Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (20 page)

In another second it would be too late.

Jane let out a terrible cry as she realized that she couldn’t reach the twins in time.

“Lizzie! You’ve messed with the wrong family!” Aunt Octavia bellowed and, picking up the book on her lap, hurled it at the enraged housekeeper. A thick, heavy hardback, the book hit Lizzie squarely on the forehead. She dropped like a stone and the syringe rolled down the steps and under the front wheel of Aunt Octavia’s wheelchair.

Jane didn’t remember closing the distance to her boys. She gathered them in her arms and kissed them until they wriggled from her grasp. “Stop it, Mom!” The twins were confused and vexed. “What’s going on?”

And then Hem pulled on Fitz’s shirt and pointed up the path. “Look!”

Jane followed his gaze and saw Sheriff Evans and a trio of deputies sprinting in their direction.

“What happened?” the sheriff demanded breathlessly. He gestured first at Desmond Price, who was lying on the grass trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and then at Lizzie’s inert form.

“I threw the book at her. Literally!” Aunt Octavia exclaimed. And with a self-satisfied smile, she bit into a Linzer tart.

By the time Jane, the Fins, and Aunt Octavia had given statements to a deputy, it was very late.

The shock over having been betrayed by Lizzie was slowly loosening its hold on Jane. Sipping a hot toddy in her aunt and uncle’s living room, Jane was unexpectedly overcome with a mixture of anger and shame.

“How could we have been so blind?” she asked the room at large.

“She used her mother’s name and social security number when applying for the housekeeper position,” Sinclair said. “She duped us all. I should have screened her more carefully.”

Butterworth shook his head. “We checked her references, she came up clean in our criminal database search, and she was most engaging during her job interview. As you said, she duped us all.”

Aunt Octavia, who was looking rather wrung out, slapped a throw pillow. “The woman was an actress, for heaven’s sake. She played her part with skill and consistency. Not only that, but Mrs. Pimpernel said that Lizzie was one of her best housekeepers. None of you is to blame. I am—” She suddenly stopped. “What is Lizzie’s real name?”

“Janet Ingle. Her estranged mother was Elizabeth “Lizzie” Ingle. She was in hospice and passed away just last week.” Butterworth handed Aunt Octavia a printout from the Hampden Theater Company in Cambridge, Massachusetts. “This is a list of the theater’s staff. Felix Hampden was the general manager, and Janet Ingle served as assistant to the artistic director as well as a regular cast member. Though primarily a member of the chorus, she landed the leading lady role several times as well.”

Jane thought back to the moment in which she’d teased Lizzie about joining the Storyton Hall Players. Lizzie had responded by saying that she hated the spotlight. She’d literally cowered at the idea of being onstage.

She was so convincing
, Jane thought as she examined an image of Lizzie aka Janet Ingle as Lady Macbeth.

“That explains the
Arcadia
reference,” Sinclair said. Our Lizzie knew a great deal about plays. I never thought I’d fail to decipher a literary clue, but I couldn’t make the connection between Mrs. Chater and the gazebo.” He turned to Jane. “You did that, my dear. By identifying the meeting place, you saved the day.”

Aunt Octavia raised her chin and harrumphed.

“And your aim was most impressive, Mrs. Steward,” Sinclair hurriedly continued. “The sheriff promised to return your copy of
Trim and Tasty: Cooking for Diabetics
as soon as he’s able.”

“He can keep it ad infinitum.” Aunt Octavia scowled. “The best thing I could have done with that cookbook was use it as a weapon. I read some of the recipes aloud to the twins, and they were gagging all the way to the gazebo.”

Jane tried to smother a smile. “Despite your act of heroism, you never got to enjoy those forbidden treats, did you?”

“No, but Mrs. Hubbard was kind enough to prepare something equally delicious that still adhered to my new diet plan.” Aunt Octavia sighed. “Don’t you see? I don’t mind the modified food. What I dislike is being told what I can or cannot have. I’m too old to change my ways.” Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. “But because of my actions, the twins were put in harm’s way. Can you ever forgive me, Jane?”

“Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to forgive.” Jane set down her drink and moved to embrace her aunt. “It’ll take time for both of us to adjust to our new lifestyles. For the moment, I’m just trying to figure out what to tell the guests. I’ve drafted a letter, but coming up with the appropriate language was impossible.”

At that point, her uncle returned from checking on Fitz and Hem. He nodded at Jane, indicating that the boys were fast asleep in the spare bedroom. Jane had feared that they’d be upset after watching a guest and a staff member led away in handcuffs, but the twins were more excited than anything. They couldn’t wait to go to school the next day and give their classmates a blow-by-blow account. And when the sheriff questioned the boys, he’d barely been able to get a word in edgewise. Basking in the attention, Hem even had the nerve to tell Evans that he’d always felt there was something shady about Lizzie, whereupon Fitz, who was not to be outdone by his brother, added that Lizzie had shifty eyes.

