Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (11 page)

The Storyton Band launched into a jaunty version of Sinatra’s “It Happened in Monterey,” and couples took the dance floor. Jane edged past an Alex Cross and fixed her gaze on the room’s entrance again.

“Have I missed her?” she wondered aloud.

A Hercule Poirot led a Miss Marple into the room. The latter put her hand over her heart and exclaimed, “This is the best vacation we’ve ever had in all our twenty-five years, Bernie. I’ll never forget it!”

Her husband smiled, kissed his happy wife, and led her to the refreshment table. Jane watched them. Though pleased by the woman’s comment, she was also worried that most of the guests had arrived and that Moira was either not among them or was so well disguised that Jane couldn’t recognize her.

She bought a ticket. She’ll be here
, Jane told herself.
I need to stop looking for a cloud of white hair.

Moving closer to one of the floor candelabras, Jane unfolded a photocopy of Moira McKee’s Vermont driver’s license. She studied the shape of the woman’s eyes and noted her angular chin and the deep parentheses framing her mouth. Tucking the paper back into her purse, she said hello to a man dressed as Nero Wolfe, smiled at a marvelously attired Tommy and Tuppence, and came face-to-face with an Umberto Ferrari.

The man wasn’t Felix Hampden, of course. He wore a false mustache and goatee as well as a bald cap, and his outfit couldn’t hold a candle to Hampden’s custom-made pieces. However, he gave a gentlemanly bow that reminded her of Hampden. Her stomach twisted and for a moment, all she could see was Felix Hampden’s lifeless body splayed on the carpet of the Mystery Suite. Remembering the image of Hampden’s pain-ridden face and clawlike fingers, she felt a whisper of sepulchral air pass over her and shuddered.

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

Jane nodded, clearing her head of the macabre visions. “Yes, thank you. A ghost walked over my grave.”

The Umberto Ferrari smiled in understanding. “It’s no wonder with all of these detectives in one room. The whole place is permeated by an aura of mystery. The only thing missing is a crime.”

The song ended and the couples on the dance floor dispersed. Jane caught a glimpse of Eloise and Desmond Price heading for a vacant table in a quiet corner. “Oh, I think we’ll have plenty of excitement without that,” she told the Umberto Ferrari look-alike and wished him a pleasant evening.

Just as the band struck up Glen Miller’s “Stardust,” Jane saw Moira McKee enter the ballroom. At first, she wasn’t sure that the brunette was Moira, but the more she stared at her, the more convinced she became. Moira was obviously wearing a wig and her conservative green dress didn’t provide any clues about her sleuth’s identity, but as Jane sidled closer, she was able to read the other woman’s name tag.

“How lovely!” she declared merrily. “You’re the only person who thought to come as Agatha Raisin. And she’s one of my all-time favorite detectives. She’s so genuine and so fallible that I can’t help but empathize with her.”

Moira seemed taken aback by Jane’s enthusiasm, but she recovered quickly. “I find her relentless pursuit of every available bachelor rather endearing.”

“I’m Tuppence,” Jane said even though she suspected Moira knew her true identity. “Would you join me for a glass of punch?”

After a brief hesitation, in which Moira’s eyes anxiously scanned the room, she politely accepted.

The waitstaff was doing a splendid job keeping the punchbowl filled and the food platters replenished. Jane had made arrangements for a specific waiter to be at the ready in case she needed a particularly potent glass of punch. Now, as the young man handed her two glasses, he winked conspiratorially and whispered, “I added a few splashes of vodka to the cup with the orange slice.”

Jane gave Moira the punch and set a plate of cheddar cheese cookies on the table. It was her hope that the saltiness of the cookie would encourage Moira to gulp down her punch with alacrity.

“Delicious,” Moira said, taking a bite of one of the cookies. “How did they ever shape them into magnifying glasses?”

“I have no clue,” Jane admitted. “I believe that a great deal of magic goes on in the resort’s kitchen when no one is looking.”

Moira grinned. “Perhaps they have a fairy or a helpful sprite. I could use one myself.”

“Me too. I’d make mine do the ironing. I hate ironing.” She turned to watch the dancers. “What would you have your sprites do?”

