“The Folio?” Piper asked.

  Peter and I nodded.

  Peter pointed at the bound book next to my coffee cup. “And what were you hoping to find in that?”

  I wrapped my hands around the cup and leaned away from him. I bit my lip, ashamed. “I thought maybe Harold had made a note in here,” I tapped the agenda, “somewhere, that clearly pointed to you.”

  He held back a smirk. “I see.”

  Piper chimed in. “Then if it’s not Peter. Who did it?”

  I sighed heavily, looking from my best friend to Peter. We were at a dead end. “I have no idea.” I felt defeated.

  “Neither do I.” Peter took his hand in mine. “But whoever it is, I don’t think they’ll leave Willow Creek until they get exactly what they came for.”

  “Well, we need to stop them,” I said adamantly.

  Peter leaned in as if telling me a secret. “Talbot Meadows.” He grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips. “You continue to astound me.” He kissed my palm. “But maybe this is your cue to take a step back.”

  I ignored his last sentence, sweeping it away with the back of my hand and opened the planner to October 22 — the day of Harold’s murder. “This is how I knew he had a meeting scheduled with Mayor Moore.” I scanned the appointments from that day. “Nothing unusual there.”

  Piper and Peter now hovered over my shoulders.

  “Look back to the few weeks prior,” Piper suggested, pouring more coffee in her mug.

  I flipped back to the week of the seventh, my eyes moving quickly through the entries. “Harold certainly liked routine.” I noticed he never veered from usual breakfast, garden walks, and nightcaps.

  “He broke it here.” Peter’s finger rested on the afternoon of the twelfth of October, where all Harold had written was airport. “The twelfth was when he picked up the book. He was killed ten days later.”

  As I turned to the next page detailing the week of the fourteenth, a knock sounded, echoing through the cavernous home. “It’s Officer Homestead,” Kevin called.

  “I’ll get it.” Piper said. A few seconds later, she led him through the foyer and into the kitchen.

  “Hi, Talbot.” Kevin nodded his head. “Mr. Ellerton,” he said without looking in Peter’s direction.

  “It’s Peter, actually,” he corrected politely.

  We led Kevin to Harold’s study and explained the night’s events, including our recent discoveries about Harold’s new acquisition. Maybe if Kevin heard it from the three of us, and not just me, he’d take it seriously.

  When we finished, Kevin huffed and rubbed a hand across the bridge of his nose. “So the three of you were snooping around Harold’s home when a masked person hit you,” he gestured to Peter, “on the back of the head and then ran out the back door.”

  “That’s it,” I said, hopeful it’d be enough to continue looking for a killer and throw out the Lizzy Peartree as murderer nonsense.

  Kevin crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, it seems to me you all were at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “And it seems to me, you’re not listening,” Piper spat, her bangles jingling as she raised an exasperated hand in the air.

  Kevin read over the notes he’d taken. “Look. The entire town knows the wealthiest man in Willow Creek’s house just sits empty and unarmed.”

  I knew where he was going with this and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “But what about everything we just told you about the book book?” Peter asked.

  Kevin stepped closer to Peter so that their chests were inches from bumping together – a battle of toned pecs, it you will. “Until there’s a book, that’s speculation. I have a suspect locked up right now who had motive, means, and weapon. Tonight had nothing to do with Harold’s murder.” He gestured toward the entryway. “I mean, look at this place.” Kevin pointed to hallway filled artwork, valuable antique pieces, and crystal candelabras. Then he gestured toward the polished silver displayed in the adjoining dining room. “This is prime burglary property.”

  I stepped toward Kevin. How could he not see the connection? “Now doesn’t that sound suspicious? A thief breaks into the home of the wealthiest man in Willow Creek, and he doesn’t take a thing?”

  Kevin’s jaw tensed and then released. “Talbot. Please let me do my job,” he warned. “And you do yours.”

  “Well, can I at least talk to Lizzy? She’s still at the station — ?”