Jane handed the letter to her uncle and he read it quickly, stroking his chin as he did so.

“This is well put,” he said, returning the letter to Jane. “After all, we have no precedent on how to inform our guests that a murderer and her accomplice have been removed from our premises and are in custody at the local sheriff’s department.”

“Will all the guests leave the moment they read this?” Jane stared at the lines she’d typed before joining her aunt and uncle and the Fins for hot toddies and a chance to talk through their dramatic afternoon.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Aunt Octavia said. “A few ninnies will demand a refund, but when we refuse to give them a penny, they’ll march right off to the dining room and line up for the breakfast buffet.”

Sinclair nodded. “I agree. After all, the media is likely to descend upon Storyton Hall tomorrow, and most of the guests will be too enthralled by the drama to depart.”

Butterworth gave Jane a wan smile. “In truth, they’re more likely to put on their best clothes and promenade before the television cameras. You’ll see. The south lawn will look like George Seurat’s
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
.”

Jane thought of Seurat’s tranquil scene and managed a limp grin. “Thank you. All of you. Our problems are far from over, but at least our guests are safe. And so is our secret.” Her eyes widened in sudden alarm. “Or is it? What happened to the letter Desmond Price found inside the dustcover of
Lost Letters
? Does Sheriff Evans have it?”

Sterling reached into his pocket and retrieved a small envelope. “I liberated this from Professor Price after binding his hands. I also told him that if he discussed its contents with another living soul, I would visit him in prison carrying a vial of poison dart frog toxin.”

“Good show,” Butterworth said as Jane took the envelope. Gingerly, she removed the letter and read the single paragraph written in tidy cursive on creamy white cardstock.

Dearest P
—

Enclosed is the manuscript of Umberto Ferrari’s last case. It is unlike anything I’ve written. And by that I mean that the darkness my little Italian detective has been fighting against throughout his storied career finally overcomes him. He has seen such wickedness and has absorbed the pain and grief of those whose loved ones were taken through acts of violence. I fear that our world is on the brink of darkness as well. Richard believes that war is imminent, and so I am asking you to keep this for me until we are all safe again. Perhaps I will feel more hopeful once the danger has passed. Perhaps I will give Inspector Ferrari a better ending. I suspect we will all have had our fill of death by the time this war is over . . .

Jane swallowed the sob that threatened to bubble up in her throat. Adela Dundee’s last line echoed her own feelings. There had been enough death at Storyton Hall. Enough pain and fear. Like Adela, Jane wondered if she had any reason to hold on to hope. She was afraid that not only would her current guests leave, but those planning future visits would cancel their reservations. Eventually, Jane would have to let staff members go and watch in dismay as the manor house and grounds fell into disrepair. It was bad enough now, what with the roof issues, decrepit folly, and overgrown orchard, but Jane knew that things could get much worse.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Her uncle put a hand on her shoulder.

Jane glanced down at the letter. “Adela concludes by telling Percy that she might never reclaim the manuscript and that he should not surrender it to anyone but her. After thanking him for many memorable visits to Storyton Hall, she signs off with her initial.

“Ferrari kills himself,” Aunt Octavia said in a leaden voice. “I read the manuscript this afternoon when I was done giving my statement to that nice deputy. Aloysius had to fetch it for me, just like he fetched Storyton Hall’s copy of
Lost Letters
for me to read. The book that started all this trouble.”

“Both the book containing Adela’s letter to Percy Steward
and
her undiscovered manuscript came from up there?” Jane pointed overhead.

“Dear Percy filed the manuscript in the secret library under
D
as expected, but he also wrapped it in butcher paper, bound it with twine, and wrote a note saying that its contents were for Adela Dundee’s eyes alone.” She threw out her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I never knew we possessed this jewel. We have so many literary marvels in that library, Jane, that it would take two lifetimes to read them all. Anyway, you know how terribly fond I am of Ferrari, and I just had to know what happened to him in that manuscript.” Her gaze turned steely. “I will tell you, but you must never breathe a word of its contents to anyone.”

Jane was still reeling from her aunt’s opening line. “Ferrari commits suicide?”

Aunt Octavia nodded. “Yes. He returns to his boyhood town, a tiny fishing village on the shores of Adriatic Sea, and begins to drink heavily. He has no family, no friends outside of work, and the woman he’s loved his entire life has married another man. So Umberto Ferrari, the character beloved by millions over the world, chases a handful of tranquilizers with a bottle of Chianti and walks into the sea.”

