Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (16 page)

“What?” Kevin was obviously stunned. “No. I mean, yes, I went there, but I didn’t go in. I knocked on her door, but she never answered.”

“Why did you go to her room, Mr. Collins? You’d already spoken with her earlier.”

“Because she didn’t tell me
anything
!” Kevin shouted. “She only wanted to know about the book. She didn’t care what
I
wanted! No one seems to realize that I lost the woman I loved! No one gives a crap about what I want or what I’ve gone through!”

His anger was almost palpable. It rolled off him in waves, and Jane imagined she felt the air grow a trifle warmer.

“If Ms. McKee had responded to your knock, how did you plan to convince her to talk when you’d already failed to do so in the elevator?”

There was a long silence. Jane guessed that Kevin was either composing himself or concocting a falsehood.

“I was going to offer her info about the book in exchange for info on Alice. I planned to lie, okay? Trust me, I’ve done worse than that since she dumped me, quit her job, and let her obsession with Adela Dundee ruin both of our lives.”

Without skipping a beat, the sheriff asked Kevin where he was on the afternoon of Alice’s death. Clearly flustered, Kevin haltingly repeated the story he’d told Jane about picking the letter out of the trashcan and waiting by the bike racks near the stables while Alice rode off on her horse to meet another Dundee fan.

Sterling had copied the letter and returned the original to Kevin, so he now had it on hand to show the sheriff.

“And when Alice didn’t come back from her ride? What did you do?”

“I went into the village. I was hoping to catch her and her
special friend
having coffee or something. That’s when I heard that she fell—that she was gone. All of these country bumpkins were gossiping about my Alice. About how she’d been taken away in an ambulance that didn’t use its sirens. And I knew it was her because they mentioned Alice’s hair. She had such beautiful hair. Long and golden. It smelled like oranges and I loved to run my fingers through it.” His voice grew hoarse. “I hung around the village for hours. I was too wrecked to move. But by the next day, I was back to wanting to know why she’d changed. If anything, my need to know was even more urgent. Because now she couldn’t tell me. Only the guy who wrote that letter could. Him. Or Moira. I figured they’d both be here for this Murder and Mayhem thing. How could this other Dundee devotee miss out on something that was sure to include his
favorite
author
?” He spoke the two words with venom.

“Did you believe that Felix Hampden wrote the letter?”

“Who the hell is Felix Hampden?” A chair creaked. “Wait. Was he Alice’s lover? You have to tell me!”

Jane held her breath. Was Kevin lying? Did he really not know Felix?

Instead of replying, Sheriff Evans rustled some papers. “We’ll get to Mr. Hampden, I assure you. First, I’d like to know about your work.”

“My work? Why? What is this? What’s going on?” Kevin was nervous again. Words burst from his mouth like bullets being fired from a gun.

“You were on sabbatical at Oxford University when Miss Hart ended your engagement, correct?”

Jane didn’t hear Kevin speak, so she assumed that he responded with a nod.

“I don’t know much about England,” the sheriff said breezily. “My wife always wanted to vacation there, but I don’t like to fly. So help me to understand. Why leave the States to study in another country?”

“I’m a biochem geek, and my main focus is pharmaceutical research. There’s a professor at Oxford whose interests are similar to mine. We’re both working on using frog toxins for medical purposes.” Kevin quickly warmed to his subject, losing all traces of his former anxiety. “I didn’t go to England for the equipment, but to work alongside Professor Tuckley. He has amazing ideas on how to replicate toxins and produce a range of incredible new drugs.”

The sheriff made a noise of encouragement. “Where do you get these frogs?”

“You can actually order them online,” Kevin explained. “People like to keep poison dart frogs as pets so they can tell their friends that they own one of the most lethal creatures on the earth. They don’t, of course. Most of them buy the
Colostethus
species.
Very colorful and totally nontoxic. Even the ones I work with, the
Phyllobates terribilis
species
,
can’t secrete the toxin in captivity. The only way we can get them to produce toxin is to import the beetles they like to munch on. It’s the golden dart frog’s special diet that makes it poisonous, and the food source is unique to the Pacific coast of Colombia. That’s where we get the frogs, their food, and their fauna.”