  Kevin narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to see you.” He pointed to Peter and then Piper. “Any of you, anywhere near the station.” He sighed and composed himself. “I’ll follow up on the break-in, send someone over for fingerprinting, because.” Kevin paused and gave me a firm look. “That is all this is,” he said. “Until you can put this book in my hands, I’m sticking to what I can prove.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to prove it ourselves then,” I muttered.

  “And I … I …” Kevin stuttered. “I could have you arrested for breaking and entering,” he responded coldly.

  Peter stepped forward. “As Harold’s grandson, I have every legal right to be in this home.” He pointed to me and Piper, a sly smile on his face. “And I simply invited these two lovely ladies over for a cup of coffee.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes at Kevin.

  Kevin’s lip twitched in response. “Just don’t touch anything until I get someone out here to dust for prints.” And with that, Kevin slipped out the front door.

  Piper slid next to me. “Why would he ever think he’d have a chance with you?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Peter coughed and sputtered, choking on air. “Wait … Kevin has a thing for you too?”

  Piper nudged Peter’s shoulder. “Everyone loves your girl, Talbot.”

  He tilted his head and smirked. “I can believe it.”

  I rubbed my hands together. “Now, we have work to do,” I exclaimed with a second wind, happy I’d taken that long nap earlier today. “Piper, can you check upstairs? See if there’s anything out of the ordinary.” She nodded and I looked to Peter. “Can you search through the agenda. See if you can find anything else out of place that could help?” I sighed. “I’m going to head back to Harold’s study to see if I can find a receipt, bill … anything that points to a recent large purchase?”

  “Don’t you have digital access to that kind of stuff?” Piper asked Peter. “As his lawyer?”

  Peter shook his head. “Legally, Charlotte would have the only access to that information.”

  “Okay then,” I said. “Let’s get digging.” I was halfway down the hallway when I yelled. “Oh … and if you happen to find a leather-bound book, roughly sixteen inches by ten inches, it might be the Folio.” I knew chances were slim at this point, but it was worth a reminder.

  I shivered as I entered Harold’s study, a flashback of finding his body just a short week ago. A sudden sadness swept over me. For my mother. She’d found companionship in Harold Ellerton and with him gone, she was in pain. Two men in her life, lost to … I pushed the m-word away and began searching.

  If there was one thing Harold Ellerton was, it was organized. Books lined the shelves in alphabetical order by author, and heavy bulldog bookends flanked each shelf of books. Along the far wall were glass cases that housed his rare, yet not extremely valuable, first editions.

  I carefully opened the drawers of his desk to find everything in its proper spot — not a paperclip out of place. Even the so called “junk drawer” had a divider for every item. The bottom drawer, the one that piqued my interest most, contained files dating back to the 80s. I opened the file for the current year and leafed through the bills and receipts until I reached the one labeled October. Inside were receipts from the local grocery store and Plasterer’s Florist Shop and the usual utility bills. “Nothing,” I muttered to myself, pushing the drawer closed. Well. Almost closed. Something hanging from the drawer above prevented me from shutting it fully.

  “What is this?” I whispered, now opening the drawer above filled with the pens, pencils, paperclips, and notepads. I reached my hand to the very back, and my heart picked up speed as my fingertips met a thick fold of paper.

  I pulled the paper forward to see it was a plain white envelope with no insignia, postage, or any single word written on the front. My fingers fumbled with the flap as I unsealed it with urgency. “Oh my goodness!” I spoke aloud, the emblem of an auctioneer’s gavel stamped at the top. I gasped as I looked at the evidence of Harold’s most recent purchase — a receipt from an auction house just outside of Chicago. “Twelve million dollars,” I muttered to myself. “Peter!” I yelled.

  He was by my side in a matter of seconds. “Did you find something?”

  With shaking hands, I passed him the sheet of paper.

  “Bellsby’s Auction House of Rare Antiquities,” he read.

  “Read further.” I pushed my finger into the line at the very bottom of the document that listed the article for auction.

  “Oh my goodness!” Peter’s next words confirmed everything we believed to be true. “Shakespeare’s First Folio.”

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, Peter met me at Cafe Prose. Although we wanted to follow the Folio trail further, with Piper on a coffee run to Hershey, somebody had to fuel Willow Creek with their morning cup of joe, and that somebody was me.

