Free Lucy and the Valentine Verdict by Rae Davies Page A

possible
exception of Mr. Blore, knew it.
    I crossed my arms over my chest to hold in
my disgust and stared around at the group, hoping at least one or
two of them were avid Yelp reviewers with a sense of justice that
would force them to post about this outrageous transgression
against the sanctity of Agatha Christie and everything she
represented.
    While everyone recovered from the unexpected
outcome and wandered forward to press around Mr. Blore and
congratulate him on seeing what no one else had and couldn’t
because it was completely without merit, I stood by myself,
licking my wounds and trying to recover enough that I could twist
my lips into a smile and congratulate him too.
    Peter walked up beside me and slipped his
arm around my waist. “So Minnesota it is.”
    I looked at him. “I didn’t win.”
    “You might not have been declared the
winner, but that wasn’t the bet. The bet was which one of us could
identify the killer. I’m a cop. I know better than anyone how the
courts can mess up and let a guilty man go free.”
    I gave him a sideways look. “Really?”
    He responded with a hug. “Really.”
    Mrs. Peabody approached, looking disgusted.
“I can’t believe she gave that to him. I will never hear the end of
it, and he won a free weekend so I have to come back!”
    She was still mumbling to herself when Lady
York strolled up. “One of our most creative endings, I think,” she
said. “Although yours was a good guess too.” She smiled at me as if
we didn’t both know she was lying through her teeth.
    I smiled back. Fake as hell, of course.
    “Now if we can just locate my husband’s
grandmother’s watch,” she added.
    With my win ripped from me, I wasn’t in much
of a mood for more of her subtle and not-so-subtle accusations.
Peter, however, cut me off before I could reply with exactly what I
was thinking.
    “You don’t know who has it?” he asked,
looking surprised. “I was sure you did.”
    “How would I know?” she asked,
indignant.
    He shrugged. “I thought your husband told
you.”
    “Arthur?” She glanced over her shoulder at
Sir Arthur, who, on hearing his name and apparently figuring out
what we were discussing, had turned redder than any herring she
might have planted.
    When she turned back, her gaze locked onto
me. “It was you.”
    I glanced at Peter, wondering why our crazy
hostess thought Sir Arthur knowing pinned the guilt onto me.
    “Lucy didn’t take your watch,” Peter
explained, patient as always. “But I bet she also knows who
did.”
    Mrs. Peabody, who had been following the
conversation with rapt attention, perked up even more. “Tell us!”
she ordered.
    In fact, everyone in the room seemed to have
stopped what they were doing and were now watching me.
    It was, I realized, my second chance. Except
Peter was wrong. I didn’t have any idea who had stolen Lady York’s
watch.
    I looked over the expectant faces, and then
it hit me. I did know, and after two seconds of thinking about it,
I knew why the person, or persons, had taken the watch too.
    I cleared my throat and took my spot, back
in the limelight.
    “The mistake you made, Lady York, wasn’t
with who stole your watch, but who in fact I am. You see, I am
exactly what I said that I was, a crime reporter turned antiques
dealer originally from the Missouri Ozarks with no previous ties to
Montana or anyone from this fair state.”
    For the first time that weekend, Lady York’s
expression of extreme confidence wavered.
    I knew then that my guess was correct, both
as to who had taken the watch and why Lady York had been so fixated
on me.
    “I’m not sure why you thought I was someone
I’m not. Maybe because of our last-minute reservation? My age also
hits within the target range... And maybe my hair made you think I
was younger?” She had reacted to it more visibly than most people
did, I realized. I tilted my head to the side as if considering. In
truth, I was just milking the moment. I deserved it, and