Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (12 page)

“Lizzie!” Jane yelled. She shifted her gaze from the terrified housekeeper to the monk, brandishing the mop as if it were a long sword. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Raising twin boys had taught her how to infuse her voice with steel, and the man in the Brother Cadfael costume immediately responded. He pivoted and glowered at Jane.

His hood had fallen away, revealing a tangle of unkempt chestnut hair and the same furious eyes that had peered out at her from inside the elevator cab. Though the beginnings of a dark beard covering his chin and the deep furrow of anger between his brows made him look older, Jane put him in his late twenties.

“I asked you a question,
sir
.” Jane stared down the stranger. She wasn’t the least bit frightened. All she saw was a guest assaulting a Storyton Hall employee, and she wasn’t about to stand by while someone abused one of her staff members.

The man’s gaze flicked to the mop in Jane’s hands and he seemed to come to a decision. Turning to Lizzie, he spoke in a low snarl. “This isn’t over.”

And before Jane had a chance to wonder what he meant, he barreled right into her, shoving her so hard that she dropped the mop and stumbled backward, pinwheeling her arms madly.

Jane thrust out her hand and her fingers found purchase on the door casing. “Stop!” she shouted after the man, but he was already a blur of black robes and patent leather loafers disappearing into the guest stairwell. Jane was tempted to pursue him, but in her dress and heels, she knew that she was ill equipped to overpower him. The mop wouldn’t help much either.

“Lizzie! Are you all right?” She rushed to the older woman’s side and put an arm around her. “What did he want from you?”

“Oh, Miss Jane!” Lizzie chocked back a sob. “He wanted me to open another guest’s room for him. And when I said that I didn’t have my keys on me, he went crazy.”

Jane was stunned. “Which room?”

Lizzie took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes and cheeks. “He didn’t say, Miss Jane. He must have guessed that I was lying about not having my keys because he started shaking me . . .”

Fearing that Lizzie might start crying again, Jane quickly told her that she’d shown remarkable courage.

“I’d do anything to protect the privacy of our guests,” Lizzie said. She gave a firm tug to her uniform dress and straightened her crooked name tag. “I could see that that man was up to no good from the get-go. He told me a story about forgetting his key because his costume had no pockets, but there was something I didn’t like about his face. I said that I’d be glad to get an extra key for him right after I called the front desk to verify that his name matched the room number.” She snorted. “No one’s going to bully me into unlocking another guest’s room. No, ma’am!”

Seeing that Lizzie was well on the road to recovery, Jane said, “Let’s go to my office. We need to report this incident to Butterworth right away so he can get word to the rest of the staff to be on the lookout for this monk. He’ll soon be answering to Sheriff Evans for assaulting you.”

Lizzie vigorously shook her head. “No, no, Miss Jane. I’m fine. Really. I don’t want to bother the sheriff. I’d be happy if Mr. Butterworth told that horrible man to relocate to a hotel over the mountain. Someplace befitting a person of his . . . his . . .” She seemed unable to come up with an appropriate word.

“Ilk?” Jane suggested.

“Yes.” Lizzie managed a thin smile. “His ilk.”

Jane laced an arm through the housekeeper’s arm. “Let me stow my weapon and then we’ll get you a nice glass of . . .” Now Jane was at a loss.

“A shot of Jameson’s would be lovely,” Lizzie said in a charming Irish lilt.

Jane grinned. “Remind me to talk you into trying out for the next production of the Storyton Hall Players.”

Lizzie’s eyes widened in terror. “Oh, please don’t, Miss Jane. I really don’t like the spotlight. I just want to care for our guests and live a quiet little life. In a way, this job is the most peaceful thing I’ve ever done. It’s much easier than being at my mom’s beck and call or raising kids.”

Thinking of all the mischief Fitz and Hem got into on a daily basis, Jane had to agree. She put the mop away and then led Lizzie downstairs and into her office. After telling her to sit and relax, Jane ordered a whiskey from the Ian Fleming Lounge and then went in search of Butterworth.

