Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (23 page)

“That’s a relief,” Jane said. “However, if he decides to join the Storyton Hall staff, he’d better watch out. Mrs. Pratt is very keen on Scottish men.”

Sinclair chuckled. “This one’s far too young for her. He hasn’t even turned forty yet.”

Jane was surprised to hear that Landon Lachlan was in his thirties. After all, the rest of the Fins were in their mid-forties and fifties.

“You need a contemporary, Miss Jane,” Sinclair said as if reading her mind. “And this one’s quite easy on the eyes. Light brown hair. Bright blue eyes. Zero percent body fat. I imagine half the ladies in Storyton will be in love with him by the end of his first week on the job.”

“Does he wear kilts?” Jane asked playfully.

Sinclair snapped his case closed. “I can’t recall if that detail was in his dossier. I’ll rush straight back to my office and reread his file.” He winked at Jane, donned his hat, and departed.

•   •   •

On Saturday morning,
Jane made the twins her famous smiley face pancakes, in which she created a mouth of sliced bananas, strawberry halves as ears, blueberry eyes, and a whipped cream nose. The twins loved it when she added an unexpected feature to the edible faces, so she gave today’s pancakes a bacon mustache. After they devoured their food, she told them to watch cartoons until it was time for their archery lesson.

Jane took a quick shower and dressed in jeans and a camisole. She left her heavy flannel shirt on the bed until her hair was completely dry. Standing in front of her bathroom mirror, she pulled down the top of her camisole and examined her tattoo. It was healing nicely, and Jane could see all the finely drawn details. Sinclair had done an excellent job on the owl’s features, and the bird’s countenance reflected strength and wisdom.

“Mom!” cried Hem from the doorway. His eyes were as wide as saucers.

Fitz shouldered his brother aside and gaped. “Is that
real
?”

Letting her camisole fall back into place, Jane turned to her sons and scowled. “I thought you were watching cartoons.”

“We were, but Fitz changed the channel,” Hem said. “And then he put the clicker down his pajama pants.”

Making a mental note to spray the remote control with Lysol later, Jane tried to shoo the boys away, but they only came closer. “Is that a real tattoo?” Fitz spoke in an awed whisper.

Hem stared at Jane as if he’d never seen her before. “Is it a secret symbol? Are you like an Avenger or something?”

Fitz drew even closer. “Or one of the X-Men?”

Jane knew she dared tell her sons only certain things about the Steward legacy, and while she wouldn’t mention the secret collection, she didn’t think she was taking much of a risk in explaining the owl on her chest. “I got this tattoo as a reminder that being a Steward means that it’s our job to protect Storyton Hall and everything in it. Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia would like us to help them with this very important task. The three of us are going to train our bodies and our minds so we can be prepared in case we ever have to face someone like Lizzie again. I’m not saying that will happen, but we need to be ready. Butterworth, Sinclair, Sterling, and the new man Gavin hired will train us. Does that sound okay to you both?”

“That’s why we’re practicing archery and stuff?” Hem asked when she was finished. “Because we’re Stewards too?”

Jane nodded.

The twins exchanged looks of wonder and delight.

“That’s cool,” Fitz said.

“Some of it will be,” Jane agreed. “But it’ll also be hard. Now we’d better get going. Sterling will be here any minute.” Jane ushered the twins out of the bathroom and finished getting dressed.

When she got downstairs, the boys were already clad in coats, hats, and gloves. They stood at the window, keeping a lookout for Sterling.

“Mom’s a superhero,” Fitz whispered.

“I know,” Hem said in a hushed tone. “And she’s
our
mom!”

The twins puffed out their chests with pride.

Jane heard the sound of the Gator’s engine outside, and her sons raced to the front door. She stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long moment, smiling widely and touching the tender spot on her chest.

“
Their Story is Our Story.
”
As she spoke the motto of Storyton Hall, she thought of all the guests who’d come to the resort in the future. Some would undoubtedly have nefarious purposes, but the majority would be searching for a beautiful and tranquil place where they could read for hours on end. And Jane would be happy to show them to a reading room and to watch their faces light up as they selected one of Storyton Hall’s thousands of books.

“As for me?” she murmured, reaching for her coat. “My next chapter has just begun.”

Dear Reader,

Thank you for spending time with Jane Steward, her family, the quirky merchants of Storyton village, and the devoted staff of Storyton Hall. Jane and Company will return in the summer of 2015 with the next installment in the Book Retreat Mysteries,
Murder in the Jane Austen Parlor.
When a troupe of romance writers and devoted readers book the resort for their annual conference, Jane believes her biggest difficulties will be keeping her female staff members from swooning during the male cover model contest. Instead, Jane learns that a pretty face and flowery words can mask a wicked heart. And when a body is found in the Jane Austen Parlor, she must solve this literary murder with alacrity if she wants to save the guests, her loved ones, and the treasures hidden within the walls of Storyton Hall from peril.

