Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (4 page)

Shaking her head as if to shuck off the experience of the past few minutes, Jane made her way to the Pickled Pig. The boys were waiting for her in the market’s herb garden. To her relief, they’d yet to flatten any of the Hogg brothers’ plants. She bought them each a gumball as a reward along with the items she needed to prepare a supper of garlic bread, Caesar salad, and spaghetti Bolognese. After placing their purchases in their bike baskets, the trio rode home.

While the boys watched TV in the living room, Jane sipped red wine and stared at the spaghetti noodles rolling around in a pot of boiling water. Gazing into the steam, she considered how different Edwin was from his sister.

“Eloise was right,” she murmured to herself as she gave the meat sauce a quick stir. “Her brother isn’t like a hero from a thriller novel. He’s got more of Mr. Rochester about him. Maybe a little brooding Hamlet mixed in as well. In any case, I doubt he’ll stay in Storyton long. There’s nothing to capture his interest here.”

•   •   •

“Edwin has no
intention of leaving anytime soon,” Eloise announced several weeks later during the bimonthly meeting of the Cover Girls, the ladies’ book club Jane hosted. “In fact, he wants to take over Loafing Around. Claims he’s always had aspirations of elevating the sandwich to new heights.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to improve on Gertrude’s selections,” said Violet Osborne, the owner of Tresses Hair Salon. “She’s a sweet woman, mind you, but her club sandwiches are drier than dust.”

Phoebe Doyle, who ran the Canvas Creamery, an art gallery combined with a frozen custard shop, nodded in agreement. “The ham’s the worst. There’s a slimy film around the edges of every slice. I tried to tell Gertrude to buy her meat from the Hogg brothers, but she wouldn’t listen. She gets all her supplies from one of those big warehouse stores over the mountain.”

Mrs. Pratt curled her lip in distaste. “Over the mountain” referred to the closest big town. The locals frequented the town’s businesses or medical facilities only when absolutely necessary. They were fiercely loyal to their little village and had adopted a host of prejudices, many of which were unjustified, about other towns. “It’s no wonder the tourists won’t eat at Loafing Around twice,” Mrs. Pratt said. “At Storyton Hall, they’re served the finest cuisine within a hundred miles. Then, they take an excursion into the village, shop for a spell, and eventually build up an appetite. They enter our only café where, to the embarrassment of us all, they’re presented with stringy roast beef and soggy lettuce on bread hard enough to chip a tooth.” She took a deep breath. “Though I’m not surprised Gertrude is unable to made a decent sandwich. Why, just the other day I heard that her—”

“Pickles are limp,” interrupted Anna Shaw before Mrs. Pratt could circulate a fresh piece of gossip. “And there’s no excuse for that. The Hogg brothers have the best pickles in the world. Have you ladies tried their Packing Heat pickles? Wow, what a kick.” She fanned herself with a copy of
The Great Gatsby
.

Jane smiled. “It’s a good thing you work at the pharmacy. Plenty of antacids handy.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “And I definitely need them after spending eight hours a day with Randall.”

The women laughed. Randall, the town pharmacist, was constantly lecturing his customers on how to improve their health. He seemed to have no interests or hobbies beyond this subject, and no one could stand to speak with him for more than a few moments at a time.

“Insufferable man,” Betty Carmichael muttered. “He gave me a pamphlet on alcoholism the other day. My husband and I run a pub, but that doesn’t mean I’m a lush.”

“Speaking of booze, let’s have a toast!” Mabel declared and raised her glass. “Jane, which quote from this month’s book selection have you chosen to recite to kick off our meeting?”

“‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’” Jane’s voice resonated in the roomy kitchen. She liked the idea of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words floating up to the rafters to roost like birds. She loved his writing so much that she’d named one of her sons after him. Lifting her glass, she continued, “And to Gatsby, Daisy, that green light in the distance, and all the dreams we refuse to stop chasing.”

“Hear! Hear!” The women enthused and took sips of their cocktails. This was followed by a collection of appreciative sounds.

“What’s in this, Jane?” Violet poked the lime half floating on the top of her highball glass with a lavender nail. Her clothes, nails, and eye shadow were always a shade of purple.

