Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (22 page)

Carefully considering her reply, Jane stared at the blue hills rising over the trees. The October sun lit the leaves, and in their autumnal colors Jane saw the burnished copper fixtures in the Jane Austen Parlor, the vermilion cushions in the Ian Fleming Lounge, and the jar of saffron in Mrs. Hubbard’s spice cabinet. “Things always change, but as long as we have one another, everything will be all right.”

The twins relaxed and nodded. Hem put his hand over Jane’s and the three of them sat quietly for a long moment, drawing strength and solace from one another.

Eventually, the twins grew fidgety and told Jane that they were ready to load their bikes into the car. When that was done, they held a brief conference and turned to Jane with solemn expressions.

“Mom,” Fitz began. “Since we helped Aunt Octavia stop the bad lady, we decided—”

“That you should double our allowance,” Hem said and then added, “for a whole month.”

Jane laughed. And that’s when she felt the world right itself again. She was Jane Steward. Mother of two. Manager of Storyton Hall. Book club hostess. Avid reader. She was also the guardian of one of the greatest secrets of humankind.

Inhaling a lungful of mountain air, she gazed at the picturesque village spread out before her and smiled. She was ready to face whatever awaited her at Storyton Hall. She was ready to accept the role she’d inherited as a guardian. And when her work was done, she planned to spend the evening with a mug of herbal tea and a good book.

“I think I’ll start with
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
,” she murmured into the wind. “The Storyton Hall edition. The one with an ending.”

The first Tuesday after the Murder and Mayhem Week, the Cover Girls gathered in Jane’s kitchen to share a meal and discuss Kate Morton’s
The Forgotten Garden.

Because Jane’s friends had all brought garden-themed dishes, supper was a selection of sumptuous vegetarian tapas. Jane’s favorites were the fried eggplant triangles, sweet potato biscuits, cheese and tomato two-bite pies, and bruschetta with goat cheese, garlic, and capers. By the time Mabel opened the refrigerator to show them the maple pumpkin mousse she’d made, Jane felt ready to burst.

“Let’s take a break,” she suggested. “I’ll brew some decaf and we can chat while we digest a bit.”

“I’ve been saving my best news until after we ate,” Mrs. Pratt said as she took a seat on the sofa, primly folded her legs to one side, and smoothed her skirt. Jane tried to picture her with Gavin, the quintessential outdoorsman, and failed.

Violet flopped next to Mrs. Pratt. “Does it have anything to do with Janet Ingle?”

“Yes! She was transferred to a women’s correctional facility over the mountain today.”

“That’s great news,” Eloise said, taking her customary spot on the rug. She liked to sit with her back to the bookcase. “Even though she was locked up, it gave me the creeps having her in our village.”

Betty nodded. “She’s the subject of every conversation at the pub. Our regulars have taken to calling her the Murderous Maid.”

Several book club members laughed, but Jane couldn’t find any humor in having had two violent deaths occur in her ancestral home. She knew that her friends were being purposely flippant to keep the evening from turning macabre, but she wished they’d change the subject.

“I’m glad she’s gone,” Anna said. “I almost sent Randall to visit her. He could have lectured her on avoiding the common cold. It’s his favorite subject these days. He’s been cornering our customers any chance he gets.”

Mabel snorted. “Tell me about it! I went to the pharmacy to pick up a bottle of aspirin and that goat’s milk lotion I like so much and Randall practically vaulted over the counter to tell me how I could protect myself this winter by purchasing a humidifier. Pretending I had an incoming call on my cell phone, I turned my tail and ran.”

This time, Jane joined in the laughter. “No wonder he still lives with his mother. She’s the only person who can stand to listen to him.”

The women made a few more jokes at Randall’s expense before Mrs. Pratt returned to the topic of murder. “We’ve read every detail in the papers, Jane, but I have unanswered questions. For example, did your aunt get her book back?”

“She did. Minus the dust jacket.” Jane described the meeting between Lizzie and Desmond Price, omitting the presence of the Fins and the discovery of the Adela Dundee letter.

“But why was everyone after Aunt Octavia’s book? Even if it had been signed by Alice Hart, it wouldn’t be worth much,” Eloise said. “I love books more than life itself, but I wouldn’t kill for one. People don’t commit murder over books.”

Jane thought of the priceless collection hidden in the uppermost room of Storyton Hall and had to clamp her lips together to keep from disagreeing with her best friend. She knew without a doubt that certain people would do anything to access the items in that library, let alone possess them.

“Sheriff Evans wanted to know the same thing,” she said. “He let me look at Aunt Octavia’s copy of
Lost Letters
.” She shrugged. “It didn’t seem remarkable in any way, and though both Desmond and Lizzie claimed there was an important letter tucked between the pages, it was never found. In fact, the book was identical to the one Lizzie had purchased before she started working at Storyton Hall. Lizzie switched her copy with Aunt Octavia’s in hopes of discovering a treasure, and she must have been incredibly disappointed.” After speaking this untruth, Jane dropped her gaze. Thankfully, none of her friends noticed her discomfort.