Until you’re able to visit Storyton Hall again, I’d like to recommend another book-loving, mystery-solving ensemble. Olivia Limoges and her friends, the Bayside Book Writers, live in the quaint, coastal town of Oyster Bay, North Carolina, and are deeply devoted to the written word. In the next installment of the Books by the Bay Mysteries,
Lethal Letters
,
all is peaceful in their seaside paradise until a time capsule is discovered. When the lid is pried off the battered lead box, a secret escapes—a secret that will change the lives of Oyster Bay’s inhabitants forever.
Lethal Letters
will be available for purchase in November 2014.

For a taste of what’s in store for Olivia and the Bayside Book Writers in
Lethal Letters,
please enjoy the first chapter of the novel. And as always, thank you for supporting cozy mysteries.

Yours,

Ellery Adams

Time will bring to light whatever is hidden; it will cover up and conceal whatever is now shining in splendor.

—HORACE

Olivia Limoges rolled the newest edition of
Bride
magazine into a tight cylinder and brought it down onto the counter with a resounding
thwack!

“Enough! I don’t want to hear another detail about your upcoming nuptials. You’ve turned into a groomzilla, Michel. Your obsession over the venue and your tux and the guest list is driving everyone in this kitchen insane.” She pointed at a sous-chef who’d paused in the act of chopping onions to wipe his eyes with a dishtowel. “That man is weeping, for heaven’s sake.”

“He always cries when he—” the head chef of the Boot Top Bistro began.

“It started with the tulips, right?” Olivia directed her remark at the sous-chef. “Michel’s supposed to be creating the finest cuisine in coastal North Carolina, but his soufflés are falling and his sauces are burning while he frets over whether to have blush-colored tulips, hot-pink tulips, or lavender tulips at his reception.” She turned back to Michel. “I will take a meat cleaver to the next tulip you bring into this restaurant, do you hear me?”

Michel opened his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “I want everything to be perfect!”

“Last summer you said that you wanted a simple, intimate affair. But your plans have grown grander and more absurd by the month. I wouldn’t be surprised if Shelley were ready to call off the whole thing.”

At the mention of his fiancée’s name, Michel’s petulant look instantly vanished, and he smiled widely. “She told me that I could have all the pomp and circumstance I wanted. Unlike you, she understands that I’ve waited my whole life for this day and I want—”

“White doves and stretch limos?” Olivia sighed. “This is about you and Shelley. It’s a joining of two lives. A chance for the people who love you to share in your happiness. You don’t need a chocolate fountain for a wedding to be beautiful. You only need you, the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with, and a few carefully chosen words.”

Michel swiveled to face the rest of the kitchen staff. “Have I gone off the deep end?”

They nodded in unison.

“Has my food suffered?”

The line cook exchanged a nervous glance with the sous-chef. Michel had a fiery temper and it was clear that no one wanted to say that his cooking hadn’t been up to its usual standards. But Michel caught the furtive glance and instantly hid his face in his hands. “
Mon Dieu!
I have betrayed my art. And for what? Monogrammed napkins? Embossed invitations?”

“And tulips,” Olivia added. She put a hand on Michel’s forearm and gave it an affectionate squeeze. She was used to his theatrics, but this wasn’t a good time for one of his meltdowns. They needed to review the possible menus for the Historical Society benefit dinner before showing them to the president. “You can stop looking around for the perfect venue. The Boot Top is your kingdom, Michel. Its kitchen is your beating heart. Have the reception here. I’m sure your colleagues would be delighted to prepare the food for your wedding feast.”

The kitchen staff murmured its agreement.

Michel looked at them and sniffed. “Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Of course we would,” Olivia answered on behalf of her staff. “That just leaves the cake.”

Michel brightened. “Shelley and I always planned on making our own cake. I’ll do the baking and she’ll do the decorating. After all, no one can hold a candle to her when it comes to sweet confections.”

Olivia thought of the St. Patrick’s Day display she’d seen in the display window of Decadence, Shelley’s desserterie. Candy coins wrapped in gold foil spilled from a cauldron of solid chocolate. There was a forest of four-leaf-clover lollipops, marshmallow clouds, and a rainbow of jelly-fruit slices. Fondant leprechauns perched atop grasshopper cupcakes or cartwheeled across the frosted surfaces of crème de menthe brownies. “Shelley is truly gifted,” Olivia said. “And so are you. Can we talk about the menu for the benefit now?”