  Peter leaned across the bar as if he had a secret to tell me. And he sort of did. “I called the auction house in Chicago this morning, just like you asked.” He moved forward and kissed my cheek. “And they did, indeed, sell Grandfather the book.”

  “Did they say anything else?”

  Peter smiled. “As a matter of fact, they did.”

  My eyes widened.

  Peter drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. “They told me that they actually referred my grandfather to an appraiser in the D.C. area.” He tilted his head. “And it wasn’t you.”

  “So who was it?” I asked.

  Peter scrunched his face. “Oh, shoot. I’m drawing a blank.” He winced and put a hand to his forehead. “A little low on sleep,” he said, excusing his lapse in memory.

  I made a flat line with my lips. “Are you kidding me? Come on, Peter,” I urged. “Think. Think. Think.”

  He looked at the latte for Martha Huxton I was in the middle of making, his eyes suddenly alighting with recognition. “Coffee!” Peter exclaimed.

  The bells jingled on the door as Patrick walked in.

  “Coffee?” I asked Peter. I pushed my hand at him. “Never mind. Tell me later.”

  “But it’s coffee-.” he began.

  “I hear you, Peter,” a sleep deprived Patrick said, slapping a hand to his cousin’s shoulder. “I could use some coffee too.” His eyes met mine and I looked into Martha’s frothing milk. “Extra shot of espresso today, Talbot,” Patrick said nonchalantly. I guess he forgot about the whole trying to kiss me thing.

  “How are you doing with everything?” Peter asked as Patrick took the stool to his right.

  He shrugged. “As good as a man with a murderer for a fiancé can be.”

  I looked to Peter and raised my eyebrows up and down, signaling him to say something. “Well, I’m sorry it came to this,” he finally spoke.

  What? “Peter,” I said. “I could use your help with this box under here,” I said through clenched teeth.

  I signaled him to bend down with me, and when we were out of earshot questioned, “Do you think you should tell Patrick about the Folio?”

  Peter moved his lips to the side. “I think he has a lot on his plate right now.”

  “Just a thought. But maybe he knows some details that can help us prove Lizzy’s innocence.” As I went to straighten myself up I conked my head on the side of the bar. “Ouch!” I said, rubbing the sore spot on my head.

  Patrick chuckled. “Some things never change, huh?” he asked, referring to my inherent clumsiness.

  “I guess not.” I turned to Peter. “Thanks for the help with the box,” I said, probably a tad overly dramatic, and threw the towel on my shoulder. “So … um … Patrick. Remember how you came to my apartment the other night?” I suddenly realized I hadn’t exactly told Peter about his cousin’s late-night, tipsy visit. I ignored Peter’s look of shock and continued. “To tell me how things felt off at your grandfather’s house?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, casting a quick glance to a now slack-jawed Peter.

  “Well, Peter and I know that someone was in Harold’s house because.” I stopped and gave Peter eyes, urging him to say something.

  “Last night I snooped around Grandfather’s house because I don’t actually think Lizzy killed him and have this other theory. And someone hit me on the head with a paperweight,” Peter blurted.

  “What?” Patrick asked, astonished.

  I placed a hand on Patrick’s and ignored Peter’s scowl. “Kevin doesn’t seem to think it’s related to his murder, but.” I paused and looked Patrick in his amber eyes. “Do you have any reason to doubt Lizzy’s guilt?”

  Patrick grimaced in anger, almost like he didn’t even want to think about Lizzy. “Well … her only alibi was that she was shopping alone. But even though she might have been a gold-digger with an incriminating alibi.” His face softened. “I really don’t think she’d have it in her to kill someone. Goodness,” he said running a hand through his locks, “there’s no way she’d even get near cyanide.” He looked at me. “In high school, when we dissected frogs, do you remember how she practically vomited at the thought of formaldehyde?”

  How could I forget? I was lucky enough to be her partner and ended up doing one hundred percent of the work because she was afraid frog guts would get under her fingernails and she’d never be able to clean it out.