“Keep an eye on certain people. Listen to their conversations.” Her grin slipped. “That would prove most useful.”

“A troop of tiny spies.” Jane nodded as if this were a perfectly reasonable idea. “Do you need to keep track of people in your line of work?”

Moira took a large slug of punch. “You could say that. I serve as president at a very prestigious college.”

Jane tried to look duly impressed. “Wow. What an enormous responsibility. It would be like running this place. Overseeing a large staff, maintaining the buildings and grounds, raising funds. Here’s to you.”

Lifting her glass in response to Jane’s toast, Moira finished her punch and picked up a cookie. “It isn’t an easy life, but I’d do anything for Broadleaf. Our school used to be the Juilliard of New England, you know.” Her face shone with pride. “Once upon a time, we had so many applicants that we had to turn away over half of them. Now we’re lucky if our classrooms have enough registered students to warrant a full-time faculty member.” She nibbled on the cheddar cookie, her gaze distant and slightly morose.

“Let me get you a refill,” Jane said and hurried to the waiter manning the punch bowl.

Moira was still wearing a faraway look when Jane returned with her drink. She absently raised the glass to her lips and drank while Jane wondered if it was too soon to work Alice Hart into the conversation. The memory of Felix Hampden had sharpened her resolve, however, so she decided it was time to see if Moira had anything to do with his death or the disappearance of Aunt Octavia’s book.

“What of your faculty? Are they loyal?” Jane asked. “In this day and age, no one seems to stay in one place. They see something better and brighter and off they go.”

“Loyalty? What a romantic notion.” Moira snorted. “Not only has our endowment dried up, but no one seems to care about the arts at all. There’s no value to music and dance and drama. Not when compared to technology. My faculty used to be the cream of the crop. These days, they’ll run off at the drop of a hat if they have a chance to make more money. Recently, one of my teachers took an unscheduled leave in the middle of the semester! Can you imagine?” A malicious gleam entered her eyes. “She paid for her reckless behavior, I can assure you.”

Gooseflesh arose on Jane’s arms. Moira had to be referring to Alice Hart’s death. “Oh? What happened?”

“She dropped dead. Just like that.” Moira snapped her fingers. “A pretty, young thing too. When I called her parents to find out what had caused such a sudden demise, they told me that she had a condition called . . .” She trailed off. “Ah, I remember now. It was called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Alice had an enlarged heart with thick walls and something particular going on at the cellular level. Apparently, this condition kills young athletes with no warning. And by young, I mean people in their teens and twenties. It’s very rare.”

“Was Alice an athlete?”

“She was a runner. And though she was in her late twenties, she was fitter than most of our students.” Moira was clearly warming to her subject. “That’s why Alice’s condition was so remarkable. There are no symptoms. No warning signs. One day, the heart is so stressed that it can’t maintain a regular rhythm and the ventricles go haywire. They quiver, I believe. And then, the person often faints, never to come to.” Again, Moira scanned the crowd, her gaze keen. When it was obvious that she couldn’t find the person she was looking for, she leaned close to Jane and whispered, “It happened here, you know. In Storyton village.”

She has no idea who I am
, Jane thought and felt a surge of relief. “What did?”

“Alice’s dramatic finale. She was riding a horse that got spooked and bounded off the woodland trail right onto Main Street. Word has it that Alice was able to hang on, but couldn’t control her mount. I imagine her heart was racing far too fast.” Moira clicked her tongue. “If she’d been at Broadleaf teaching her students, then she might not have suffered such a terrible fate.”

Jane actually detected a small trace of sympathy in Moira’s voice. A very small trace. “Why would she leave such a respectable position to come to Storyton? Was she a reader? Most people come here to escape the modern world.”

“Alice Hart wasn’t running
away
from anything. She was running
toward
something. Something that could change her life forever. Grant her fame and fortune. She believed it was here and that she was one of the few people in the world who realized that such a treasure even existed.” A shadow passed over Moira’s face. “Alice conducted her Adela Dundee research on the school’s dime. I scrambled to find her grants and begged the alumni for donations, and when her book was published to rave reviews, how did she repay me? By quitting! By going off on some treasure hunt. Any fortune she unearthed rightfully belongs to Broadleaf.” She was muttering now. Speaking so softly that Jane could barely make out her words over the music.

