“Angela Lansbury’s the actress, sugar butt. I doubt she’s out there solving murders. You mean…”

  She squints. “What are you doing?”

  “Googling Murder, She Wrote.”

  “Jessica Fletcher,” she says, smug as can be.

  “Jessica Fletcher!” I announce, throwing up a hand. “First!

  “Sorry, I said it first,” Cindy says, tapping her temple. “And I used my brain, not a machine.”

  “It’s not a competition,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket.

  “You’re maddening, Mr. Knighthorse.”

  “I am as God intended: a humble servant placed on this earth to aid my fellow man, all while using my considerable gifts to do so.”

  “Wow. My friends were right. Sometimes you are too much.”

  “Or…” I grin, leaning in. “…am I actually just the right amount?”

  Cindy folds her arms, the smile fading. “Are you quite done? I’m still mad at you for ditching me this morning. Where did you even go?”

  “It was terrible, my love. The investigation dragged me into the dark depths of Carmel, into the treacherous downtown back alleys. Twice, I nearly tripped over a cobblestone. And once, a crotchety old man gave me the stink eye. Until…”

  “Until what?”

  “He saw how big I was. And the breadth of my shoulders.”

  “In that order?”

  “Usually.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Where did you go next?”

  “A souvenir shop full of, dare I say, hazardous sea glass jewelry.”

  “Okay, that’s quite enough. Quit pretending you ditched me for my safety by braving the horrors of Carmel-by-the-Sea, a town famous for its cuteness. You do realize a woman was murdered just down the hall, right? You probably shouldn’t make light of it.”

  “Oh, I’m not. In fact, I’m now a few steps closer to finding her killer, thanks to my brave efforts today.”

  “Enough, Jim. You strolled around what is possibly the cutest town in California. Why did you leave me, anyway? Last I checked, you were just supposed to be getting us coffees.”

  “Coffees led me to wanting to check out a coffee shop in town, which led me to asking Fran and Harold about the sand dollars, which led me to said tourist shop—”

  “With the dangerous sea glass.”

  “Right. Which led to a plethora of clues spilling forth, including one very telling call with Sanchez. Oh, and a witness interview. As you can see, all of it was pure investigative instinct. I acted in the moment. Oh, and I nearly forgot, I saw Jack again.”

  “Jack from McDonald’s?”

  “The one and only.”

  “There’s a McDonald’s here?”

  “Not in downtown. No, I saw him at a coffee shop. He gave me some things to consider about the case.”

  “What things?”

  “Something about a picture. Or maybe a wall. Lots of stuff about hands guiding children and people not quite being who I think they are.”

  “He spoke in riddles again.”

  “Very much so, yes.”

  “You’re not great with riddles.”

  “I’m not great at remembering riddles.” I tap my head. “I spent my youth bashing heads, which led to memory issues.”

  “Did you at least write them down?”

  “I did my best when I got to the car. Wrote them in my phone.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Hold on.” I fish out my phone again and open the Notes app. Cindy leans over, scanning.

  “It does say something about a wall.”

  “Told you.”

  “What’s this bit about ‘knowing coming in flavors’?”

  “Not sure, but it got me hungry.”

  She sighs. “Yeah, we should be looking for some picture on the wall, Jim. And the little girl, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I could help, you know. I happen to be pretty smart.”

  “You have a doctorate in anthropology from Berkeley,” I say, reciting what I’d heard often enough.

  “And do I need to remind you who my grandfather was?”

  “None other than Charles Darwin, the bane of religions everywhere. What’s your point, Dr. Evolution?”

  “My point is, I’m pretty smart. I can help you. I can read a room, too. And I’ve been watching the other guests closely.”

  I grin. “How’d I get so lucky?”

  “Poor decision-making,” she says, then winks. “On my part.”

  We kiss, brief and soft.