“It’s a gin rickey, a drink F. Scott Fitzgerald enjoyed very much—among many others.” Jane held her glass out to the light. “There’s not much to it. Two ounces dry gin, half an ounce of lime juice, club soda, a lime half, and ice.”

Mabel took a healthy swallow. “Very refreshing.”

“I hope you made a few pitchers of these,” Eloise said, clinking the rim of her glass against Jane’s. “After living alone for so long, it’s quite a challenge to have Edwin sharing my house. He’s such a moody creature.”

“I have a charming guest room. Tell him to pack his suitcase and come over to my place,” Mrs. Pratt said with a licentious gleam in her eyes. “He can be as temperamental as he likes if he promises to walk around without a shirt.”

Anna swatted her on the arm. “He’s half your age!”

“That means she could probably teach him a thing or two,” Mabel said and sat down at the kitchen table. Mrs. Pratt giggled like a schoolgirl and joined her.

“I’d gladly send him your way.” Eloise sighed. “I love my brother, and you’d think with all his worldly sophistication that he’d have more refined social skills, but he’s impatient, demanding, and taciturn.”

Betty tapped the cover of her paperback. “Is he a modern Jay Gatsby?”

“No, Gatsby’s far too suave, too polished. Edwin’s more like Heathcliff,” Eloise said. “Or that prickly dapple gray of Sam Neely’s. That horse won’t let anyone ride him except for Edwin.”

“Lucky horse.” Mrs. Pratt mumbled.

Violet leaned forward. “Did anyone hear what actually happened to that woman who died? It’s been weeks since it happened and there hasn’t been any mention of it in the paper.”

The group of women looked to Mrs. Pratt to supply the answer. There was nothing she liked better than being the center of attention. Her face glowed as she sucked in a great lungful of air. “Well . . .” She then raised a finger and took a delicate sip of her gin rickey, as if she couldn’t possibly begin without first moisturizing her throat. “They never did discover her real name, you know.”

While the rest of the women exchanged perplexed glances, Jane recalled an image of a motionless body covered by a white sheet. She thought of a pale, lovely face and waves of golden hair and felt a prick of guilt.

How could I have put her from my mind so quickly?
It was true that she’d been overwhelmed with preparations for the Murder and Mayhem Week, but it was no excuse for forgetting that a stranger had recently lost her life in the middle of Storyton Village.

“I thought she rented a horse from Hilltop Stables,” Anna said.

“So she did,” Mrs. Pratt agreed. “But under a false name.”

This statement was met with several shocked gasps.

Delighted, Mrs. Pratt fed her captivated audience another tidbit. “She used a fake name and address on both the information form and liability waiver. Claimed she was staying here at the Hall. She even wrote down a room number. Paid in cash, mounted that mare, and, well, you know how her tale ended, poor girl.”

“But what spooked her horse?”

Mrs. Pratt shrugged. “No one knows. But I think it’s quite peculiar that her horse was frightened near the wooden bridge leading into the village. It’s as if someone wanted the mare to leave the path and come racing down Main Street.”

Betty made a dismissive noise. “That’s rather fanciful. The mare probably saw a snake or was bitten by one of those giant horseflies.”

“Big as hummingbirds,” Phoebe said with a shudder. “That’s why the garden’s full of lavender, bay leaves, and tansy. Keeps the flies away.”

“Is that also why you have so many pinwheels?” Eloise asked.

Phoebe nodded. “The art I display out front features types of kinetic sculptures. You know I keep the naughty stuff behind the shop.”

A wave of laughter swept through the kitchen. Phoebe’s “back garden” statues were well known throughout Storyton and beloved by all the Cover Girls. Crafted by Phoebe, these sculptures were made of everyday objects such as bottle caps, tin cans, vinyl records, road signs, wire, buttons, and cooking utensils. Each one featured a woman reading. The ladies were as big as giantesses and more voluptuous than Peter Paul Rubens’s Venus. Jane loved their auras of repose. One woman lay on her belly with a book propped open on her palms. Another was sprawled sideways in a chair, a book resting against her ample thighs, while a third was flat on her back, asleep, a hardcover splayed across her mountainous breasts. Like her bibliophile sisters, the dozing reader was completely nude.