“Do you have any of these golden dart frogs at home?”

Kevin snorted. “No way, man. Our frogs aren’t pets. They’re objects of scientific study. We have a bunch at the lab, but that’s not for public knowledge. These frogs are an endangered species, and even though we breed them, people don’t like the idea of people using them for experiments. That is, until scientists like us stop the progression of their kid’s MS or their dad’s Alzheimer’s.”

“Can you tell me more about the toxin?” Evans maintained his airy tone. “How does it work?”

“It’s really cool,” Kevin said. “It’s secreted through the frog’s skin. All you have to do is touch it, and within minutes, you’re a goner. It’s that deadly. Each frog has enough poison to kill twenty thousand mice. Or ten humans. If you’re unlucky enough to come into contact with the toxin, the first thing you’d feel would be a horrible burning sensation. We’re talking sheer agony, and then the nerves and muscles would depolarize, which basically means you can’t control your own body, and then your heart would go into arrhythmia. After that, you’d eventually have a cardiac arrest.” Kevin talked about the killing power of the toxin with such glee that Jane felt sick. If he had poisoned Felix and Moira, he was a true devil.

“I don’t get it,” the sheriff said. “How could something so harmful help people?”

Though the dialogue between Sheriff Evans and Kevin fascinated Jane, she couldn’t imagine why Evans was spending so much time discussing the nuances of the poison dart frog with a potential murderer.

“Because! We could use elements of the toxin as a muscle relaxant, a heart stimulant, and even as an anesthetic. Professor Tuckley and I are hoping to see it replace morphine in most hospitals. It’s a far superior anesthetic to morphine for many reasons like—”

“Is it being used at all now?” Evan interrupted. “The toxin?”

“Not really, though some of the compounds found in the toxin are. Topical creams to relieve pain. Total over-the-counter stuff. Nothing as big as we’re going for.”

“Does it have a particular taste or smell? Is it clear?”

“Who knows? Who’d be crazy enough to taste it? You wouldn’t live long enough to describe the flavor if it had one!” Kevin exclaimed loudly. “It really doesn’t have an odor or color.” There was a short silence. “I’m flattered that you’re interested in my work, but I’d really like to get to the point of this interview.”

“I’m almost there, Mr. Collins. Just one more question about the frogs.”

“Okay.”

“Did you bring the toxin to Storyton?”

Kevin spluttered. A series of incoherent sounds reverberated into the narrow space where Jane and Sinclair stood, waiting breathlessly for his answer. “Why would I do that?”

Jane heard a chair groan as the sheriff shifted his weight. Unable to restrain herself any longer, she bent over and peered through the gaps in the brass vent. From this vantage point, she found that she was gazing up at the men at the table. The angle made the sheriff’s face appear fleshier, especially around the jowls, but somehow diminished Kevin Collins. He seemed younger and gaunter than he’d been in the gloomy space behind the bowling lanes. His skin was ashen, and his eyes were wild and haunted.

“Think carefully before answering, Mr. Collins. I already know the truth, so lying to me would be a terrible mistake.”

Kevin chewed a fingernail and glanced furtively to his left and right. Jane wondered if he was searching for an escape route, but there was only one exit and it was behind Evans.

Or so I believe
, Jane thought wryly.
For all I know, there could be a trapdoor under the rug.

“I’ll ask again. Did you bring toxin from the poison dart frog to Storyton?”

It was so quiet that Jane was certain someone would hear the thudding of her heart. Alongside her, she could feel Sinclair tense in anticipation.

“Yes,” Kevin finally whispered.

“I didn’t quite get that. Please repeat your answer,” the sheriff said.

“Yes.” The word was a mere tremble in the air.

There was an audible exhalation, and for a terrible moment, Jane thought it had come from her, but it was Sheriff Evans releasing his pent-up breath. “Why, son? What did you do with it?” His tone was surprisingly gentle.

A lump formed in Jane’s throat, and she didn’t know if the welling of sorrow was for Alice, Felix, Moira, or because of the tragic choice the young man sitting at the conference table had made. She was simultaneously afraid of him, repulsed by him, and furious with him, and yet, she pitied him too.