Jane knew that Butterworth had been training one of the groundskeepers to serve as a second conductor. By this time of night, the understudy would have taken up the baton, leaving Butterworth free to enjoy a few hours of leisurely reading. Since the devoted butler was working his way through a list of novels with African themes, Jane headed for the Isak Dinesen Safari Room.

Of all the rooms in Storyton Hall, the Safari Room was Jane’s least favorite. Due to her great grandfather’s penchant for hunting game all over the globe, there were far too many animal heads mounted to the walls for Jane’s taste. And though the souvenirs he’d placed throughout the room fascinated her—the African tribal masks, Aboriginal shields, and primitive weaponry—she could never relax in the zebra- print chairs or the leather settees covered by faux-fur throws. She couldn’t shake the accusatory stare of the animals, and she was more than a little ashamed of the pair of elephant tusks flanking the fireplace. Once, she’d asked Uncle Aloysius to have the tusks and all the taxidermy trophies removed, but he refused.

“We should never try to conceal the mistakes of the past, my girl,” he’d said in a firm but gentle tone. “Otherwise, how can we learn from them?”

So the tusks remained. And while lady guests typically avoided the Safari Room, men flocked to it. Dressed in seersucker or khaki pants, they’d enter the masculine space with beer or brandies in hand, and immediately feel at home. The room smelled pleasantly of cologne and wood smoke and was not as well lit as the other public reading spaces. It was by no means gloomy, and the men seemed to prefer reading or playing cards by lamplight.

Butterworth had the Safari Room all to himself. He sat in a club chair facing the fire, a glass of red wine on the side table and a hardback splayed on his right thigh. His gaze was fixed on the crackling flames, but when he heard footfalls, he glanced over to see who’d entered the room. Jane was unnerved by his troubled expression. Butterworth had always been the epitome of calm composure.

She gestured at the book. “Not a riveting read, I take it?”

Butterworth showed her the cover of Chinua Achebe’s
Things Fall Apart
. “An excellent rendering of Nigerian tribal life, but I fear that certain events have me distracted.” Closing the book, he got to his feet, his body as tense as a drawn bowstring. “What’s wrong?”

Jane quickly told him about the man in monk’s robes. The moment she was done, Butterworth pulled a cell phone from his pocket, pressed and held a single number, and then said, “Sterling? We have a rabbit. Male. Mid to late twenties. Brown hair. Five o’clock shadow. Attired in black monk’s robes. Patent leather loafers. Assaulted a housekeeper. He may have teeth. Proceed with caution.”

“A rabbit?” Jane asked.

Butterworth’s gaze swept the room. Even though they were alone, he lowered his voice. “A rabbit is a type of intruder. An individual that must be tracked and captured.”

Glancing nervously at the head of an antelope mounted on the opposite wall, Jane said, “And the part about the teeth?”

“The intruder might be armed.” Butterworth tucked his book under his arm and collected his wineglass. “You will learn all of the codes, Miss Jane. However, now is not the time. Let us adjourn to Sterling’s office. I want to see if he can find our man on the security cameras.”

Sterling’s small office was across the hall from Jane’s, and she’d grown used to the bank of small television screens displaying views of the front driveway, the back terrace, the lobby, and the hallways leading to guest rooms. Jane thought she knew where every hotel camera was located, but she was in for a surprise. The moment Sterling opened the door and ushered her into the office, she saw an entire wall of screens she’d never noticed before.

“I don’t know how many more secrets I can take,” she said, feeling tired and irritable.

Sterling looked a trifle abashed. “These are usually hidden behind my map of Virginia. I only check them a few times each day. Ever since Mr. Hampden’s passing, however, I’ve done my best to track the movements of Moira McKee and Desmond Price. So far, I haven’t noticed any suspicious activity. Neither has Sinclair. Of course, we might have missed something, seeing as we both have other responsibilities.”