There were seven altogether, forming their own little book club behind the Canvas Creamery. Phoebe’s “Book Junkie” sculptures had been photographed by most of Storyton’s guests, and occasionally, she sold one for a ridiculous sum of money to a besotted tourist. Whenever that happened, Phoebe would round up the Cover Girls and they’d all take a ride to a salvage yard to help her choose treasures for the next sculpture. Phoebe was a superstitious woman who felt that the number seven was truly lucky. There had to be seven women in her garden and seven flavors of frozen custard in the shop. Even the toppings she offered were multiples of seven. The last time Fitz and Hem counted, there’d been twenty-one types of candy and thirty-five charcoal sketches hanging on the wall.

“What about Doc Lydgate?” Anna asked Mrs. Pratt. “Didn’t the coroner get back to him? Enlighten him as to the cause of death? Or mention that she wasn’t claimed by anyone?”

A cloud passed over Mrs. Pratt’s round face. “Oh, that Pippa Pendleton won’t tell me a thing. I even tried to offer her a fair trade for the information, but she refused to deal.”

Mabel raised her hand. “Let me guess. Pippa tried to swipe something at the Pickled Pig and you saw her.”

“Correct!” Mrs. Pratt replied. “You’re a clever woman, Mabel Wimberly. Yes, Pippa was pocketing two tins of mints when I caught her in the act. And did she show an ounce of shame? None. When I promised not to inform the Hogg brothers of her crime in exchange for news on the dead woman, she stuck her chin in the air, called me a nosy female dog, and marched out the front door.”

Jane and the others tried not to laugh. Mrs. Pratt’s indignation was nearly palpable, but it was amusing to picture Pippa telling her off. After all, Pippa was certain to become Mrs. Pratt in thirty years’ time.

Eloise made a sympathetic noise. “I’m surprised she didn’t accept your offer. I wouldn’t want to face any of the Hogg brothers if I’d been caught pilfering. But Pippa’s young. At that age, I thought I was invincible too.”

“You’re a baby,” Mabel scoffed. “When you get to be my age—”

“Or mine,” Mrs. Pratt and Betty chimed in simultaneously.

Mabel nodded at her contemporaries. “Given a few more decades, Pippa will learn that life is fragile. When I’m done with my sewing and my supper, I go out into the garden every evening at twilight and just sit there, wondering about the woman who died in the middle of our village. The rest of you are far too busy for such musings, but I wish I knew her whole story.”

“I bet the unanswered questions have been bothering Edwin too.” Eloise looked stricken. “I think he blames himself for her death, though the doc has since assured him that he couldn’t have done anything more to help her. I never stopped to consider how what happened might be affecting him.”

Mrs. Pratt grinned. “If he needs a nursemaid, you know where to find me. Tell him I am quite adept at sponge baths.”

Once again, the room filled with laughter. Hearty, shrill, and musical notes intertwined, the sounds as different as the women who produced them.

Violet waved her copy of
The Great Gatsby
. “Shall we talk about this then?”

“We should,” Jane said. “And remember that we’re moving to the
F
’s next month as we continue to work backward through the alphabet. Eloise gets to pick first, but start thinking about which
F
title you want us to read after hers.”

“I’ve chosen
The Forgotten Garden
by Kate Morton,” Eloise announced.

Anna clapped her hands together. “Thank goodness. After
Gilead, The Grapes of Wrath
,
Ghosts
,
The Glass Menagerie
,
The Giver
, and
The Great Gatsby
, I’m ready to delve into some women’s fiction.”

Jane murmured in agreement, but the title of their next selection served only to remind her of the dead stranger again. Instead of Rapunzel, she now pictured the woman as Sleeping Beauty, lying in Mabel’s wild garden, her golden hair entangled with vines and flowers.

In that tale, however, a prince eventually showed up to rescue the slumbering princess, but the woman who’d slipped off a runaway horse in Storyton Village hadn’t been saved. She’d fallen in the middle of the street, never to rise again.

“Jane? Are you listening?” Eloise’s voice called her back from her maudlin thoughts.

“Sorry,” she told the rest of the Cover Girls. “What were we discussing?”

Mabel pointed at her empty glass. “Refills.”

Jane could scarcely remember the last time she’d felt such a delicious blend of anticipation and fear. Today was the first day of Storyton Hall’s Murder and Mayhem Week, and she expected the initial round of guests to begin checking in any moment now.

