Page 110 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
“Okay.” He gave a firm nod. “Then we’ll find her.”
So Maggie ripped off the paper and pulled off the lid, and together, they looked down into the box as the sun set on Christmas and the rest of their lives began. “Is that... an antique thimble, one silk glove, and a Harlequin romance novel from 1985?”
“Looks like it.” He sounded too casual, too easy. It was when he was the most dangerous, when he looked like he wasn’t even playing the game.
“I wonder what it means?”
He gave her his cockiest grin. “There’s one way to find out.”
Locked Room / Open Case: The Disappearance of Eleanor Ashley
LOCKED ROOM / OPEN CASE:
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ELEANOR ASHLEY
In the early morning hours of December twenty-third of last year—two days before Christmas—one of the greatest mystery writers of all time disappeared out of a locked room without a trace.
Eleanor Ashley was the bestselling author of ninety-nine novels. She was eighty-one years old. She had recently injured her right leg and was reliant on a cane. Her home sat in the middle of twenty thousand acres that adjoined an even larger national park. And it was in the middle of a blizzard.
She hasn’t been seen since.
Ms. Ashley had invited an eclectic collection of guests to her home for the holiday, and in the days that followed a number of arrests were made, including (but not limited to) her former assistant, her former attorney, and a local police inspector and longtime friend of Ms. Ashley’s who was charged with multiple accounts of attempted murder, including the poisoning of beloved author Sir Jasper Rhodes, who survived the attempt.
But the disappearance of Ms. Ashley herself is still unsolved in spite of the international search that followed. Everyone from Interpol to online conspiracy theorists and true crime podcasters have spent the last year clamoring to answer one question: What happened to Eleanor Ashley?
Many believe she’s dead, murdered and buried somewhere on twenty thousand acres. Another popular theory is that she fled her home that night and perished in the storm and (in spite of very extensive searches) her remains simply haven’t been recovered.
Some think the story itself is the lie and Eleanor Ashley never disappeared and is, even now, hard at work on book number 101.
Many claim she never existedat all and was, in fact, the pen name of dozens of different authors employed by her longtime publisher Killhaven Books and then “killed off” in a way so dramatic it was certain to spike sales as Killhaven announced the one-hundredth (and presumably final) book by Eleanor Ashley, the aptly titledThey Never Found the Body.
The novel features a foreword by bestselling author Maggie Chase, who headlines Killhaven’s new Eleanor Ashley Presents imprint. In it, Chase writes, “Eleanor Ashley was born in a house with a dirt floor. Eighty-one years later, she disappeared from a mansion. Along the way, she changed a genre, built an empire, and inspired a generation, but despite that, her legacy will no doubt be one question:Where is she now?The answer is simple: she’s here. In these pages and on our shelves. And that’s exactly where she wants to be.”
Only one thing is clear: it’s unlikely that Eleanor Ashley will ever return to Mistletoe Manor. The historic home was recently sold to a charitable trust for the price of one pound and will soon be home to a shelter for individuals fleeing abusive situations.
When asked about the events of last Christmas, Ms. Ashley’s niece, Victoria, the Duchess of Stratford, is the only person who was in attendance who regularly comments. “No one will find my aunt unless she wants to be found. It’s a game, you see. And she always wins. One can only be grateful that, once upon a time, she chose to play with them.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
They went someplace warm for Christmas, but the man holding her hand looked as cool as the breeze that blew off the dark blue water. The island was tiny and Greek, with narrow streets and steep hillsides, white stucco houses and views of the sea. If it hadn’t been for the staticky carols coming out of an old radio in someone’s window, Maggie might have even forgotten to be nervous.
It was the first time in forever that she hadn’t spent the whole year worrying about December. Possibly because she hadn’t had time. But more than likely, it had something to do with the man beside her.
His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, and he was wearing a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his forearms and a brand-new tattoo.
“I still can’t believe you did that.”
“What?” He held up his arm and eyed the small circle with the wordsFromthe personal library of Margaret Elizabeth Chase. “I don’t have a title page. It was the best I could do.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She really needed to stop smiling. It only encouraged him.
“I know! But you’re stuck with me...” He swung their joined hands, thinking a beat before finishing, “Loralee.”
Maggie almost tripped over her own feet. “What did you just say?”
“Loralee. Shayne.” He spoke the words slowly, enunciating every syllable in turn and Maggie gulped.