“That’s completely out of character!” Jane cried. “Ferrari is the quintessential optimist. He’s merry and flirtatious and brilliant. He possesses an unflagging spirit and demonstrates unwavering faith in himself and in his fellow man. He always looked for the good in people. Even in those who’d done grievous wrongs. He found something redeeming in everyone. That’s why readers devour Adela Dundee’s books. They want to see Umberto Ferrari turn chaos into order, and he never let us down.” Jane shook her head. “To have him commit suicide? That would have crushed so many people’s spirits. Especially with the world at war.”

Sinclair nodded. “Would you ever consent to having that book brought to light?”

Jane suddenly realized why some of the items in Storyton Hall’s secret collection remained just that: a secret. Turning to her aunt, she said, “I see what you mean now. After the war, Adela Dundee wrote other Umberto Ferrari books. She aged him. Had him retire and work as a consultant. He continued to be the man we loved, but he slowed down. He grew old with dignity and never, not for one second, regretted his calling.” She tapped the letter. “But how did this end up inside
Lost Letters
? Why wasn’t it kept with the unpublished manuscript?”

Aunt Octavia released a low moan, her hands fluttering in front of her face like startled birds. “Aloysius?” she called. “I need to rest now. Help me to the bedroom.”

“Of course, my darling.”

Concerned and confused, Jane watched her uncle, Butterworth, and Sterling wrestle her aunt into the wheelchair.

“Good night, Aunt Octavia,” Jane said softly. “I hope you feel better in the morning.”

Her aunt gazed at her tenderly. “No matter what happens next, don’t forget that you succeeded in keeping our secret safe. It was your first test and you passed.”

When she was gone, Jane looked at Sinclair. “Aunt Octavia put the letter in the book, didn’t she? Why?”

“She made a simple mistake,” Sinclair said. “Your aunt wanted the copy of
Lost Letters
she’d purchased from the bookstore to serve as the scavenger hunt prize to remain in pristine condition, so she asked your uncle to see if there was another copy in the secret library she might read. The book was there and Adela Dundee’s letter to Percival was tucked between the pages. Percival was a fine man, but he had an acute case of absentmindedness toward the end of his life, so it doesn’t surprise me that the letter wasn’t properly filed.”

Jane stifled a smile. She knew Sinclair disliked disorder more than anything. “Go on,” she prompted.

Sinclair inclined his head. “Your aunt took the letter out and, seeing that it was still sealed, laid it on her library table with no intention of opening it. The envelope you’re holding was in plain sight and I believe Lizzie entered the apartment while your aunt was dozing on the sofa, saw the envelope, and recognized the handwriting as belonging to Dundee. She must have contacted Felix Hampden immediately.” He gestured at Jane’s right hand. “Later, your aunt stuck that missive under the dust jacket of Lost Letters, gift-wrapped the wrong copy, and didn’t realize her mistake until her collapse in the Jane Austen Parlor. In fact, I suspect she was already feeling unwell when she wrapped the book. Diabetics can be afflicted by a mental fog when they experience extreme fluctuations in their glucose levels.”

Jane sagged deeper into her chair. “Now I see. Lizzie opened the letter and knew that there was an undiscovered Adela Dundee manuscript somewhere in Storyton Hall.” She paused, thought for a moment, and then frowned. “But the timing doesn’t make sense. Lizzie’s been working for us for months, so either she or Felix Hampden must have suspected the truth long before the Murder and Mayhem Week. But how could either of them have heard of the manuscript’s existence all the way in Boston?”

“We don’t have all the answers yet,” Sinclair said.

“No wonder Aunt Octavia’s health declined so quickly once she heard that Storyton’s copy of
Lost Letters
had been given to Felix Hampden,” Jane said. “She must have suffered terribly from guilt.”

Sinclair got to his feet. “There’s been enough suffering under this roof for the time being. We should all get some rest. Tomorrow is sure to be a taxing day.”

Jane said good night to her uncle and the Fins and then made her way through the hushed hallways to her office. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep with so many questions flitting through her mind. There was a connection between Desmond, Felix, and Lizzie and she had to at least attempt to find what it was.

Giving the night clerk a friendly wave, she entered her office and turned on her computer. Next, she searched through the Harvard University website until she found Desmond Price’s faculty page. She clicked on the link and then paused when his picture appeared on the top of her screen. She noted the smug tilt of his chin and the look of superiority in his eyes and shook her head. “You could have had a good life. If only you’d poured all that energy into teaching, you’d have been an incredible professor. You could have influenced the next generation. Instead, you became obsessed by a tenuous familial connection to a famous writer.”