  “I remember.” I rolled my eyes.

  I finished the froth on Patrick’s latte, poured it into the to-go cup, and slid it across the counter.

  “Let me know if you think of anything else,” he said, and then left the shop.

  I watched a hand shoot up in the air from the corner of my eye. “Yoohoo! Talbot!” Martha Huxton called. “Between all your gentleman callers, I think you forgot about my driiinnnk,” she sing-songed.

  “Oh, shoot.” Her lukewarm cappuccino sat to my right. “I’ll whip you up a new one in no time, Martha.”

  Not two minutes later, I’d executed the perfect pumpkin spice cappuccino. “Can you take this to Mrs. Huxton?” I asked Peter.

  Peter placed Martha’s specialty drink in front of her, but as he turned to lead, she tugged on the sleeve of his sweater and he sunk into the chair next to her, unable to break away. He sent me “help me” puppy dog eyes and I giggled inside.

  “What’s all this hubbub?” Amanda asked, trotting down the stairs. Her arms were filled with a dozen books ready to be sent to buyers. “Cute guy after cute guy coming in and out to talk to you,” she chuckled. “Good problems, I’d say.” She set the books on the bar and pushed up the glasses that had slid down her nose.

  I shrugged. “They’re just helping me figure some things out.”

  “About what?” she asked with eager eyes. “Anything I can help you with?”

  I shook my head from side to side. “Well, I’m almost one hundred percent certain Lizzy didn’t kill Harold Ellerton and I can feel it.” I paused and bobbed my head. “I’m onto the truth.” I stopped there. There was no need to drag yet another person into my wild, yet plausible theory.

  “Well, okay then,” she said with a smile. “Gonna take these to the post office. Need any stamps while I’m there?” she asked.

  I chuckled at her odd question. “I’m good.”

  I turned to see if Peter was still caught in Martha’s web. “Oh my!” I laughed. Madame Sarvey had joined Martha for scones and coffee and was currently bent over, butt toward Peter, in what looked like some sort of yoga pose — legs spread in an upside down “v” with her head between them, her tight bun, the hair kind, almost touching the ground.

  “Help!” Peter mouthed to me as Madame Sarvey stood up. She touched a hand to her lower back for support. “We just began yoga at the studio and the next class is on Friday,” she trilled and wiggled her fingers in Peter’s face. “If you’d care to join.” She flirtatiously winked at Peter.

  Martha pulled on Peter’s arm and rubbed a hand across his bicep. “Now I think Peter does enough exercising, Gisette. Why don’t you let him get back to his lover?” She moved her head toward me in a conspicuous manner.

  I put a hand to my mouth and coughed. Lover? I’d been called a few things in my thirty-three years. But lover? I giggled at the archaic word choice and spoke. “Yes, Rodolphe,” I teased Peter, alluding to Madame Bovary, realizing he probably didn’t get the reference. “I need your help with something over here.” I pointed to the back of the espresso machine and pretended to fumble with the outlet.

  “Thank you,” Peter mouthed as he made his way toward me. He played along, unplugged and then plugged in the machine, and then leaned against the bar. He stood so close to me I could smell the mix of clove and vanilla of his cologne.

  “Now,” I said, after quickly planting a peck on his cheek. “What were you saying about coffee?” I asked. “Before Patrick and the chaos of Cafe Prose,” I glanced toward Madame Sarvey and Mrs. Huxton, “interrupted us.”

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “You know …” I widened my eyes. “About the auction house in Chicago.”

  He chuckled. “Yes. Coffee.” Peter sat down. “Ellsby’s Auction House said they referred Grandfather to an appraiser with a coffee name.”

  I wrinkled my nose.

  Um …” he hesitated. “Not Starbucks. Mmm. Maxwell?” He shook his head. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

  Oh my gosh. “Folger?” I asked with wide eyes.

  He snapped his finger twice. “That’s it! They referred Grandfather to Folger appraisers.”

  “Not Folger appraisers,” I corrected. “The Folger Shakespeare Library.”

  Peter looked impressed. “So you know of it?” he asked.

 

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