyn’s desk, and stepped toward the hidden room door with his hand near his sidearm.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
He looked back.
“That was not a suggestion.”
“Then neither was my answer.”
Bea whispered, “Children, perhaps argue after the intruder leaves.”
Rowan said something under his breath that sounded like a prayer with poor manners, then led them out of the hidden room and into the library.
The house listened around them.
The first floor was empty. The foyer still. The parlor quiet. Rain had begun tapping against the windows, though Clara could not remember seeing clouds gather. Magnolia Cove weather, like its residents, had a gift for arriving at inconvenient moments with a full performance prepared.
Another sound came from upstairs.
A scrape.
A pause.
Then one soft footstep overhead.
Rowan motioned for Clara and Bea to stay behind him. They obeyed, mostly because the staircase was too narrow to allow disobedience with dignity.
The blue guest room door stood open.
Bea stopped so abruptly Clara nearly ran into her.
“It was locked,” Bea said.
The room smelled of rain and old wallpaper. A window stood open, curtains snapping inward with every gust. A lamp lay on its side beside the bed. Mud streaked the sill, and near the dresser, a partial shoe print darkened the floorboards.
Someone had entered.
Or escaped.
Rowan crouched beside the print. “Do not step closer.”
Clara stopped in the doorway. “Who had a key?”
Bea’s face had gone pale. “Evelyn. The locksmith. Maybe Miles Bellamy.”
Clara turned. “Who is Miles Bellamy?”
“A contractor. Evelyn hired him to look at the east wing.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“And you’re mentioning him now?”
Bea lifted her chin. “I have had a stressful day.”
Rowan looked up from the print. “What did Evelyn want with a contractor?”
“She said he knew how to open walls without asking too many questions.”
The rain slapped harder against the glass.
Clara looked from the muddy print to the open window. The blue guest room sat above the side porch roof. A determined person could climb down, but not gracefully. Whoever had been inside knew the inn well enough to move fast through a storm.
Rowan’s phone rang.
He checked the screen, and the room shifted around him.
Clara saw the name before he silenced it.
Dad.
Thomas Hale.
“You should answer,” she said.
“Not now.”
“Because you are standing in a room after finding a photograph that asks why your father lied?”
His eyes met hers.
“Because I am standing in a possible crime scene.”
“Both can be true.”
Thunder rolled over the marsh.
Rowan stood. “I am calling Chief Danner. This needs to be documented properly, and I should not be handling anything connected to my father.”
The admission surprised her.
It also did something worse.
It made her trust him a little.
Bea pressed a hand to her chest. “Do we think whoever was here found anything?”
Clara pictured the hidden archive below them. The boxes. The legal pad. Her mother’s name in Evelyn’s handwriting.
“We found it first,” Clara said.
Rowan looked at the room, then the hallway. “That does not mean we were first to look.”
Before he could call Danner, the front bell rang.
No one moved.
The bell rang again.
Bea looked toward the stairs. “It is too late for condolence visits.”
They descended together. Rowan reached the foyer first, his posture careful now, all badge and restraint. Through the rain-streaked glass beside the front door, Clara saw a pale umbrella, a cream raincoat, and a face arranged into patient concern.
Celeste Ashford.
“Do not open it,” Rowan said.
Clara already had her hand on the knob.
“Clara.”
She turned. “This is my house.”
Then she opened the door.
Celeste stood on the porch as if storms arranged themselves around her. Not a drop of rain touched her hair. In one hand she held a leather folder.
“Clara,” she said. “Forgive the intrusion.”
“People keep intruding today. You may as well join the line.”
Celeste’s smile remained delicate. “I heard there had been some disturbance. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Rowan stepped into view behind Clara.
Celeste’s gaze flicked to him. “Detective. How reassuring.”
“That depends on what you brought,” he said.
Celeste lifted the folder slightly. “Only an offer.”
Clara stared at her.
“An offer?”
“For Magnolia Inn. I know this is sudden, but sudden burdens sometimes require swift solutions.”
Evelyn had been in the ground for less than six hours.
Clara felt grief sharpen into something cleaner.
“You brought a purchase offer to my grandmother’s house on the day of her funeral.”
Celeste’s smile thinned. “I brought you a way out.”
Behind Clara, the hidden room waited.
Evelyn’s note waited.
The photograph waited with Thomas Hale’s name written on its back.
The town wanted the inn.
Someone wanted what was inside it.
And Celeste Ashford had arrived too soon with papers.