“Only if you promise to come with me to the First Presbyterian church before I get started on the dinner service,” Michel said. “I promised to swing by with a copy of our program.”

“I thought you didn’t want a church wedding.”

Michel shrugged. “
Maman
does. And since I am her only son, I did what she asked.” Straightening, Michel barked out orders to the kitchen staff and they jumped to obey. Scooping the bridal magazine off the counter, he held it aloft as if it were a torch. “I am back, my friends. And I apologize for being so distracted. That’s over now. You have my word as a gentleman and a chef. Spring is upon us and we will be busier than ever. We must uphold the reputation of the Boot Top Bistro. We must dazzle every diner!”

Smiling, Olivia grabbed her head chef by the elbow. “Let’s talk in the bar and then we’ll stop by the church. Which Saturday did you book?”

“I chose a Monday,” Michel said. “The Boot Top is closed on Mondays. You won’t lose any business and neither will Shelley. She and I will take Tuesday off and be back in the kitchen on Wednesday.”

Olivia poked her head into her office and saw that her standard poodle, Captain Haviland, was fast asleep. She smiled indulgently and then led Michel through the dining room into the bar. “Why rush back to work?” Olivia asked. “What about your honeymoon?”

Michel sank into one of the leather club chairs. “We’ll go when the tourist season is over. Mid-October maybe. I want to take Shelley to Paris. We can visit our old haunts from culinary school and then travel to the Riviera, visiting vineyards as we make our way south. It’s past time we updated the Boot Top’s wine list.” Michel gestured at the polished wood bar. “Not that Gabe isn’t the finest tender in town, but his palate isn’t sophisticated enough to be the restaurant’s sommelier.”

“Ah, the sacrifices you make for your job,” Olivia teased and placed a folder on the small table dividing her chair from Michel’s.

Michel reached out and grabbed her hand. He tapped the platinum band embedded with dark sapphires on her ring finger, and said, “I’m not the only person in the room who should be making wedding plans. And yet, I hear nothing of yours. Why not? What are you waiting for,
ma cherie
?”

Pulling her hand free, Olivia straightened the printed menus in the folder. “Mine will be a very quiet affair. Justice of the peace and a champagne toast. That’s all. There’s not much to organize.”

Michel fixed her with an intent stare. “Then why aren’t you already married? Are you cohabiting or is the chief still living out of a drawer? I know how much you treasure your independence, Olivia. But when you said yes, you gave up your old life.”

Olivia felt her cheeks grow warm. “It’s complicated. When he’s on duty, the chief needs to be close to town, so he stays at his place. My house is too far out. If there’s a police emergency . . .” She shrugged, letting Michel reach his own conclusions. “And I don’t like to spend the night in his house. His wife still has a presence there. She picked out the wallpaper and the towels, the dishes and the furniture. It’s her home. It’s a monument to their life together. Not to mention that it’s too far from the water.”

“We can’t have our resident mermaid living away from the beach. Your scales would dry out.” He gazed at her fondly.

Olivia shoved a printed menu under Michel’s nose. “Let’s focus on these menus now, shall we?”

•   •   •

An hour later,
Olivia pulled her Range Rover into a private lot belonging to the First Presbyterian church and opened the car door for Haviland. As he jumped out of the back seat and Michael alighted from the front, Olivia studied the Gothic Revival building, taking in its blocks of somber gray stone, pointed arches, and towering spire. It was one of the most imposing buildings in all of Oyster Bay.

A jarring mechanical noise erupted from inside the church. Michel winced and Haviland started barking.

“Is that a jackhammer?” Michel shouted.

“Maybe they’re tuning the organ,” Olivia yelled.

Haviland’s barking increased in volume, and he retreated several steps. Olivia laid her hand on the poodle’s head and tried to calm him, but he was clearly discomfited by the noise.

“I’m putting Haviland back in the car,” she told Michel. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

As soon as Haviland was safely inside the Range Rover, he stopped barking and stretched across the back seat. Olivia gave him a chew stick, promised she wouldn’t be long, and crossed the parking lot. Drawing closer to the church, she noticed several commercial vans and a pickup parked near the building. A man in a hardhat came out of a door in the church’s west wall and began rummaging through an aluminum toolbox in the bed of the pickup. After retrieving a pair of safety goggles and a crowbar, he disappeared into the church again.

Olivia found Michel in the sanctuary standing next to a man wearing khakis and a blue dress shirt. Mercifully, the hammering sound had stopped.