Of course, Jane knew exactly what treasure Moira was referring to. Had Moira been able to acquire Aunt Octavia’s book? To succeed where Alice Hart had failed? If so, then why would she still be at Storyton Hall? And who was she looking for in the crowd?

“I hope I’m not keeping you from your family or friends,” Jane said as Moira polished off the rest of her punch. “You seem to be trying to find someone. Can I help?”

Moira nodded and her next words were slightly slurred. “A little man. He’s the spitting image of Umberto Ferrari, and was the last to speak with Alice before her doomed ride. And then he won . . . well, that’s not important.”

Jane stared at Moira. Was it possible that she was innocent of any wrongdoing? If she’d come to the costume ball to find Felix Hampden and to perhaps make him another offer for his copy of
Lost Letters
, then she hadn’t killed him.

If
he was murdered
, Jane reminded herself. Sheriff Evans obviously believed something suspicious had occurred, but without the medical examiner’s report, no one could be certain how he’d died.

“I’ve only seen one Umberto Ferrari tonight,” Jane said and began to search for him. “There he is! At that table to the right of the stage. Do you see him? He’s waving his arms in time to the music. Maybe he has aspirations of becoming a conductor.”

“He’ll be a man of leisure if he realizes what he’s won,” Moira murmured darkly. “I must speak with him. Thank you for the company, uh, Tuppence.”

Moira stumbled across the dance floor, forcing several couples to veer around her. Jane followed in her wake, though she was more careful not to disturb the dancers as they moved to the lively strains of “Voices of Spring.”

She lost sight of Moira for a moment, but after scooting around a Kinsey Millhone in the arms of a dapper Alex Cross, Jane was able to see Moira drag a chair over to the Umberto Ferrari look-alike’s table and begin to scrutinize him as if he were a slide under a microscope.

Eventually, the man felt her eyes on him. Turning, he smiled graciously, but Moira didn’t smile back. Instead, she glowered fiercely and spoke a few words. The man shook his head. Once. Twice. Moira said something else, and this time, the man shrugged his shoulders and faced the band again, signaling the conversation was at an end.

Moira got to her feet and backed away. After casting a final, desperate glance around the room, she made a rather ungainly exit. Jane was still watching the doorway when Eloise appeared at her side.

“Desmond Price has some nerve posing as Colonel Hastings. Agatha Christie created the perfect gentlemen in Hastings, but Price has no idea what it means to be a gentleman.” Fuming, Eloise shoved her pipe into her coat pocket.

“Come on, Sherlock. I think you need some air.”

As the two women headed for the terrace, Jane spied Moira stepping into an elevator cab. Just as the doors were closing with a soft whisper, a man dressed in monk’s robes thrust his arm between the doors, causing them to spring open again. He entered the elevator, his head bent low. With his hood pulled forward over his face, he looked every inch the penitent monk.

Perhaps he went to the ball as Brother Cadfael
, Jane thought.

The doors started to slide shut again. At that moment, the monk raised his head and Jane immediately saw that the young man’s face was nothing like the kind, earnest countenance of the monk in the Ellis Peters novels.

Jane only caught a glimpse of thin lips, a narrow nose, and a pair of penetrating eyes filled with a cold, black rage. But in the space of a single heartbeat, she detected such an overwhelming sense of menace that she nearly stumbled.

Eloise grabbed her by the arm. “Steady there, Tuppence. How much punch have you had?”

“Not nearly enough,” Jane said breathlessly and led Eloise out into the October night.

“So Desmond Price is a creep?” Jane asked Eloise once they were settled in a pair of wicker rocking chairs on the terrace facing Milton’s gardens.

“Totally. And it wasn’t just his propensity for touching me in an overly familiar fashion, though that was distasteful enough.” Eloise curled her lip at the memory. “He’s one of those people who see themselves as being far superior to the rest of us, but for no obvious reason.” She shot a glance at Jane. “Aren’t you cold? It’s October and you’re in a glorified nightgown.”