How twisted he must be inside. How full of darkness and despair.

She swallowed her emotions and watched as Kevin shook his head maniacally. “No, no, no!” he cried. “I didn’t use it. I didn’t!”

“Then why bring it?” the sheriff asked dubiously. “What were your intentions when you packed a deadly toxin in your bag?”

Kevin’s face crumpled. He put his hands over his eyes and shouted, “When I came here in September, I was going to kill him. Alice’s lover! I had this insane fantasy about squirting a few drops on his hand—to punish him for touching
her
.”
He let loose a wrenched sob. “I couldn’t have done it though. Not for real. I was just trying to convince myself that I was the better man. The bigger man. After all, I worked with some of the most lethal stuff on earth and I was trying to use it for good!
I
was the catch—not some loser booklover. Me!” He thumped his chest with his fist. “
Me
.”

Sheriff Evans waited for Kevin to calm down. “Was the toxin in a test tube? How did you carry it?”

There was a lengthy pause and then Kevin mumbled, “In a syringe.”

Jane thought of the broken perfume bottle. Had Kevin put drops of toxin on the stopper? Or in Felix Hampden’s pomade? A syringe would have contained enough poison to kill a dozen people. If Kevin had brought the syringe in September, it was likely that he packed it when he returned to Storyton Hall for a second time for the Murder and Mayhem Week.

“Tell me how you used that syringe.” The sheriff was still speaking gently.

Kevin swiped at his eyes as if embarrassed by his tears and then frowned. “What do you mean? I didn’t use it. I never found out who the guy was, so I didn’t even take the syringe out of my overnight kit.”

“Alice died from a cardiac arrest,” Evans said. “Isn’t that how someone who’d come into contact with the golden dart frog’s venom would die? Isn’t that what you said?”

Kevin bolted to his feet, and both the sheriff’s and his deputy’s right hands flew to their gun holsters.

“I had nothing to do with what happened to Alice! I
loved
her!” Kevin’s eyes were wide with fear, reminding Jane of Alice’s spooked horse. “When she died, she took all the answers with her.” He plunged his hands into his hair. “I. Want. Answers.”

The sheriff produced a plastic evidence bag and slid it across the table. “What do you make of this?”

After darting wild glances between the sheriff and the deputy, Kevin reached for the bag. He leaned over it and then he gasped. “It’s the same handwriting! It’s
him
. The guy who told Alice to go riding.” Staring at the sheriff with a look of utter desperation, he said, “Who is he? Who wrote this?” He slapped his palm on the bag, as if he could squash the evidence of his rival’s existence. “What’s his name?”

“It belongs to Felix Hampden. Unfortunately, Mr. Hampden is dead. He was poisoned.”

“Good,” The words came out as a snarl. “I wish I’d been there to see him die.”

Sheriff Evans motioned to his deputy, and together, the men moved toward Kevin.

“Mr. Collins, I’m placing you under arrest.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything!” Kevin objected.

While Kevin was read his rights, Jane grabbed Sinclair’s arm and gave him a little push. She felt terribly claustrophobic in the narrow, musty space and needed to get out of the passageway without delay. When Sinclair didn’t respond quickly enough, she edged around him and groped along the wall until her palm met with the cool metal of the closet. She yanked on the recessed ring pull, stepped over the lip and into the closet, and then, without stopping to see if anyone was in the hallway, burst out into the warm and welcoming light.

Jane leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. It was all ruined now. The Murder and Mayhem Week would go down in the annals as the darkest time in Storyton Hall’s history. The guests, seeing Kevin Collins led away in handcuffs, would grow alarmed. Searching for answers, they’d start making phone calls. Word would spread, and soon enough, a reporter from over the mountain would arrive. Alice Hart’s death would be brought to the public’s attention, and the murders of Felix Hampden and Moira McKee would become front-page news around the region.

“We’ll be ruined,” Jane murmured miserably.

At that moment, Sinclair stepped out of the storage closet. “We will not be ruined,” he said firmly. “And this is far from being over. While the sheriff and his deputies were otherwise engaged, Sterling took the liberty of examining Mr. Collins’s room.”