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Sterling and I take turns watching the screens, but this level of scrutiny is only employed when a person of questionable repute is at Storyton Hall. It is not our intention to invade the privacy of our guests, Miss Jane, but our duty, above all else, is to keep the guardian of Storyton safe.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Jane said and smiled at Sinclair. “I didn’t mean to be crabby. It’s been a long and confusing day, and to have it culminate with someone putting their hands on a member of my staff? That’s unacceptable.”

“If you came upon that man a few months from now, you’d have had enough martial arts training to render him harmless,” Sterling said.

Jane smirked. “Preferably with a well-aimed kick to the groin.”

The three men in the room winced.

“An attack to that part of the body is rarely taught in the better-known martial arts disciplines, but certain street-fighting tactics may prove highly effective for you, Miss Jane,” Butterworth said.

“Anything would be better than going after an assailant with a mop,” she said.

“Not necessarily.” Sinclair put a hand on Sterling’s shoulder. “This man would have used the handle to deliver a debilitating blow to the monk’s windpipe. The fight would have been over before it began.”

Jane pointed at the television monitors. “Where is he now? Have you spotted him, Sterling?”

Sterling shook his head. “Not yet. He’s still at the resort. Whether he’s inside or somewhere on the grounds is unknown. Unless he’s a complete imbecile, he’s shed his costume and is, at this very moment, blending in with the other guests.”

Jane didn’t care for that idea at all. “How do you know that he hasn’t left Storyton Hall?”

“Because I reviewed the feed coming from the front gate, main doors, and side and back terraces. There’s been very little outdoor activity since the ball got under way.”

“It’s dark and cold out there.” Jane barked out a half-crazed laugh. “I’m living such a double life that I’m worrying about a lunatic running loose in the resort and whether it will rain during tomorrow’s pickleball tournament at the same time!”

Sinclair gave her a pat on the arm. “You’re managing brilliantly, Miss Jane. You identified our possible suspects and came up with a plan to question them. For now, we’re willing to let you adopt your, ah, more gentile techniques, but neither Ms. McKee nor Professor Price will be allowed to leave Storyton Hall until your aunt’s book has been returned.”

“What will you do to them?” Jane asked. Part of her feared the answer, but part of her looked forward to hearing it. After all, that book belonged to Storyton’s secret library. How dare someone try to steal it? How dare someone attempt to gain fame and fortune from an object that belonged to another person?

“You’re about to find out.” Sterling tapped his finger against a screen.

Jane leaned closer to the monitor and saw a figure appear in the second-floor hallway. He wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. The hood obscured his hair and most of his forehead, and he walked with his gaze on the carpet.

“Is that our man?” Jane narrowed her eyes. “I can’t tell.”

“Look at his shoes,” Butterworth commanded and told Sterling to reverse the feed several frames.

Jane stared at the patent leather loafers and then gasped. “It
is
him!”

And before she could utter another word, Sterling and Butterworth leapt up and dashed from the room. Sinclair closed the door behind them and took Sterling’s vacant seat.

“If he enters a room and it’s registered under his name, I’ll be able to identify him.” Jane continued to watch as the man stopped in front of a door. Jane counted silently in her head. “That must be room two twenty-seven.”

Using Sterling’s computer, Jane logged into the guest tracker program and typed the room number in the search box. When the results appeared, her breath caught in her throat.

“Who’s our monk, then?” Sinclair asked.

“I have no idea, but I’m sure of one thing. That isn’t his room.”

Sinclair frowned. “Who’s the registered guest?”

When Jane answered, her voice was tight with apprehension. “Moira McKee.”

The man in the sweatshirt raised his fist and knocked on the door. Jane watched, heart hammering in her chest, as he waited for Moira to answer. The man shifted impatiently, and then knocked again. This time, he used both fists.

Jane couldn’t move. She didn’t dare blink. The seconds stretched out and the rest of the world fell away. There was only the man on the screen. And then, there were three men. Jane saw a wink of metal as Sterling pressed something to the stranger’s neck. An instant later, he and Butterworth each grabbed one of the man’s arms and began pulling him toward the servants’ stairs. He struggled at first, twisting violently in an attempt to break free from their grasp, and then he abruptly stopped and slumped forward.