She tried to imagine what it would feel like to be guests coming to Storyton Hall for the first time, to alight from the train and find a smiling gentleman in livery holding up a sign bearing one’s surname written in splendid calligraphy. The gentleman would introduce himself as their chauffeur, offer to take the luggage, and lead them to a magnificent vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.

After making sure that his passengers were comfortable in the back of the luxurious car, he’d steer the majestic sedan over the winding roads leading to Storyton Hall. During the scenic drive, he’d gently and courteously remind the guests of the resort’s restrictions on technology.

“Storyton aims to be a place of peace and tranquility, a place conducive to reading. Therefore, all electronic devices may only be used in the privacy of one’s room. No computers, cell phones, handheld games, or e-reading devices will be allowed in the public areas. Ignoring this request could lead to an early termination of one’s stay.”

Occasionally, a guest protested, saying that he or she was expecting an urgent call. “May I suggest using room service until your call comes through?” the chauffer would respond pleasantly.

Other guests would insist that they needed their e-readers to increase the font size of the books they wished to read, but their driver would have a solution for that conundrum as well.

“I recommend you acquaint yourself with Storyton’s vast library. Sinclair, the head librarian, can direct you to an impressive selection of large-print books.”

And so, feeling slightly anxious about separating from the gadgets, the guests would fall silent. But as the trip continued, they’d begin to let go of their fears and would suddenly notice the stunning vistas beyond their windows. They’d comment on the blue mountains, stretching on and on like the waves of a great ocean, or gasp as a hawk flew into view, circling high above the treetops in search of prey. As the miles passed, they’d forget about their BlackBerries and iPhones. They’d start to relax, sinking into the oiled leather seats and dreaming of hours of uninterrupted reading, cups of strong tea, and plates filled with delicate sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and sweet fairy cakes.

“At last, the Rolls will crest the final rise and the guests will be treated to their first glimpse of the resort,” Jane murmured to herself. “They won’t be able to stop from gasping over the splendor that is Storyton Hall. They’ll gape at the central tower with its enormous clock in the middle, the tall windows, and the dignified gray stones.” Smiling, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. “Ah, here you are now, your body tingling with impatience to come inside, to explore every inch of this big, rambling place as if you were Alice and this, Wonderland.”

Butterworth interrupted Jane’s musings. The dignified butler carried a silver tray holding four champagne flutes. Standing as straight and rigid as a soldier, he took his place just inside the front doors. A bellhop sprang forward to open them, and two couples entered the lobby. Jane watched their eyes widen in delight. Butterworth gave them a few moments to take in the sparkling chandeliers, the groupings of soft chairs and inviting love seats, the polished sideboards and end tables, and the stunning floral arrangements.

“Welcome to Storyton Hall,” he announced in his deep, eloquent voice.

“Oh, thank you!” The first woman accepted a glass of champagne and then stepped aside to let Butterworth serve her husband. That’s when Jane caught a glimpse of the little man waiting patiently behind her. He was the spitting image of Umberto Ferrari, the Italian detective made famous by the late Adela Dundee, the most popular authoress of traditional mysteries since Agatha Christie.

In the brochure she’d created for the Murder and Mayhem Week, Jane had encouraged attendees to dress in costume for “particular occasions.” There were several events requiring a costume, but the guests were encouraged to remain in character whenever they chose.

Now, as Jane listened to the Umberto Ferrari look-alike thank Butterworth in a honeyed voice with an elegant Italian accent, she felt a thrill of pleasure. Here was someone clearly devoted to the Adela Dundee character. Jane was amazed by how closely he resembled Ferrari. He was short for a man—she put him at five feet five inches—and like Dundee’s famed detective, he was completely bald. His brown eyes darted about the lobby, observing everything. But the pièce de résistance of his costume was not his magnificent custom three-piece wool suit complete with wing collar, hat, gloves, and walking stick. It was his pencil mustache.

“Magnificent,” Jane exclaimed softly. It was hard to look away from the dapper little man.