“What did he find?”

“It’s what he didn’t find that’s worth noting.” Sinclair took Jane’s elbow and steered her toward the lobby. “Aside from a collection of framed photographs of Miss Hart, Mr. Collins brought few possessions to Storyton Hall. Other than his monk’s costume and some jeans and shirts, he had a medicine kit. There was no syringe among his toothbrush, comb, razor, and deodorant.”

Jane considered the implications of the missing syringe. “He must have gotten rid of it after our little chat in the room behind the bowling alley.”

Sinclair paused. “I don’t think the sheriff will be able to hold Mr. Collins for more than twenty-four hours. Not unless the lab results prove that the toxins found in Felix Hampden’s body did, in fact, come from the golden dart frog. And even then, Evans will need our help. He doesn’t have a shred of hard evidence against Mr. Collins. There are no witnesses to the crimes and no murder weapon. It’s too circumstantial to hold up in court and Evans knows it. He must be hoping to buy time while his team sorts through the contents of Ms. McKee’s and Mr. Collins’s rooms.”

“What can we do in the meantime? Empty the Dumpster and sift through the garbage?”

Sinclair nodded. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what we must do. While most of the guests are occupied watching the Storyton Hall Players perform
Murder at the Vicarage
this evening, I’ll recruit several discreet staff members to assist with the search.”

Jane had a sudden vision of the scene from
Star Wars
film in which Luke, Leia, Han Solo, and Chewbacca are trapped in the trash compactor when the walls begin to close, threatening to squash them to death. That’s how she felt right then. Like the walls were closing in and she had no way to stop them. “We still haven’t found our copy of
Lost Letters
. If Kevin stole it from Felix, then where is it now? Could it be that he killed Felix out of jealousy and truly didn’t care about the book? Maybe he sold it to Moira. Maybe he threw it out. Or maybe someone else helped themselves to it when Felix could no longer put up a fight.” She sighed. “I fell for Kevin’s whole story, you know. I saw him as a man who’d lost his way because of heartbreak and grief. I never believed him capable of murder.”

“People are like book characters, Miss Jane,” Sinclair said and started walking again. “In the beginning, they let us catch glimpses of their personality, but it takes time—a hundred pages or so—to really know them. Our challenge is that we don’t always have the opportunity to learn the backstory of our villains.”

“Well, if we’re using book metaphors, then I didn’t read him as a thief. He seemed intent on hurting the people he thought were involved with Alice, but he doesn’t care about books and he seems to hate Adela Dundee.” She stopped before the lobby door. “Alice was obsessed with Dundee. Kevin believes he was dumped because of Dundee. So what would he do if he came across a book about Dundee in Felix Hampden’s room? He’s just poisoned the man he believed to be Alice’s lover and now he spies this book? What would he do?”

Sinclair grimaced. “Destroy it.”

“Or bring it somewhere to study it. To try to learn what it was about this woman and her writing that so captivated Alice. He could have stuck it on a high shelf in any of the reading rooms.”

“In other words, it could be anywhere,” Sinclair said.

Steeling herself, Jane grasped the door handle. “I never thought I’d see a guest escorted from Storyton Hall in handcuffs, but I’d better take up a position in the lobby and assure our guests that there’s nothing to worry about. If I can manage to look calm, perhaps I can assuage their fears.”

Jane smoothed her hair and entered the lobby. She could tell by the excited tittering near the coffee stations that the sheriff had already come through. She and Sinclair had spent too much time talking. Anxiously, Jane started for her office. She moved slowly, expecting people to block her path and demand an explanation.

To her astonishment, no one paid her any mind. Even when she tarried at the coffee station to make sure that it was fully stocked, the guests were too preoccupied to notice her.

“His uniform was
so
realistic,” a woman said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “I don’t think that was a prop gun either!”

The man in front of her turned to pass her the cream jug. “And the young man was quite convincing too. The way he kept shouting that he was innocent. I was half tempted to fly to his aid.”

The couple laughed and moved away, leaving Jane staring after them.