“A missing letter? So the mystery is only partially solved!” Phoebe exclaimed.

Betty waved her off. “That bit about the letter must be a lie. Desmond and Lizzie or Janet or whoever she is would have made up anything to save their own skins. It’s the same at the pub. Give people who are angry or worried or scared a few drinks and they’ll start spinning all sorts of yarns. If I believed half the tall tales I hear, I’d be mad as a March hare.”

“Speaking of lunacy, what ever happened to Alice’s young man?” Anna asked.

“Kevin Collins? He’s finishing his sabbatical at Oxford.” Jane walked into the kitchen and started spooning coffee grounds into a paper filter. “I think he’s going to be all right. He just—”

“Cracked like an egg.” Mabel made a crunching noise.

“I was going to say that his heartbreak morphed into something beyond grief. Something dark and dangerous. But Sheriff Evans told me that the Oxford professor Kevin’s working with is mentoring him. He took Kevin to a counselor almost as soon as he got off the plane. When Kevin returns stateside, he’ll have to fulfill hours of community service for the unconscionable act of taking frog toxin from his lab.”

“To think they plan to make medicine with that stuff.” Phoebe gave a dramatic shiver.

“Poisons can be beneficial,” Anna said. “Did you know snake venom is being used to treat minor heart attacks?”

Mrs. Pratt grimaced. “I believe I’d prefer the heart attack.”

The topic turned to homeopathic remedies, and then someone asked Jane how Aunt Octavia was progressing with her physical therapy and new diet. Jane reported that her aunt had scared off another therapist and that Mrs. Hubbard had caught her in the kitchens at five in the morning.

“She’d somehow gotten herself into her wheelchair, out of her apartment, and into the elevator,” Jane said. “There she was, wearing her nightgown and bunny slippers, eating ice cream right out of the carton.”

“Speaking of dessert, I’m ready for mine.” Mabel joined Jane in the kitchen. She dropped scoops of maple pumpkin mousse into bowls and then added a garnish Jane couldn’t identify. Mabel caught her eye and smiled. “Pumpkin seed brittle. You’ll love it.”

Jane did. Everyone did. The smooth, rich mousse was bursting with fresh pumpkin flavor, and the crunch of the brittle provided the perfect contrast in texture.

When dessert was finished and the coffee cups drained, the women debated over which
F
title to read next. Suggestions included
Faustus
,
For Whom the Bell Tolls
,
and “The Fall of the House of Usher,”
but Eloise dismissed them all.

“For Jane’s sake, let’s stay away from the morose stuff,” she said. “No devils or violent death. How about a sweeping drama instead?”

“I’ve got it!” Mrs. Pratt snapped her fingers. “
The Forsythe Saga.
”

Several of the book club members shouted their agreement.

“We can rent the miniseries and have our own weekly film festival,” Phoebe said.

The women peered at their smart phones or pocket calendars and typed or penciled in a series of dates. After that, they loaded Jane’s dishwasher, washed and dried the plates they’d brought to her house, and wished her good night. Except for Eloise, they left en masse.

Jane stood at her kitchen window and watched her friends disappear into the night. The sounds of their bubbly chatter lingered for a moment, only to be whisked away by the wind.

“You seem like you’re doing okay,” Eloise said, coming to stand beside her.

“I’m getting there.” Jane pointed at the wall calendar hanging next to her refrigerator. “I’m going to be so busy from now until January that I won’t have time to dwell on the events of the Murder and Mayhem Week.” She turned to Eloise. “You were right. Because Storyton Hall has been all over the television and Internet, the reservations have been pouring in. We even increased the rates for the holiday season by twenty-five percent and people kept booking rooms. We only have a few left from now until after New Year’s. And I’m already starting to plan the next theme week. A Valentine’s theme called Romance in Residence.”

“Storyton Hall will be filled with couples in love?” Eloise asked, looking dismayed. “Count me out of the activities. I want to meet single men, remember?”

“It isn’t geared toward couples,” Jane said. “It’s for writers and readers. The American Romance Writers Guild wants to hold their annual conference here. They want to have panels, lectures, fashion shows, contests, wine and chocolate tastings, and a competition of the male cover models.”

“Now you’re talking! Count me back in, okay?” Eloise took her coat from the back of a kitchen stool and pulled it on. “And no matter how swamped you get, just make sure that you can still spare an hour or two for me and our Cover Girl meetings.”

Jane pretended to be offended. “Like anything can hold a candle to my girl time!”

Laughing, Eloise grabbed her car keys from the counter. “Edwin wants to cook for the two of us this weekend. He’s trying to decide what to put on his menu. Are you free Saturday for brunch?”