Jane rubbed the skin of her arms. “It’s more of mental chill. Once you tell me about Desmond, I’ll let myself into my aunt and uncle’s apartments and grab a shawl. Uncle Aloysius gave Aunt Octavia a gorgeous silk and velvet number embroidered with peonies and peacock feathers that my aunt won’t wear because it’s black. It’s neither garish nor colorful enough for her, but I’ve been coveting it for years. Not only that, but I have to check on Muffet Cat. The poor kitty must be terribly lonely and I’ll need to soothe him with several treats or he’s liable to yowl all night long.”

“I’ll be quick then.” Eloise took her pipe out of her pocket and rubbed its smooth neck while she talked. “Desmond is a professor of literature at Harvard. He boasted about his many accomplishments in the academic arena, but it was only when he started in on his illustrious family history that things got interesting. You see, Desmond is related to Adela Dundee. He’s a cousin—a second cousin once removed or something like that. His mother was a Brit.”

“The British have such impeccable manners,” Jane said, clicking her tongue. “And yet, Desmond sounds rude. In fact, he sounds like an utter cad.”

“Well, his mom passed away when he was a child. I believe she meant a great deal to him—that it was she who introduced him to modern mystery stories and to Adela Dundee.” Eloise frowned. “It’s sad, really. Desmond’s obsession with all things Dundee probably boils down to a boy who has never gotten over losing his mother.”

Jane stared out over the dark lawn. She too knew of loss and how it could shape a person. How it could change a life in a heartbeat. Hers was forever altered following William’s sudden death. She sighed. “I wish our suspects were less complex. It was easier to think of Desmond as a villain before I knew about his mother.”

“Don’t worry, you can continue to cast him in that role,” Eloise said airily. “After his fourth glass of punch and the second time his elbow
accidentally
brushed against my buxom bosom, he started in on how the Dundees had snubbed him.” She pulled her cell phone from her coat pocket. “Alice Hart wasn’t the only Storyton guest who wrote a book on Adela Dundee. Desmond penned one too, though his was more of a memoir. Unfortunately for Professor Price, Adela’s descendants publicly slammed the book, saying that Desmond’s tales were nothing but fabrication and conjecture. He tried to make readers believe that he was part of the fold, when in truth, he’d met his Dundee relatives exactly once. And he was just a boy at the time.” She showed Jane a book cover featuring a photograph of a child in a sailor suit posing in front of Adela Dundee’s London town house.

“He couldn’t be much older than the twins,” Jane said.

“Desmond didn’t spend long inside the town house. According to a spokesman for the Dundee estate, Desmond’s mother was invited to tea. It was the appropriate thing for the family to do, seeing as a cousin of theirs was visiting London with her son, but that was the extent of Desmond’s contact.”

Jane was confused. “He turned an afternoon of cakes and Darjeeling into a memoir?”

“
Tea with Adela Dundee
is a partial biography of Adela, though not nearly as thorough or well researched as Alice Hart’s
Lost Letters
. For example, Alice found a packet of letters in some long-forgotten, dust-covered box belonging to a historical society in Cornwall. The letters had been misfiled by a senile archivist decades ago, and Alice only came upon them by chance.”

“I never have that kind of luck.”

Eloise smirked. “Me neither. Anyway, she copied every letter before replacing them in the same box. This way, no one would discover the letters before Alice’s book was published. The sly fox.
Lost Letters
sold amazingly well because Alice had made a new discovery.” Eloise tapped on her cell phone screen, enlarging Desmond’s book cover. “Professor Price just rehashed old material and added a few stories about the tea and a family tree showing how he and his mother were connected to the Maven of Mystery. The book was a flop. A total embarrassment. I’m sure it hurt Desmond’s academic reputation. He was up for tenure this year and it wasn’t granted.”

“He told you that?” Jane was surprised.

Eloise nodded. “He listed it as one of the many wrongs done to him and is clearly desperate to restore his good name.” She began typing, and a few seconds later, Desmond’s faculty member profile appeared on her phone screen. “This must be a recent photo. Look at him, Jane. The guy is like a pot of simmering water on the stovetop. He wants someone to pay for his own failures, and I think it’s only a matter of time before he boils over. He told me that he’d get even with the Dundees for slighting him if it was the last thing he did.” Eloise’s expression was grim. “It wasn’t an empty boast, Jane. Desmond Price has come to Storyton with a purpose. And if you ask me, it’s a nefarious one.”