The Umberto Ferrari doppelgänger accepted his champagne flute and moved forward in small, brisk steps. As he drew closer, Jane noted that he even wore a lapel pin fashioned into a
tussie mussie
—a vase made to hold a nosegay of flowers or herbs. This Ferrari had chosen to fill his
tussie mussie
, a delicate silver amphora, with sprigs of fresh lavender.

“Welcome to Storyton Hall,
Signor
Ferrari,” Jane said when he drew near. “I’m Jane Steward, the resort manager.”

The man took her hand and bowed over it. “I am most charmed to make your acquaintance,” he said in his melodious Italian-accented voice. Utterly charmed, Jane led him to the check-in desk and then returned to the front entrance to greet her other guests.

“It was such a treat to be in the car with that man,” one of the women told Jane.

“He never broke character,” a second woman agreed. “If more people like him are headed to Storyton Hall, this week will be truly memorable!”

Her husband nodded. “We’ll have to make an effort to breathe life into our fictional selves. We brought enough clothes to maintain our characters, so I say we do this thing properly.”

“Jolly good,” the two women answered in unison. Giggling like schoolgirls, they scurried to the registration desk and got in line behind Ferrari.

Jane was about to return to her office when she saw Ferrari’s face redden in anger. Spluttering with indignation, he jabbed the tip of his walking stick into the floor and said, “It is I, Umberto Ferrari. Men are in awe of my intellectual prowess. When I am near, women feel faint and criminals cower. Do you truly not recognize me? Is it possible?”

Looking flustered, the desk clerk stammered in confusion until Jane swept over and put a comforting hand on the young woman’s arm. “I’m sure
Signor
Ferrari is very particular when it comes to his personal documents. After all, there are so many dangers afoot these days. Perhaps I might borrow your billfold for just a moment,
signor
? I’ll copy the necessary facts and return it to you directly.”

“That will be satisfactory.
Grazie
.” Bobbing his perfectly round head in gratitude, he handed Jane a vintage wallet.

I’m going to have to print out a Who’s Who cheat sheet for the staff
, Jane thought.
If the rest of our guests are like this gentleman, we’ll have to take care not to spoil the fantasy.

Withdrawing into the back room where the resort’s copiers, fax machine, and computers were housed, Jane photocopied Umberto Ferrari’s aka Felix Hampden’s driver’s license and swiped his Visa card in case he incurred additional charges over the course of his stay, which Jane certainly hoped he would.

“Lots of additional charges,” she said and selected a brass room key from the key case. Hampden had booked the Mystery Suite, a corner suite with heavy wooden furniture and framed prints of mystery novel book jackets lining the walls. The red and gold color scheme lent it a Gothic air, and Jane found it rather dark, but it was one of Storyton’s most coveted rooms.

The afternoon passed quickly as more and more guests arrived. Many of them had taken great care with their costumes and, because detective characters spanned the centuries, the clothing varied dramatically between one person and the next. According to an unofficial poll being run by the front desk staff, there were more Miss Marples than any other character.

“Makes sense, don’t you think?” a clerk asked Jane while running another credit card through the machine. “It’s an easy disguise. Slap on a hat, some spectacles, a wig, and a cardigan or a tweed coat, and you’re all set. Not much to being Miss Marple.”

“Don’t let Sinclair hear you say that,” Jane cautioned. “He’s very fond of Jane Marple. He refers to her as one of the ‘shrewdest gentlewoman detectives of all time.’”

A second clerk entered the tiny office and began to copy a pair of driver’s licenses. “I’m checking in James Bond and his fiancée, Grace, aka Fred Stevens and Joyce Little. Doesn’t the guy realize this isn’t a spy-themed event? Secret Service agents aren’t detectives.”

Jane laughed. “Believe it or not, Agatha Christie created a character named James Bond. He showed up in one of her short stories. What was it called?” She tapped her finger against her temple. “Ah! It was ‘The Rajah’s Emerald.’ Bond found a priceless emerald accidentally putting on the wrong pair of pants while changing out of his swim trunks in a seaside cabana. So you see, Christie came up with the name James Bond before Fleming.”

The clerk shrugged. “All I know is that I’ve read Ian Fleming and he’s good. Never tried any of the classic mystery writers like Sayers or Christie or Conan Doyle. No offense, but their books seem kind of stuffy. Manor houses and old ladies. Boring. I’ll stick to thrillers.”

