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She got to the end of the book and held up the sheet of paper she had been writing on.

IWROTESTORMY, it read.

“I wrote stormy,” Cam sounded out aloud. “I think she put those drawings in that order to spell out this message. I think she means that she was the one who wrote Stormy of Silver Cove!”

“But everyone knows that Marshall Merriweather wrote it,” Birdie said.

Cam suddenly felt things clicking into place in her mind. “Maybe everyone is wrong.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Wait, you think Ada wrote the book?” Francine looked eagerly at Cam as Avery topped off the women’s mimosas. “Which would mean that Marshall managed to take wrongful credit for it?”

“I think it’s entirely possible,” Cam said excitedly. “It makes sense, right? We know from the award Ada won in high school that she was a fiction writer—a good one. And the cookbook, too, is cleverly written. In the biography, Marshall described her as being his secretary and taking his dictation of the book. But I suspect she did far more than that, and judging from the clues she planted in this cookbook—which Miles at the library seemed to think was something she wanted to publish herself—she wanted the world to know it, too.”

Cam felt anger rising on Ada’s behalf. Ada had written (probably, she reminded herself) one of the most beloved children’s books in history. And yet no one knew her name, not even here in Silver Cove, let alone around the world. And it was Marshall Merriweather’s massive portrait that would soon be going up along Main Street.

“How do you think you can prove any of that, sweetie?” Birdie asked. “I mean, I can believe it. But Marshall Merriweather is indisputable royalty in this town. His name is on the sign welcoming people. Oh my, Roxy Shipman will lay an egg over this! She’s always going on and on about the great Marshall Merriweather, like he was a Founding Father or something.”

“Miles at the library might have ideas about how to prove it,” Cam said. “Sorry to leave you all mid-brunch, but I’ve got to see a man about a horse book.”

She stood and grabbed her coat and scarf along with the cookbook and her stack of Ada documents. Parsley bounded up, too, clearly hoping that a walk was in the offing.

Izzy looked alarmed. “What about getting me ready for the shoot?” she demanded.

“Sorry, buddy,” Cam bent down and said to the terrier’s expectantly cocked face. “Not this time. And, Izzy? You’re just going to have to wait, too.”

Cam felt like she was floating down Main Street toward the library, and a warm sensation at her side told her that Ada was along for the ride, too. This time, Cam didn’t stop to admire the bright interior or sniff the air, but instead made a beeline for Miles, who was checking out a man who seemed to be collecting enough reading material to last him the rest of his life. She waited impatiently as the man stacked the teetering pile of books in his arms and thanked the librarian.

“Miles,” she said, finally reaching the desk. Miles was wearing another sweater vest, this one a bright-yellow argyle. “I’ve got something to discuss.”

“Sure thing, Cam,” he answered. “By the way, dinner at the fete last night was great.”

“Thanks,” Cam said, waving away his compliment and getting right to the point. Which was not the Silver Cove way, she knew. Business was typically preceded by chitchat. But Cam was on a mission. “I know this question might surprise you, but is it possible that Marshall Merriweather isn’t the real author of Stormy of Silver Cove?” she asked him.

Miles looked like someone had just slapped his mother and then kicked his dog. His jaw dropped as he gaped, and it took him several seconds to regain his composure. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I don’t understand. Everyone knows that he wrote it. It’s in history books. I’ve studied them!”

“I think it’s possible that the books have it wrong,” Cam said, and Miles looked incredulous. “I think it’s possible that Ada Poulson was the one who actually wrote it.”

Miles stood and motioned for her to follow him, looking around furtively. He walked back to the local history section, where there were no people browsing. Silver Cove of yesteryear wasn’t exactly a hot topic, she figured.

“I didn’t want anyone to overhear that,” Miles said in a voice that was hushed even by library standards.

The guy was acting like Cam was committing some act of heresy that he needed to shield the good populace of Silver Cove from. But she noticed that his brows were knit with curiosity, too. “What makes you say that?” he asked warily.

Cam figured she should start with facts, not conjecture. There would be time for that. “The biography did say the original manuscript was in Ada’s handwriting, right?” Cam asked.

“Yes, but she was his secretary. She wrote down what he told her to,” Miles countered.

“Sure, that’s what Marshall Merriweather said happened,” Cam ventured. “But who would dispute him?”

“But it’s Marshall Merriweather.” Miles looked like his brain was short-circuiting. “Why would he lie?”

This man must have been a Boy Scout, Cam thought. Why would a man lie? Fame, fortune, jealousy—there were a thousand reasons. But Cam decided not to push Miles too hard. His world had been rocked enough for one afternoon.

“Well, we don’t know for sure that he did,” she said. “But it’s a possibility to consider. Especially when you see this.”

She drew Ada’s cookbook out of her bag along with the notebook page on which she had scribbled the letters. She flipped through the tome, pointing them out as she went. When she was done, she showed him the clipping from the Silver Cove newspaper.