Jane thought of the archery lesson she and the boys had scheduled. After Sterling’s lesson, she’d start an intensive course of study with Butterworth on interpreting body language. Despite her new demands as the guardian of Storyton Hall, Jane refused to sacrifice her entire social life. Besides, she wanted to see Edwin again. “I can be at your place by eleven.”

“It’s a date.” Eloise gave Jane a quick hug and left, humming as she stepped onto the path of moonlit stone.

•   •   •

The following night,
Jane put the twins to bed and tidied the kitchen. She then poured herself a glass of wine and waited for Sinclair to arrive.

He appeared at ten o’clock on the dot, wearing a quaint bowler hat and carrying a black case in his hand. Directing Jane to a stool, he took off his hat and put the case on the counter. He opened it to reveal a tool that looked like a cross between a gun and a very large hypodermic needle. Jane stared at the ominous tool and chewed her lip.

“It’s not so terrible,” Sinclair assured her. “This is an ancient art form, and the procedure is perfectly safe.” He explained how the needle of his electronic tool would penetrate the dermis layer of her skin and leave a deposit of black ink. Holding up a stack of gauze bandages, he said, “There will be some bleeding. It’s perfectly normal so don’t be alarmed.”

Jane couldn’t tear her gaze from the tattoo machine. Finally, she took several gulps of wine, unbuttoned her blouse, and made a hurry-up gesture. “Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

Sinclair laid out a stencil of an owl clutching a scroll in its talons, an ink cup, latex gloves, alcoholic prep pads, and several other items. Handing her a prep pad, he asked her to clean the area to be tattooed. When she was done, he placed the stencil against the swell of her left breast and transferred the owl design. Picking up the tattoo machine, he raised his brows. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she said, steeling herself against the imminent pain.

“Try to refrain from moving.” Sinclair said and turned on the machine.

At the first sharp sting, Jane nearly jumped, but she squeezed her eyes shut and managed to stay still.

“See? It’s not that bad,” Sinclair said.

“No,” Jane replied through gritted teeth. “If you don’t mind being pricked by a needle over and over again.” Jane wanted to talk about something, anything, to keep from focusing on the small stabs of pain. “I’ve been thinking about
Lost Letters
,” she said. “If both Alice Hart and Desmond Price figured out that Adela Dundee sent a manuscript to Percy Steward, then won’t others come to the same conclusion?”

Sinclair kept his eyes fixed on his task. “It’s very possible, Miss Jane, but nothing to lose sleep over. Such individuals are more than welcome to book rooms, pay for meals, and spend countless days searching for the manuscript. When they try to enter staff-only areas, we’ll be watching. When they ask odd questions or make strange requests, we’ll be listening. If they cross the line, we’ll politely ask them to leave. If not, we’ll present them with their bill at the end of their stay and tell them we hope they’ll come back soon.”

Jane wanted to laugh, but a particularly sharp jab from Sinclair’s needle squelched the laughter before it could leave her mouth. “I suppose there are other clues hinting of our secret collection. In other letters, books, or snippets of poetry.”

“Indeed,” Sinclair said. “After all, the collection has existed for hundreds of years. It was once housed in your ancestral seat in England, but as the house aged, it became harder and harder to guard and several devastating thefts occurred. That’s why Walter Egerton Steward had the manor dismantled and rebuilt here. He was able to buy a large tract of land in an isolated valley and add dozens of secret passageways, hidey-holes, and listening nooks to the original design. He did all this to help the Fins and guardians protect the secret collection. And yes, rumors about our treasure trove will continue to circulate, so we must remain ever vigilant.”

When Sinclair finished his work, he turned off the machine, rubbed the finished tattoo with ointment, and then affixed nonstick dressing over her skin.

“Don’t I get to see your masterpiece?” Jane asked.

Sinclair nodded. “In the morning. You can remove the dressing then. We don’t want any bacteria getting in through your wound, because until the skin heals, this is a wound.” He smiled. “Your red badge of courage.”

“Can I take a shower tomorrow?”

“Certainly. Wash the area with soap and warm water and apply this ointment twice a day for three days. Your skin will probably peel. It will be completely healed in about four weeks.”

Jane grinned. “I could do a big reveal during the staff Thanksgiving supper.”

Sinclair’s eyes twinkled. “That would cause a bigger stir than the time the two bellhops got in a fistfight over the wishbone.” He packed up his equipment. “I’d like to review the paperwork on the man Gavin’s chosen as his successor—perhaps during afternoon tea. The gentleman’s name is Landon Lachlan. He was an Army Ranger until he resigned and began working for a private company. His job was to train other elite members of the military in developing their tracking, scouting, and survival skills. He’s also good with animals and volunteered for years at a wildlife rescue center. It won’t be difficult to place our trust in Mr. Lachlan, seeing as he’s Gavin’s relative.”