Jane was tempted to fly to the defense of the authors he’d mentioned, but she wanted to influence the clerk’s opinion, not get into an argument. “There are lords and ladies in many of the books, that’s true. But some of the most fascinating characters are the maids and chauffeurs, doctors and movie stars, athletes and soldiers. Wait until you see our guests at the costume ball. The variety of characters will astound you.”

“But they’ll all drink tea and dance the waltz, right? Those mystery detectives weren’t nearly as flawed as one of the cops in a contemporary police procedural.”

Jane knew her employee was egging her on, so she smiled. “They’re no prudes. Did you know that Sherlock Holmes used cocaine on occasion?”

The young man’s eyes went wide. “No way.” Then he shrugged. “But the bad guys aren’t as scary. Modern crimes are creepier.”

“What if I told you that Agatha Christie wrote a novel about a serial killer? One of the most brilliant villains I’ve ever come across, in fact.”

“I’d be willing to give that book a try.”

Scribbling the title,
The
ABC Murders
, on a piece of scrap paper, Jane handed it to him. “Visit Sinclair on your lunch break. He’d be delighted to introduce you to some new authors.”

Inspired by their conversation, Jane returned to the lobby to greet a seemingly unending flow of guests. Chauffeurs escorted their passengers up the front steps before having to jump back into their cars and set out for the train station again. Soon, Storyton Hall was filled with the melodious cacophony of a sold-out hotel. Guests were everywhere—sitting, standing, chatting, exploring, admiring—while the staff buzzed around them like worker bees. Glancing at her watch, Jane decided to stop by the tearoom just to make sure that today’s spread was as impressive as the one pictured in the brochure.

She needn’t have feared. Storyton Hall’s cream china plates were stacked in neat columns on the end of the buffet table. Hundreds of diminutive sandwiches had been artfully arranged on silver platters, and Jane felt her mouth water as she recited the handwritten placards identifying each sandwich. “Smoked salmon and dill crème fraîche, Virginia ham and Dijon mustard, curried chicken salad, truffled egg salad with watercress, and salted cucumber with minted yogurt. Yum.”

“That’s nothing. Wait until you see the sweets,” a server said while setting a mammoth tray of assorted scones on the table. Jane inhaled the scent of warm, sugary dough and sighed in contentment. “Our guests are already lining up. Are we on schedule?”

The woman grinned. “We’re running behind, Ms. Jane. We always are. You know what Mrs. Hubbard says whenever we try to get her to pick up the pace.”

Together, the two women recited the cook’s declaration, “‘Perfection cannot be rushed. It must be coaxed forth.’”

“This spread is pure perfection.” Jane ogled the lemon madeleines with a raspberry ganache, two Victoria sponge cakes, cream puffs drizzled in chocolate, strawberries Romanoff, shortbread, mini poppy seed cakes, and dark Belgian chocolate cakes. “All of this plus scones with clotted cream and three kinds of jam? Mrs. Hubbard’s outdone herself.”

Jane paused to examine the flatware, water cups, and napkin fans placed on the empty tables. Everything was polished to a high shine and precisely arranged. The centerpieces, blush-colored roses bursting from silver vases, added the final touch of elegance to the scene.

“This is going to be a wonderful week,” she declared and then turned back to the server. “Gather the troops, Ginny. We’re about to open the door and invite our guests to enjoy a taste of paradise.”

•   •   •

Paradise didn’t last
long. At least not for Storyton Hall’s staff. Jane had to field an unusual number of complaints regarding luggage and room mix-ups, and she soon realized that having a resort full of people using fictional names created a unique set of challenges. She did her best to mollify ruffled guests by giving them complimentary cocktail vouchers.

“The bartenders in the Ian Fleming Lounge have come up with an array of special drinks honoring our fictional detectives. They include the Thin Man Manhattan, Sam Spade Sidecar, Jacques Clouseau Cosmo, and Hercule Poirot champagne punch,” she said, offering a voucher to a displeased lady guest. “And if you’d prefer a nonalcoholic beverage, we’ll be serving Nancy Drew Virgin Daiquiris.”

“I’m going to try at least two,” the woman said happily and Jane smiled with relief. She’d turned another disgruntled guest’s mood around.