Jane took the proffered phone and studied Desmond’s taut lips, the haughty set of his jaw, and the angry defiance in his eyes. She shivered again, thinking of the monk who’d joined Moira McKee in the elevator cab. The look in his eyes had been very similar. “Were you able to insert Felix Hampden into the conversation?”

“Yes. I pretended to be disappointed that I hadn’t won the scavenger hunt prize.” Eloise pulled the lapels of her coat closed, as if protecting herself against a cold wind. “When I mentioned the book, a thunderstorm gathered on Desmond’s face. I swear, Jane, lightning flashed in the man’s eyes. It was scary.”

“Did he try to buy
Lost Letters
from Felix?”

“All he said was that Hampden was a fool who possessed something that only a person with blood ties to the Dundee family should have.” Eloise got to her feet. “Let’s go back in. I’m almost done with my story anyway.”

Jane readily agreed. The magic she’d felt gazing up at the stars before the ball had disappeared. The sky was ink-black and the day’s mild air had been chased away by a damp, brisk wind. Jane knew that rain was in tomorrow’s forecast, but she hoped it would hold off until after the pickleball tournament.

Inside, she and Eloise walked to the door leading to the staff staircase. “Desmond’s last words had me so freaked out that I pinched my nose again and again, waiting for Mrs. Pratt to fly to the rescue.” Eloise scowled. “Trust me, you do not want that woman beside you in battle. She’s too easily distracted to be anyone’s wingman.”

“Oh, dear. I thought she’d leap at the opportunity to be in the middle of a drama.”

“She was hell-bent on creating her own,” Eloise said. “She started dancing with a nice-looking older gentleman and instantly forgot about me. Just when Desmond started talking like a serial killer, the wife of Mrs. Pratt’s dance partner barreled onto the dance floor and gave her husband what for.”

Jane couldn’t help but grin. “I never took Eugenia Pratt for a home wrecker.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “I blame it on all the erotica she read this month. Over twenty novels, each steamier than the last.”

Laughing, Jane made a hurry-up gesture. “Okay, enough about Mrs. Pratt’s reading tastes. It seems reasonable to assume that Desmond Price could be the book thief, right?”

“That, and maybe more.” The amusement in Eloise’s eyes died and she spoke in a low, grave voice. “Desmond Price knew Felix Hampden
before
they both came to Storyton. He said Felix ran some third-rate theater in Boston, but was better known as a swindler and a charlatan. Seriously, he used those words. The man constantly borrows phrases from Adela Dundee’s novels. Listen to me, Jane.” Eloise touched Jane’s arm. “The professor isn’t right in the head.
Tea with Adela
was published less than a year ago, and his wounds are still raw. The false image he created for himself has suffered a serious blow. He’s been humiliated and passed over for tenure. He can’t move on until he feels vindicated.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he told me that he came to Storyton to get what rightfully belonged to him and that he’d stop at nothing to show the world the real Desmond Price.” Eloise gave Jane an imploring look. “Doesn’t that sound like a man on the edge? A dangerous, desperate man? Someone you need to be quite leery of?”

“Yes,” Jane said. She silently considered the strange coincidence that Desmond’s words were identical to Moira’s. They both believed that Aunt Octavia’s copy of
Lost Letters
“rightfully belonged” to them.

Eloise studied her. “How did your sleuthing go?”

Jane quickly shared what she’d learned about Moira. When she was done, Eloise agreed that it was unlikely Moira had succeeded in acquiring the book.

“What’s our next step?” Eloise asked.

Jane gave her friend a hug. “You go back to the ball and have a good time, but keep your Dr. Watson close by in case Desmond misbehaves. And if Watson doesn’t work, there’s always Sam.”

At the mention of Sam’s name, Eloise perked up. “When I left, he was dancing with Violet. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist her in that Nancy Drew-turned-vixen costume.”

Suddenly, an idea came to Jane. “You know, Sheriff Evans spoke with Sam about what happened to Alice Hart on his trail ride, but I haven’t. I wonder if Sam knows what spooked Alice’s horse.”