“What happened?” Jane asked. “He looks drunk.”

“That’s precisely the image that we’re trying to convey,” Sinclair said. “Mr. Sterling injected our rabbit with an animal tranquilizer. It works in less than a minute and wears off without harmful or residual effects.”

Jane hid her face in her hands. “I can’t believe it. We’re copying the
modus operandi
of a fictional serial killer.”

“Are we?” Sinclair was nonplussed. “Which serial killer?”

“Dexter Morgan.”

Sinclair nodded. “Ah, yes. Jeff Lindsay’s disturbed vigilante. However, we were using this particular technique long before Mr. Lindsay’s first novel was published, my dear.”

The trio entered the stairwell and vanished from view.

“Where are they taking him?”

“To a room behind the bowling lanes.”

Jane thought of the narrow corridor behind the lanes. She’d been back there countless times in search of the twins. It was one of their favorite places to hide, hatch mischievous plots, or eat the macaroons or lemon cakes they’d filched from the kitchens. Despite the fact they’d been told over and over not to stretch out on their stomachs behind the triangle of pins in order to watch a bowling ball come hurtling down the lane, Fitz and Hem continued to claim that the dim and dusty pit area was another “Boys Only” zone. They had a half dozen such places around Storyton’s house and grounds, including a decrepit tree fort in the orchard, a cedar closet in the attic, a secret nook under the main stairs, an antique car on blocks in the garage, and so on.

“What room?” Jane asked. “The corridor behind the lanes?” She’d been back there most recently to examine the pin elevator on lane five, which kept jamming and was in need of repair.

“The mechanical closet at the end of that corridor leads to another space.”

Jane tried to mask her irritation. First thing tomorrow, after her archery lesson, she was going to speak with Uncle Aloysius about obtaining a copy of the
real
blueprints for Storyton Hall. This was supposed to be her home. Her ancestor built this manor, and it galled her that others knew more about its secrets than she did.

Sinclair must have guessed her thoughts for he gave her another paternal pat on the arm and said, “I know these revelations irk you, but you’ll be fully briefed tomorrow. For now, you should get some rest. Our monk will be out of commission for a while.”

“What happens when he wakes up?” Picturing the supply closet with its lane and gutter mops, lane polish, cases of shoe sanitizer, cracked pins, and a motley assortment of steel levers, gears, and pulleys, she wondered exactly how the Fins planned to extract information from the monk. “Please tell me we don’t have some sort of torture chamber behind the bowling pits.”

“Its appearance
is
rather intimidating. Bare gray walls, hissing pipes, a workbench covered with rusty tools, and a metal chair bolted to the floor. There’s a single lightbulb swinging from a frayed wire as well.” Sinclair grinned. “Sterling and I agonized over every detail. We had a terrible row over whether to install a drain in the floor, but I felt that was overdoing things. After all, we were aiming for a particular style. Feng shui meets the Spanish Inquisition.”

Jane gaped. “You’re kidding, right? I really hope that you’re kidding.”

Sinclair shook his head. “I am not. The purpose of the room is to make it clear that any person entering Storyton Hall with the intention of committing a crime will face the consequences. We don’t administer a physical punishment, Miss Jane. But we get the derelicts to talk. We must. We must know if they’re working alone or are hired guns. We need to discover what they intended to steal from Storyton Hall and if they are motivated by money, fame, power, or a combination of temptations.”

“If there’s no physical torture, then how do you get them to confess? Read them long passages about the migratory patterns of North American insects?”

Sinclair cocked his head. “No, but I like how you think. Traditionally, we recite literary passages in which imprisonment is described in a thoroughly disagreeable light. We have selections from
Don Quixote
, Thoreau’s
Civil Disobedience
,
Crime and Punishment
,
The Count of Monte Cristo
, and a Walt Whitman poem called ‘The Singer in the Prison.’ That’s the one that usually breaks them.”