Michel introduced her to Pastor Jeffries.

“Please call me Jon,” the man said, offering Olivia his hand. His grip was warm and firm. Olivia liked both his handshake and his friendly brown eyes. They reminded her of Haviland’s. “I can’t believe we haven’t met before,” the pastor said. “Ours is a small town, but our paths somehow never crossed.” He smiled. “I guess I’m surprised because you’re very active in community projects. Your name pops up all the time in the paper.”

Michel put an arm around Olivia’s shoulders. “My boss wrangles money from Oyster Bay’s upper crust. You work in the trenches, Pastor. You probably aren’t involved with the same charities.”

“I suspect you’re right,” the pastor said amiably. “Until now. Miss Limoges and I are both supporting the upcoming Historical Society benefit. Not only is the Historical Society our next-door neighbor, but the society’s founding family, the Drummonds, have been devoted patrons of this church for the past century.”

Olivia let her eyes wander up the center aisle to the altar and then over the polished pews to the stained glass windows. The colored glass was cracked in places and coated with a film of grime, making it hard for the light to pass through. Watery yellows and dull oranges spotted the sanctuary’s red carpet and Olivia wondered if the windows could withstand the force of the work being done in the room to the left of the vestibule.

Pastor Jeffries followed the direction of her gaze. “I was just telling Michel that we’re in the middle of a minor construction project. At least, it started out as a minor project. The plan was to turn the cloakroom into a comfortable space for prayer and counseling, but as often happens during a renovation, the contractor and his crew encountered problems. Water damage, rotted floorboards, issues with the wiring. They’ve dug right down to the foundation stone.” His eyes slid toward the large brass cross on the altar. “I spent half the morning praying that there wouldn’t be any more surprises.”

“Pastor Jeffries!” a man called from the doorway dividing the vestibule from the chapel. “You’d better come look at this. We found something buried in the wall.”

“And people think the Lord lacks a sense of humor.” The pastor winked, told his guests he’d return in a moment, and strode down the center aisle.

Michel sighed. “I hadn’t pictured drop cloths and plaster dust as part of my wedding day décor.”

“I’m sure the job will be completed by then.” Olivia ran her fingers along the back of a polished pew. The sanctuary smelled of beeswax and lilies. Overall, it was a pleasant space. The walls were a soft white, the velvet cushions in a deep cranberry hue covered the pews, and the entire room was illuminated by rows of brass chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling. Olivia swiveled, taking in the second- floor balcony and the gleaming organ pipes. Everything was simple, elegant, and clean. Aside from the Easter lilies grouped around the altar, the only adornment in the entire sanctuary was the windows. “This is the oldest church in Oyster Bay,” she told Michel. “Think of all the couples that have walked up this aisle. All the music that’s been played. How many secret hopes and fears have been whispered into folded hands. This place is redolent with history.”

Sinking into a pew, Michel frowned. “I think it’s gloomy, but my mother will love it. It speaks of Old World Europe.”

“That’s not gloom. It’s patina.” Olivia wandered over to the windows on the east wall and studied the biblical scenes. Though she’d only attended a handful of church services throughout her life, she recognized most of them. She didn’t tarry too long before Mary and Joseph, the Nativity, or Christ cradling a lamb. After noting more cracked glass and sagging lead in the John the Baptist window, she moved to the west wall. She liked the Daniel in the lions’ den window and paused to take in the detailed faces of the slumbering felines. Again, she saw damage to the glass, lead, and putty.

“I’d think these would be more important than the cloakroom renovation,” she murmured to herself and walked by a window featuring a young boy holding a harp. In the next scene, she admired how the glass artist had used pieces of green, orange, and red glass to create a burning bush. But she didn’t linger, finding that she was inexplicably drawn to the last window.

This one, which was in the worst condition of all, portrayed a woman and child. The child, a girl with an ageless face, gazed forward. Her expression was both hopeful and serene. Most of her body was enfolded in the woman’s gown and as Olivia edged closer, she realized that it wasn’t a gown but a feathered wing curving protectively around the girl. The angel was in profile, her eye closed and her cheek pressed against the girl’s cheek. Olivia could almost hear her whispering words of comfort into the child’s ear. The more she stood and stared, the more the angel looked like her mother.

Hesitantly, Olivia placed her fingers against the glass and traced one of the white flowers hanging near the angel’s outstretched hand. The girl’s small hand rested in the angel’s cupped palm and Olivia had the urge to lay her own hand on top of theirs. She wanted to go where they were going, to see what lay beyond the curtain of dogwood blossoms.