“I’ll get Violet to ask him.” Eloise’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Is the waiter still there? The one who had the
special
punch just for Moira and Desmond?”

“Shame on you!” Jane nudged Eloise in the side. “Violet wouldn’t want any man who only showed interest because he was drunk. What kind of matchmaker are you anyway?”

“An impatient one,” Eloise said. “Go upstairs and grab that shawl. I’m getting colder and colder just looking at you.”

Jane pushed open the door to the stairwell and glanced back at Eloise. “Thank you for being such a good sport tonight.”

Eloise smiled. “Are you kidding? I haven’t felt this invigorated in ages. And thanks to you, balancing my books this month will be far less frightening. I know things have taken a strange and unwelcome turn, but hang in there, Jane. Having a theme week was a brilliant idea. Don’t let a few cretins ruin it for you.”

“I won’t. It’ll take more than murder and mayhem to stop my endeavor from being a success,” Jane said. The door closed behind her, and she stood there for a moment, her palm on the wall as if feeling for the house’s heartbeat. “It can’t fail. Too much depends on it.”

•   •   •

When Jane reached
her aunt and uncle’s apartments, she found Muffet Cat curled up against the polished oak door. Seeing her, he slowly unfolded himself, got to his feet, stretched, and released a pitiful meow.

Sweet boy!” Jane cooed and stroked the cat’s glossy fur. Muffet Cat began to purr and rub himself against Jane’s calf. He then raised his front paw and, using the tip of his claws, scratched at the door.

“Ready for bed, are you?” Jane unlocked the door and pushed it inward. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”

The apartment was silent. Too silent for Jane’s tastes. Aunt Octavia was not a quiet person. She barked rather than spoke, guffawed rather than laughed, and filled the spaces she occupied with color and sound.

“You’re larger than life,” Jane said, picking up the framed photo of her aunt that had been on her uncle’s nightstand for as long as she could remember. She sat on the edge of their bed and prayed that Aunt Octavia wouldn’t be diminished by her physical disability. “Each of us has a tough battle to fight, but we can make it through.”

Muffet Cat joined her on the bed. He sniffed Aunt Octavia’s pillow and then glared at Jane, as if making it clear that she was not welcome to sleep in his favorite person’s bed. Jane tried to pet him again, but he flattened his ears and squeezed into the space between the pillow and the headboard. From this position, his yellow eyes shone with displeasure.

“You have no poker face, Muffet Cat,” Jane told him. “And I’m sorry that Aunt Octavia isn’t here. I miss her too, believe me.” Jane fetched a freeze-dried chicken treat from a powder jar on the dresser and placed it on the top sheet. Muffet Cat’s paw shot out from under the pillow like a striking snake. Piercing the treat with his claws, he pulled it into his lair. Jane heard crunching sounds followed by a rumble. Muffet Cat was purring again. “See? Everything will be all right.”

After taking the silk shawl from her aunt’s closet, Jane retraced her steps through the apartment, locked the main door, and headed down the hall. Passing through another exit marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
, she walked over the plush carpet leading to the third-floor guest rooms. Without planning to, she found herself standing at the door to Felix Hampden’s room. Jane suddenly realized that this was the appropriate place to reflect on all the information she’d gathered tonight.

Unfortunately, Jane didn’t have a key to room 316, so she crossed the hall and unlocked the housekeeper’s closet. A set of room keys was stored on every floor in the event of an emergency and Jane was just about to help herself to the third-floor key ring when she heard sounds of a scuffle.

A woman’s cry reverberated down the corridor. It wasn’t loud, but it was filled with enough fear that Jane leapt into action. She grabbed the only weapon at hand—a mop—and rushed toward the source of the noise. Rounding a bend in the hallway, she heard a whimper coming from the small room where the vending and ice machines were located. Jane gave the door a rough push.

Lizzie, the housekeeper, was huddled in a recess between the wall and the ice machine. Her uniform was rumpled and her eyes glistened with tears. Her hands, which were balled into fists, shook violently.

Hovering over Lizzie in an undisguised pose of malice was the man in the monk’s robes.