  And just like that, I’m not investigating this alone anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In my phone’s Notes app, I’d written: “Stories don’t always hide in shadows, Jim. Sometimes, they’re framed right in front of you.” Those had been Jack’s exact words, if I recall.

  Good enough for me.

  The Gull’s Nest has one hallway in particular that tries too hard to be familial: narrow, wood-paneled, lined with antique sconces glowing like fireflies. Every inch of wall is jammed with framed photos spanning decades: black and white, sepia, Polaroids, digital. Weddings, sunsets, stiff smiles, stiff drinks.

  Normally, I don’t stop for this stuff.

  But today, I do.

  Halfway down, above a shelf of seashells and forgotten paperbacks, hangs a wide group shot. Ten, maybe twelve people. Patio party. Plastic cups, paper plates, everyone mid-laugh.

  It’s not the smiles that get me; it’s the face in the back row, third from the right. Sundress. Sunglasses. Short dark hair.

  It’s her.

  Cindy notices I’ve frozen. “What is it?”

  I tap the glass. “That’s her. Andrea Clemmons. Or Claire Holt. Either way, same woman. Just ten years younger.”

  Cindy leans close. “Not surprising. Look at the date.”

  A brass plate glints at the bottom: Fourth of July, Gull’s Nest, 2011.

  She frowns. “So she’d been here before? Anyone mention that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Yup. Fran swore it was her first stay.”

  I scan the faces. Most are strangers, except for Harold. He sports a loud Hawaiian shirt and holds a bottle of beer. Next to him, wearing bug-eyed sunglasses and a bigger grin, is Fran herself. My blood goes cold.

  “Claire knew them,” I say. “Knew them well enough to take this damn photo.”

  “Which makes Fran a liar,” Cindy says.

  “Which makes Jack right,” I add. His words come back to me: framed right in front of you.

  Just then, a door creaks. Harold steps out of the laundry room with a basket of folded sheets. He freezes when he spots us.

  “Oh,” he says. “You found that old thing.”

  “Nice picture,” I say lightly.

  He comes closer, voice softening. “Feels like another life. Those were good times. Early days of the Gull. We’d just purchased it.”

  “You knew her,” I say flatly.

  He stops. “Excuse me?”

  I point to the face in the photo. “Claire Clemmons. You knew her. She was here in 2011.”

  He blinks. “No, I don’t think…”

  “Don’t,” I say, cutting him off. “She didn’t stumble in here by chance.”

  He swallows hard. “She called herself Rachel back then.”

  Cindy and I trade a sharp look.

  “I didn’t make the connection at first,” Harold says, lower now. “It had been over a decade. She looked different, older, sadder.”

  “Why was she here before?” I press.

  Harold hesitates, then exhales. “She was dating my younger brother. About six months. It ended… badly.”

  “Define badly.”

  He stares at the floor. “He disappeared. Went hiking along the cliffs one day. Never came back. People said he jumped. But there was no note, no body.”

  My detective brain lights up. “Did you blame her?”

  “I did not. But Fran…” His eyes flick nervously. “Fran always thought she had something to do with it.”

  “And now she shows up again, years later,” Cindy murmurs.

  “Using a new name,” I add. “And ends up dead herself.”

  Harold doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have to.

  The photo behind the glass suddenly feels like a confession left out in the open. When Harold moves on down the hall, I ease the frame off its hook and tuck it under my arm. Cindy hisses, “Jim!”

  “Relax. Just need a closer look.”

  Upstairs, curtains drawn, I lay the frame on the bed and pry the backing loose. An envelope slips free, landing on the quilt.

  Cindy stares. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I pick it up. Cheap stationery. No stamp. Just two words in neat handwriting: For Whoever.

  I read it aloud:

  If anyone finds this, know that I didn’t imagine it. I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t mistaken. I went to look for the girl from Room Eleven. I thought I saw her hand in that creep Eddie’s. I followed them toward the back stairs. I heard the girl cry out, and then nothing. The two totally totally disappeared, though I thought I heard a door where there was none. Okay, maybe I am losing my mind. Pretty sure they hid that girl, moved her somehow.

