Page 3

In retrospect, uttering the words What’s the worst that can happen? aloud is never a good idea.

Mrs. Hudson—whose first name had never been volunteered—stood in the doorway of her house, raising an eyebrow right back at Tempest. Tempest wavered, but only for a fraction of a second. Mrs. Hudson had decades longer than Tempest to perfect her eyebrow intimidation. It was good. Very good. But Tempest would not be cowed.

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t invited Tempest into her home when they’d first met, and she didn’t seem poised to do so now. She’d lived across the street from Cameron’s great-uncle, Harold, for decades. Tempest had met her briefly when she’d first visited this street to interview Harold and find out his desires for renovations. But she didn’t know much about the woman beyond the fact that she’d been close to Harold Gray until the last year of his life, when he had the plan to turn his home into a library.

“Yes?” Mrs. Hudson said when she finally spoke after eight seconds of staring at Tempest with that piercing raised eyebrow. Even though Tempest wasn’t currently performing any shows that required timing that worked down to a fraction of a second, she still kept perfect time in her head. For some unfathomable reason, people usually didn’t appreciate her innate timekeeping when she pointed out how wrong they were about how much time had passed.

Tempest couldn’t intuit much about Mrs. Hudson, including her age. Her shoulder-length hair was white, and she wasn’t a young woman, but it was impossible to guess her age. She was as tall as Tempest, with a similar muscular build. She held a paperback novel with a Banned Books Week bookmark poking out from its pages. It was a popular new mystery that had come out earlier that summer. Behind her, the living room was lined with bookcases brimming with books. Which was rather ironic, since she was the face behind the movement to stop the Gray House Library from being opened.

Tempest knew she should have responded with something nice. Placating. As she’d marched across the street, she’d been prepared to start off saying how she was sorry they’d gotten off on the wrong foot and wanted to put that behind them. But after her first hello was met with that cold stare and raised eyebrow? Tempest couldn’t bring herself to apologize. That’s how she found herself saying, “What do you hope to gain by your childish nuisance of spying on us at Cameron’s house?”

For a fraction of a second, Mrs. Hudson looked impressed. But when she spoke, her cold demeanor was back. “Harold Gray should never have been granted planning permission to create those library games for this weekend’s summer stroll, and Cameron shouldn’t have moved forward with it after his great-uncle’s death. It skews public opinion toward getting his library approved.”

“You’re a book person.” Tempest nodded toward the book in her hand. “And a fan of mysteries. Why is having a library across the street so bad?”

Mrs. Hudson set the book on a side table that also held a pair of binoculars. She crossed her arms and leaned in the frame of her doorway, blocking Tempest’s view. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“If it’s the noise you anticipate—”

“It’s not the noise,” she snapped. “Which I doubt will be much anyway, even if book club gatherings include wine. I’m not interested in debating with you.”

“Would you like to tell your side of the story about the property damage you did to our bookcase,” Tempest said, “before I call the police?”

Mrs. Hudson’s lips wrinkled as she pressed them together before she spoke. “I certainly don’t know what you’re talking about. Feel free to do whatever you wish. It’ll only look bad for you. I haven’t set foot inside Harold’s house in years. Now, did you want something besides to berate me for bird-watching from my own home?”

“We both know you’re not bird-watching.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a thin-lipped smile. “Of course I am. Would you like to see the photos of bluebirds and sparrows on my phone? No? Oh, that’s right. If you look at my phone, maybe you’ll accidentally see all the terrible things they’re saying about you online.”

Tempest stiffened, but otherwise didn’t react. Don’t feed the trolls. The same advice for online interactions applied in real life. After horrible rumors about her had been volleyed at her a year ago, she’d gotten rid of all her social media accounts. A smaller flurry of activity had taken place a couple of months ago, with horrid people flinging accusations at her until she’d solved a mystery at Hidden Creek’s Whispering Creek Theater. People still tossed her name around, online, hiding behind the faceless anonymity it afforded, but she also knew it was a lot healthier for her to stay out of it.

Mrs. Hudson’s smile grew wider. She sensed that she’d struck a nerve. “Will that be all? Good luck getting those silly little games set up. They won’t save the library, you know.”

“Actually, the other residents of Hidden Creek aren’t as anti-book as you are. I hear your petition to stop the library is failing spectacularly.” Tempest had no idea if her words were true. She wouldn’t know for two days, until the city council meeting. And even then, the petition wasn’t the deciding factor as to whether the council voted to approve the library plans or not. Though she expected public opinion would sway them.

But her words had the intended effect. Mrs. Hudson’s smile faltered.

Tempest didn’t wait to have the door slammed shut in her face. She turned on the heel of her ruby-red sneaker and skipped down the steps of the front porch. She was on the last step when she heard the front door slam behind her.

Could she have handled that better? Definitely. Had she made things worse for their strained relationship with Mrs. Hudson? Perhaps. But it certainly felt satisfying to get in the last word.

Tempest paused on the sidewalk before crossing the quiet street. The storybook facade of Gray House was perfect for a book collector. Harold Gray had amassed a collection of thousands of books, but none of them were purchased for their monetary value. He wanted to read the books, not have them sit in pristine condition on the shelf.

Harold had been the type of person more comfortable around books than people. He’d quit a job as a bookseller because he didn’t enjoy speaking with customers, and turned down a promising career recording radio dramas in the 1950s because he hated working in the recording studio with others. It was no surprise that he’d never married or had children. Though he hadn’t liked spending time with people during his life, he liked the idea of people. As the end of his life approached, he hatched the idea of sharing the vast collection with people in his beautiful home. And he had the perfect person for his inheritance: his grandnephew, Cameron.

Cameron had recently finished his master’s of library and information science degree and was working as a librarian at a small public library a few towns away, while renting a bedroom in a shared apartment with several roommates. On a librarian’s salary, Cameron couldn’t afford to buy a house in the area, so he was saving up to build a tiny house to have a place of his own. Cameron understood his uncle Harold better than the other members of his family and was happy to come over twice a week to read to him. Harold knew about Cameron’s real estate woes, so they’d come up with the perfect plan to share the book collection and give Cameron a home: The first two floors would be turned into a library, and the spacious third-floor attic could be converted into an apartment with a floor plan like one of the tiny homes Cameron had been looking into building himself.

Harold had hired Secret Staircase Construction for both the attic renovation and the library renovation. The attic apartment was completed, and Cameron would be moving in once the library renovations were approved and completed. Nobody else had put up with Uncle Harold’s eccentricities, so Harold wanted to repay the young librarian with this kindness.

The problem was that Gray House was on a residential street, not a commercial one. It was only a three-minute walk to the center of town. Easily walkable, and the local public library welcomed having a specialty library nearby. Librarians don’t see other libraries as competition, and nobody thought it was a problem—until Mrs. Hudson raised an objection and began a campaign to stop the library.

Cameron Gray had put everything into realizing the vision he’d begun with his uncle when Harold was alive, but thanks to Mrs. Hudson, the city council might not approve the library plan. With a last glance back at the library-wrecker’s house, Tempest walked up the cobblestone path to Gray House.

“Mrs. Hudson still has a grudge against Harold,” Tempest said to Cameron as she came through the front door. “She didn’t admit to messing with the bookcase, but she’s definitely transferred her grudge to you.”

She was about to add that perhaps Mrs. Hudson was simply the type of person who didn’t like to see anyone else enjoying themselves, when she noticed the grave expressions of not only Cameron but also on Ivy’s and Gideon’s faces.

“What’s happened?” she asked. Something was clearly very wrong.

“It’s tonight’s murder mystery play,” said Cameron. “One of the actors is missing.”