Jane glanced at the monitors. She saw guests entering their rooms, standing in the elevator cab, ascending and descending the main staircase, and milling about the various reading rooms. How many guests had checked into Storyton Hall with evil intentions since it had become a resort? How many had been taken to the room behind the bowling alley? “I think I need to go to bed,” Jane said. “I’ve reached my daily capacity for shocks and surprises.”

Sinclair nodded. “I believe that’s wise. Would you like me to walk you home?”

“No, thank you. I don’t need a bodyguard just yet.” She smiled to take the sting from her words. “After tomorrow’s archery lesson, I’d like the two of us to examine the list of employees who’ve had access to my aunt and uncle’s apartments within the past month. Unless the mysterious monk ends up telling you that he and Lizzie worked together to poison Felix Hampden and steal Aunt Octavia’s book, then I still have a staff member to bring to justice.”

“The scenario you presented is very unlikely,” Sinclair said. “But if our stranger is in collusion with someone wearing a Storyton Hall uniform, then we’ll find out soon enough.” He reached into his suit jacket and removed a small book with a green leather cover. “After all, I’m armed with Whitman.”

Things were becoming too surreal for Jane, so she wished Sinclair good night and headed back to the ballroom. She took a quick peek inside to make sure the Cover Girls were enjoying themselves and it certainly looked as though they were. Mabel and Phoebe were dancing the fox-trot while Mrs. Pratt, Eloise, and Violet were chatting with several female guests as if they were old friends. Anna sat at a table across the room, happily ensconced between Sam and Edwin. Jane paused for a moment, wondering why she hadn’t seen Edwin again after he’d waltzed her around the empty dance floor.

As if sensing her gaze on him, Edwin glanced up. Their eyes met and Jane could almost feel his hand pressing against the small of her back. Cheeks burning at the memory, she quickly looked away.

He’s Eloise’s brother
, she chided herself.
And you have more important things to think about
.

She hurried across the lawn and stepped into her blessedly silent house. Ned, who usually watched TV after the boys went to bed, was actually reading a book.

Jane plunked her handbag on the kitchen counter. “What do you have there?”

“It’s called
Paper Towns
. Mr. Sinclair promised that it would be more entertaining than watching college football.”

“And?”

Ned, who’d been stretched out on the sofa, shifted to a seated position. “I was only going to read during halftime, but I got sucked in. One of the characters is a girl who dresses like a ninja. She’s cool. I told Mr. Sinclair that I don’t like mysteries because I can never figure things out, but he said that the clues are right here, waiting to be found.” He tapped on the open page. “To tell you the truth, I don’t care if I solve the puzzle. I just want to know what happens in the end.”

Jane smiled. “It sounds like that author has a new fan.”

Ned nodded. “John Green? Yeah. Definitely.”

As was customary, Jane tried to pay Ned, and as was customary, he refused to accept her offer. “Mrs. Hubbard left a dessert plate for me in the staff kitchen,” he said. “Some cake, cookies, and this book are all I need.”

When Ned was gone, Jane washed up and put her pajamas on. She was exhausted, but her mind refused to calm down and she knew sleep wouldn’t come for a while yet. As she picked up her copy of Adela Dundee’s
Lost Letters
, something Ned said struck her. “The clues are right here, waiting to be found,” she repeated, turning to the photograph of Alice Hart. “The reason you came to Storyton in the first place is in one of these letters. You followed a clue left by Adela Dundee. But why would Adela mention Storyton at all?” Jane flipped to the title page. “At last, I can do my part to unravel this riddle. Alice used her brains and so shall I.”

Jane plumped her pillows, took a sip of water from the glass she kept on her nightstand, and began to read.

•   •   •

The next morning,
she was jarred awake by the sound of Fitz and Hem playing taps on their kazoos.

“Boys!” she croaked in protest and then rolled over, burying her face in her pillow.
Lost Letters
slid off the bed and hit the floor with a thud. A minute later, a small hand pushed against her shoulder.

“Mom, you have to get up. We have archery this morning.” Hem’s voice was shrill with excitement. “Fitz and I are ready!”

“I’m going to be the next Robin Hood,” boasted Fitz. “Bet I can already shoot an apple off your head, Hem.”