  Tonight I heard Fran and Harold talking like the place was empty. Fran said I’d been asking questions, that I was “back,” and they had to deal with me before I ruined everything. She said I’d seen too much and talked to the wrong people.

  She next mentioned it was like my sister all over again. Harold said something about taking care of her, that it was “convenient” how she fell down the stairs. Harold said he’d cleaned it up and covered it up. And that’s when I understood: my sister hadn’t disappeared. She saw the same things I did: kids coming and going. They killed her.

  Now I think they want to kill me, too.

  If you’re reading this, please don’t let them get away with it.

  -Claire

  Cindy gasps. “She knew they killed her sister.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “And now, so do we.”

  I tuck the letter back into its envelope and slip it into my pocket. The frame goes back together easy enough, and I go back and rehang it in the hallway.

  When I return to our room, Cindy looks up at me, wide-eyed. “What are we going to do, Jim?”

  “Find out how deep this goes,” I say. “And pray we don’t end up like Andrea.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cindy and I commandeer the corner table in the dining room, for coffee and for strategy. We bring out the big guns: my notebook, her sharp eyes, and a pot of strong brew.

  “Let’s go through them,” I say to her. “One at a time.”

  She nods. We start with Graham, the chatty British yoga instructor with the sneakers and stress-fracture. “He claims he read until one and slept through the night. No one can confirm it. A little too friendly, if you ask me.” I say.

  “He smells of essential oils,” adds Cindy, making a face.

  “Probably not our killer,” I add. “Next is David and Leah Russo, the fighting couple from Room Three. They said they were asleep. Except I heard them arguing past midnight.”

  “Maybe they’re hiding something,” suggests Cindy.

  “Probably hiding from each other.”

  Cindy laughs. “Then there’s Marjorie Day...”

  “The retired actress with a flair for dramatics,” I say.

  “I think she’s too self-absorbed to kill anyone.”

  “Or notice one.”

  Cindy nods. “That leaves...”

  “Eddie Owens, the handyman. He claims to have been in the boiler room when Claire died. But no one saw him. His limp is likely real. Takes one to know one,” I say, raising my hands.

  “Hey, you haven’t limped in years.”

  “Hashtag-truth.”

  “Oh my God,” says Cindy. She hates when I hashtag my words.

  “You mean O-M-G,” I say.

  “I mean, let’s get through this list.”

  “Almost done. We’re going to need to speak to Dorian.”

  “And maybe even his kid.”

  “About that...” I fill her in on Dorian likely not having a daughter.

  “What the fu—”

  “Or W-T-F,” I say.

  “No, I mean what the fuck? What’s a grown man doing here with a child?”

  “Allegedly here. No one’s seen them since. In fact, the only one who had seen them was...”

  “Harold.”

  I nod. “We probably need to speak to Harold again.”

  “We’re circling the drain, Jim. When everything points to poison. And you yourself said you saw Fran switch up the wine bottle on Claire. And Jack himself said something about poison being the perfect weapon of choice.”

  “Hashtag...”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Forget what I was going to say, but I think we need to look for that wine bottle.”

  “I think so, too. You remember what it looks like?”

  “Dark bottle, yellow label. Likely in the kitchen. At least, that’s where she was headed with it.”

  “Look for the bottle, then talk to Fran?”

  “A good plan.”

  “I’ll act as a distraction.”

  “Also, a good plan. Doing what?”

  “I took some acting of my own back in Berkeley. I was in The Screwtape Letters, you know.”

  “The C.S. Lewis book?”

  “None other.”

  “About a demon?”

  “That would be the one.”

  ***

  We finish our coffee, and Cindy leans back in her chair with that look that says she’s already running lines in her head.

  “You sure about this?” I ask.

  “Piece of cake,” she says.

  Her confidence both terrifies and impresses me.