They think it’s a charade—another element of the Murder and Mayhem Week!

Feeling hopeful, Jane strolled across the lobby. She heard similar remarks, but the guests quickly moved on to other topics such as when they should get in line for tea or what they planned to wear to dinner.

“I can’t wait to see the play!” a woman exclaimed as she hooked her arm through her husband’s. “Jerry, darling, this is the most wonderful vacation ever. I want to come back to Storyton every year.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” the man said, smiling at his wife indulgently. “The accommodations are excellent, the food is superior, and I enjoy the company of our fellow guests. I can’t remember the last time that I felt so relaxed and yet so invigorated. I’m reading quite a bit, but who would ever have guessed that I, Gerald Houston, would go fly-fishing or sign up for a pickleball lesson?”

His wife laughed merrily. “And you look very fetching in your tennis whites, I might add.”

“Really?” The man kissed his wife on the cheek. “Perhaps we should come twice a year. Do they have other theme weeks?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to do some sleuthing and find out,” the woman said before the couple moved out of earshot.

Jane felt like hugging the pair. She knew it was only a matter of time before the guests learned the truth about the murders, but at least she’d been given a slight reprieve.

If only the scandal would break after this week is over
, she thought. It was hard to say good-bye to the success they’d experienced thus far. The guests were happy and adventurous. They were booking excursions, sampling the offerings of the Activities Desk, and feasting like royalty. Their willingness to spend money on recreation, food, and alcohol meant an increase in revenue for Storyton Hall.

Jane had received jubilant notes from the managers of the Madame Bovary Dining Room, the Agatha Christie Tearoom, the Kipling Café, and the Ian Fleming Lounge. They all said basically the same thing: that they were experiencing their most lucrative weekend since Storyton Hall first opened its doors to paying guests.

Waving to the front desk clerk, Jane entered her office, sank into her chair, and gazed blankly at her desk calendar. Halloween was fast approaching, and the Beatrix Potter Kids’ Club was always booked to capacity with children wanting to enter the pumpkin-carving competition, take a haunted hayride, and trick-or-treat around the resort while their parents enjoyed an autumn wine-tasting dinner. Later, the kids would reunite with their parents, settle on picnic blankets spread around a great bonfire, and be treated to a spine-tingling ghost story.

“Who’ll bring children to Storyton Hall after two murders?” Jane asked the calendar.

As if on cue, she heard the sound of a child giggling. And then a second child began to laugh.

“I take it the two of you are tired of playing with your train set,” Jane said as the twins entered the office.

“Yes, and we’re starving.” Fitz covered his stomach with both hands.

Hem groaned and copied the motion, adopting a pained expression to emphasize the gravity of their plight.

“How about a bike ride into the village? I’ll get a coffee and you can either have frozen custard from the Canvas Creamery or a donut from the Pickled Pig.”

“Custard!” Hem shouted at the same time Fitz yelled, “Donut!”

Smiling, Jane waved at the door. “We’ll go to both places and then drop in at Run for Cover on the way home.”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “That means talking. Lots of talking.”

“Yeah. You and Miss Alcott can go on for-ev-er.” He stretched out the word as if it were made of taffy.

“That should give you plenty of time to check out the new comics. You know Miss Alcott often gets deliveries on Mondays.”

The twins’ faces lit up. “Maybe there’s a new Superman!” Fitz said, pushing his brother out the door.

The physical prompt would have normally called for retaliation, but Hem was too excited to respond. Instead, he told Jane to hurry and the two of them sprinted through the lobby toward the terrace.

As much as Jane wanted to race out, she couldn’t indulge in an hour-long escape without informing Butterworth first. He was stationed at his post by the main entrance, flipping through papers attached to a clipboard.

“It’s been an eventful day, Miss Jane,” he said, glancing up at her approach. “And we’ve yet to recover our missing book.”

“Maybe the sheriff’s men have found it by now.”

Butterworth shook his head. “I insisted on seeing photographs of the evidence taken from Mr. Hampden’s room and
Lost Letters
wasn’t there. Mr. Sterling already went through Mr. Collins’s effects, and he is currently watching over a pair of deputies as they bag items in Ms. McKee’s room. The book is still unaccounted for.” He studied Jane and frowned. “You look a bit peaked. Perhaps some fresh air would do you good.”

