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He shakes his head, “No. It’s okay. Go, kick ass. Show Ivan Phlott what you’re made of.” He kisses me briefly before handing me the keys.
I drive to the library and run the town’s only red light.
When I walk into the library, Evan looks skeptical. “I can’t believe you made it!”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I insist. Evan and I ride the elevator down to the second floor, which houses the library’s main conference room.
We stand before the imposing oak door that separates us from the conference room.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Evan asks.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply. I check the contents of my tote bag for the millionth time. The fake suicide note, the deed, and the diary are still in their respective envelopes.
I take a deep breath and shove Evan toward the door. “You first.”
Evan stumbles into the room, almost catching his feet on the industrial carpet.
“Evan, Eleanor! Good to see you both. Now, I must ask? Where’s the fire? When I got your email last week, I figured Idylewylde Hall just about burned to the ground again!” Ivan Phlott declares. His dress shirt is too tight around his neck. His face is red. Sweat beads across his forehead.
I set my laptop on the podium at the front of the room and cue up my PowerPoint. A blue light flashes as I power up the projector.
“Eleanor has some rather interesting findings,” Evan states.
“Another fictional diary?” Ivan taunts.
I ignored him as I set the documents in the middle of the table. The diary bulges against the plastic sleeve.
“Mr. Phlott, I’d like you to direct your attention to exhibit 1C,” I say.
Ivan Phlott takes the envelope in his ruddy hands and opens it slowly. He clicks his tongue and runs his thumb along the smooth leather cover. “And what do you suppose this is?”
“Beatrix Walton’s diary.”
“Impossible.”
“Mr. Phlott, you should turn to the yellow page tab.” I marked pertinent entries, including Beatrix’s first, with color-coordinated sticky notes.
“This diary belongs to Beatrix Walton? How do I know you didn’t get over-zealous with some paint stains and a journal from a craft store?”
“Because, if you look here, you'll see that the pH contents of the ink from the original deed to the island match the pH contents of the ink from the diary, meaning that these documents were written at approximately the same time.”
The other board members nod and furiously write notes on their clipboards. Ivan remains non-plussed. “So, the slut Martin knocked up knew how to read and write. Why should we care?”
I bristle when Ivan Phlott calls Beatrix a slut, even if she recently tried to drown me.
“Because Beatrix Walton didn't kill herself. Martin killed her."
Elaina Moppett drops her pen.
"This changes everything we thought we knew about this island!"
"You're correct, Elaina. It transforms our beloved founder from a family man to a murderer! Why would you accuse him of such a thing?"
I click to the next slide, "This is Beatrix's suicide note, exhibit 1B. As you'll see, it's dated January 2, 1835-- two days before she died."
“And this,” as I click, the screen splits in two, and a second slide appears, "Is the original deed to the town, written by Martin Idylewylde himself. The handwriting's the same. Before you ask, I sent the samples to a forensic handwriting expert in Seattle, and she confirmed the match."
“That doesn't mean he took her out back and shot her!" Ivan barks.