“Like Mom would ever let you. Anyway. I’ll hit twice as many bull’s-eyes as you,” Hem said, and the two of them began to wrestle. They grappled on the empty side of the bed, and Jane ignored them until the jumping contest started.

“Try to touch the ceiling!” Hem shouted.

The twins bounced until Jane was certain her brain was the consistency of runny eggs.

“Okay,” she rasped. “I’m up.”

Letting out a triumphant whoop, the boys told Jane they’d meet her in the kitchen and thundered downstairs.

Peering at the clock, Jane groaned. She didn’t have time to make coffee. In fact, she’d be lucky to get out of her pajamas before the doorbell rang.

She was just pulling on a warm sweater when Hem yelled, “Sterling’s here in the Gator!”

“I love beginning the day with a predawn ride in an ATV,” Jane murmured as she put her hair in a ponytail. She hurriedly brushed her teeth and joined the twins at the front door.

“I haven’t had any coffee,” she told Sterling by way of greeting.

“There’s a thermos in the front seat along with a basket filled with egg and cheese biscuits.” Sterling gave the boys a once-over. “Grab your down vests, lads. Hats too. Until the sun climbs a little higher, it’ll be cold on the range.”

The boys rushed to obey, returning with Jane’s pink down vest.

“I got you a hat too.” Fitz handed her the knit sock monkey hat he and Hem bought her for Christmas. The monkey’s smiling red mouth covered Jane’s forehead and its googly eyes jiggled when she walked. The hat had small, floppy ears and a pair of brown, red, and white braids that framed Jane’s face.

Jane put the hat on and climbed into the ATV’s front seat. The sky was overcast and last night’s wind had grown more persistent. Shivering, she reached for the thermos and turned to watch the boys clamber onto the Gator’s bed. There were no seats in the cargo area, but the twins didn’t mind. They stood up, clinging to the rail with one hand while beating their chests with the other. They alternated between bellowing like Tarzan or King Kong as Sterling drove over the uneven pathway leading to the archery range.

“I dare you to hold on with two fingers!”

“I dare you to only use your pinkie!”

“I dare you to stick a leg out like this!”

“I dare you to stick your butt out like
this
!”

Thrusting the basket of biscuits behind her, Jane said, “Eat up, boys.”

At the sight of food, the dares were forgotten.

Sterling’s mouth curved into a smile. “Motherhood provides a type of mental toughness that many a soldier fails to achieve.”

Chewing a light, buttery biscuit, Jane returned the smile and then concentrated on the beauty of the autumnal woods. After a long stretch of silence, she whispered, “How’s our monk?”

“Still sleeping. I’m afraid the dose was meant for a much heavier man. This fellow is rock-star thin.” Sterling frowned. “Gavin used to prepare the syringes, but since he’s been going over the mountain so often for physical therapy, the rest of us have had to perform his duties to the best of our abilities.”

Jane was slightly disappointed to hear that the Fins hadn’t made any useful discoveries since last night, but then again, neither had she. She’d read over half of
Lost Letters
without finding a single reference to Storyton Hall. Sterling stopped at the archery range and told the boys where to set up their targets. They raced toward the shed, bickering noisily over who’d get to open the padlock.

“Fitz and Hem have had lessons, so they’re going to be much better than me,” Jane said. “I haven’t shot an arrow since I was a girl.”

The boys returned carrying three bows and three quivers stuffed with arrows. They dumped these on the ground and darted away again.

Sterling handed Jane a black leather arm guard. “Not much of a fashion statement, but it’ll protect your skin from the snap of the bowstring. Saves you from getting a huge bruise too.” He fastened the Velcro straps around her forearm. “That’s one less injury to worry about.”

He’d barely spoken before Hem and Fitz started ramming into each other, using their archery targets as shields. Sterling’s face darkened. He told the boys to set down their targets and then gave them a brief but stern speech about how to behave on the range.

“Do you want to be mice or men?” he asked them.

“Men, sir,” the boys replied in perfect unison.