  We push back from the table. Cindy heads toward the buffet sideboard while I drift toward the far wall, pretending to examine the framed picture of a lighthouse I’ve already stared at three times today.

  And then it happens.

  A small gasp, followed by the clatter of silverware. Cindy’s body pitches forward, arms flailing in a perfect parody of helplessness. She goes down hard, taking a tray of mugs with her. Cups bounce, coffee splatters, porcelain shatters like gunfire.

  “Oh my God!” Harold rushes over from the reception desk, apron strings flapping. Fran comes running from the kitchen, face twisted in horror.

  “I slipped—” Cindy groans, clutching her ankle with Academy Award precision. “It-it hurts...”

  “Get her a chair!” Harold barks. “Quickly now!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m already moving, but not toward Cindy.

  While everyone’s fussing over her ankle and helping her up, I slip through the swinging kitchen door. The place smells of onions and bleach. Stainless steel counters gleam under harsh light. Shelves line the far wall, stacked with condiments, dry goods, and, most importantly, bottles of wine.

  Rows of them.

  I scan fast, pulse hammering. Cindy’s voice drifts faintly through the door: high, pained, dramatic enough to earn her a daytime Emmy.

  Then I spot it.

  Dark glass. Yellow label. Half-hidden behind olive oil bottles. A strip of masking tape seals the top, like someone marked it off-limits.

  I ease it out. Feels too light. Liquid sloshes, maybe only a swallow left. Enough for testing. Probably enough to kill.

  I slide it under my jacket and slip out the back door. The cool air slaps me awake. At the Jeep, I open the rear gate and get to work. First, I finish off a lukewarm water bottle, pour the wine into it, then spit the water back into Fran’s bottle. Cap both. The dark wine bottle hides the switch. No one will know the difference. Also, I snag my old foldable cane, a prop for later.

  Mission halfway done.

  I circle back toward the inn, cane under one arm, bottle tucked under my jacket.

  Inside, I peek into the dining room. Cindy is holding court, ankle wrapped, Fran and Harold hanging on her every word. Too perfect. I cut through the lobby, slip back into the kitchen. Just as I’m sliding the wine bottle onto the shelf where I found it, I hear footsteps creak outside the kitchen. A shadow passes the frosted glass of the swinging door.

  I freeze. The steps pause, then retreat. I let out a slow breath and slide the bottle fully into place. Press the masking tape back over the cap, smoothing it flat with my thumb. Just the way I found it.

  When I return to the dining room, Cindy shoots me a quick wink. I hand her the cane like that’s what I went for all along. Fran is crouched beside her, eyes sharp, lips pressed tight. She gives me a look that lasts a beat too long, like she’s already replaying the timeline in her head.

  I force a smile, crouch to Cindy’s level. “Are you okay, my love? A guy can’t step out for a second around here without the whole place falling apart.”

  Cindy clutches the cane, playing along. “Guess I’ll limp through the rest of vacation.”

  Fran’s eyes stay on me. Calculating. She’s putting it together: how I left before Cindy’s tumble, and yet somehow came back with a cane like I’d been on a noble quest all along. I let her stew. Let the old murderous bag try to solve that mystery.

  And that’s when I know this game’s not over. She’ll check that bottle. Maybe not tonight, but soon.

  For now, though, the murder weapon has been procured. We just need to test it.

  Time to call my buddy ol’ pal.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We don’t waste time.

  Cindy and I pile into the Jeep, the plastic bottle safe in the trunk’s lockbox. The engine growls too loud in the still hush of Carmel fog. On the way out of town, I call Sanchez.

  “Got it,” I say. “The poison, that is.”

  “You’re acting like I know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Oops, right. “Pretty sure the vic was poisoned.”

  “You said there was foam on her mouth.”

  “Yeah. And my meeting with God earlier today seemed to confirm it.”

  “God? You mean Jack’s back?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, brother. Just when I thought I wouldn’t have to have you committed, Jim.”