“The boys and I were just heading into the village. But it feels wrong to leave, to enjoy the colors of the leaves and the scent of sun-warmed pine needles with all that’s happened.”

“We’re at a temporary impasse,” Butterworth said. “Investigations are about patience and vigilance. On those television crime shows, the facts are parceled out in tidy, sequential order and lab results are completed within hours. Our case won’t fit into a sixty-minute time slot, so we must do our best to sort through the chaos and confusion.”

Jane grimaced. “And a mountain of trash.”

“Indeed.”

“We should continue to keep an eye on Professor Price. He’s the last man standing, so to speak.
Lost Letters
may very well have fallen into his hands. And if that’s true, I doubt he came by it honestly.”

Butterworth grunted and then excused himself in order to assist an elderly man descend the wheelchair ramp. The basket on the man’s walker was so loaded with books that it threatened to overturn the entire support device. With a snap of his fingers, Butterworth signaled to the closest bellhop to accompany the gentleman to his final destination.

“Thank you, kindly,” the man said, digging in his pocket for a tip.

“That’s not necessary,” Butterworth said. “It’s our pleasure and privilege to help our guests enjoy an optimal reading experience. Where can Billy take you, sir?”

The man grinned. “To the lake, please. I grew up on the water, but I live in the concrete jungle now, and I miss hearing it whisper to me as I read.” He turned to Billy. “Can you take me back fifty years, son?”

Billy considered the question. “I don’t know if I can do that, but how does an Adirondack chair facing the lake, a wool blanket, and a thermos of hot cider sound?”

“Like heaven,” the man said and allowed Billy to gather up his books.

Jane tried to hold fast to the warm feeling of pride she felt watching Billy and the elderly gentleman chat as they slowly made their way down the ramp. After giving Butterworth a quick salute, she left the main house and crossed the lawn. She wheeled her bicycle out of the garage and caught up to her sons, who were riding in circles on the gravel path. “What took you so long, Mom?” Hem cried. “We’re wasting away!”

Laughing at his indignation, Jane followed the boys to the road. When they reached Broken Arm Bend, Fitz and Hem bellowed the poem someone had made up years ago to commemorate the danger of the infamous curve.

Broken Arm Bend,

Where rides come to an end,

In thistles and thorns.

Yes, our bones will mend,

But it would have been better

If you’d used your horn!

They made it to the village without incident, and Jane, who was feeling especially indulgent, treated the boys to jelly donuts followed by small frozen custard shakes. She also ordered two pumpkin lattes from Phoebe, who was thankfully too busy to chat. Jane wasn’t ready to talk about the murders or Kevin’s arrest to anyone but Eloise.

Luckily for Jane, Eloise had just finished ringing a sale and was free to lend Jane her ear while enjoying a latte and the afternoon sunshine in the shop’s front garden. Jane settled down in a comfortable twig chair and tapped the nearest stepping-stone with her toe. It was engraved with the word
Persevere
. “I’m going to need a healthy dose of this,” she said and then told Eloise everything that had occurred since the costume ball.

“If Professor Perv has the book, why wouldn’t he just leave the resort?” Eloise asked when Jane was done.

“I don’t think he’d be that foolish,” Jane said. She turned toward the street, soaking in the bucolic scene. The gardens were a riot of sedum, chrysanthemum, and aster blooms, and the proprietors had arranged pumpkins and gourds of all shapes and sizes along the flagstone paths leading to the shop door. The Halloween decorations would be going up soon, and the merchants would expect guests from Storyton Hall to continue pouring into the village. Jane thought of how Barnaby liked to dress in a different costume for the entire week leading up to Halloween and how he’d transform Geppetto’s Toy Shop into a haunted house every year. He would be crushed if there were no visiting children to wander, wide-eyed and deliciously frightened, through his displays of cobwebbed skeletons and rotting zombies. And his bottom line would suffer without a troop of kids dashing about Barnaby’s store, begging their parents to buy one of his splendid toys.