Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (5 page)

That had better be the last one or we’ll lose money at the bar tonight
, she thought.

Jane hoped to type the cheat sheet for the staff in order to help them recognize the various detective characters, but decided to put if off until the morning. She was certain that none of the guests would be in costume for the evening’s events because she’d created a detailed itinerary for the week and mailed it to the registered guests weeks ago. Along with the times and locations, Jane had provided dress code suggestions for each activity. For the first event, a “Find the Clues” scavenger hunt, she’d recommended casual dress, citing that the game would take guests all over the hotel and its grounds.

“Hem! Fitz! Are you ready?” Jane entered the back office to find her boys bent over the copier with their tongues pressed to the glass. “Stop that this instant!” she commanded in her sternest voice.

Her sons, dressed in matching safari outfits, slammed the copier lid shut and saluted her. The trio then marched into the lobby, where the twins raised kazoos to their lips and hummed a boisterous reveille. The guests, who’d been chatting excitedly among themselves, immediately fell silent.

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” Hem shouted theatrically. “The hunt is about to begin.”

Jane fought to keep a straight face, but it was difficult. Her boys were impetuous, mischievous, and bullheaded, but they were also clever, imaginative, and fearless. Watching them now, she longed to throw her arms around them and kiss their cheeks, where the icing from dozens of stolen tea cakes still clung to their skin, but she restrained herself.

Once the guests had fallen silent, Butterworth stepped forward and gave the lapels of his uniform coat a firm tug and explained the rules of the hunt clearly and succinctly. Each guest would receive an envelope with a literary clue. Their task was to work out which Storyton Hall location the clue directed them to. If they guessed correctly, the next clue would be waiting for them in that particular spot. The person who found their clues the quickest would win the prize. When Butterworth was done, he told his rapt audience to direct their attention to the grandfather clock. The guests stared fixedly at the second hand, their fingers clutching the white envelopes the staff had distributed during Butterworth’s speech.

You could hear a pin drop,
Jane thought, reveling in the air of suspense.

When the second hand reached the twelve, Butterworth gave a slow nod. “You may now open your envelopes.”

Every envelope contained a line of dialogue spoken by a famous fictional detective. The quotes were meant to have people scurrying all over the estate, thus helping the guests become familiar with the buildings and grounds. If guests couldn’t figure out their clue, they were allowed to ask certain staff members for help. Fitz and Hem, who’d helped the housekeepers, bellhops, and groundskeepers hide the clues, wore their “Ask Me!” badges with pride.

“I read this book in June!” a woman told her male companion after seeing her clue. “It’s from Adela Dundee’s
The Hollow in the Heart of the World
. In this scene, Umberto Ferrari finds a rare Padparadscha sapphire hidden inside an old globe. I saw a globe in the library.” She bounced up and down in excitement. “This is such fun! Where are you going?”

“In the opposite direction from you, my dear,” the man replied cheerfully. He pointed to a map of the resort. “I’m off to the rose garden. Apparently, there’s a pink rose with my name on it.”

Jane smiled. Hercule Poirot had had a rose named after him in
How Does Your Garden Grow?
She was pleased to see that most of the guests were enjoying a successful start to the scavenger hunt. However, a few were obviously stumped.

“I must win that prize,” Jane overheard a woman muttering to herself. She caught a glimpse of white hair streaked with silver and a periwinkle blouse before the woman hurried down the hall.

The twins were assisting a flustered man in his early thirties. “I only came to this thing to impress my girlfriend,” he moaned. “I’m an investment banker, for Pete’s sake. Never read a mystery novel in my life.”

Fitz murmured something to the agitated guest. The man nodded enthusiastically, pressed several bills into Fitz’s hand, and then dashed off. Looking supremely satisfied. Fitz counted the money and handed Hem several dollars, and the two boys exchanged one of their many secret handshakes.

Jane was about to chastise her sons for accepting bribes when they wriggled their way through a knot of giddy women and abruptly vanished.

At that moment, Felix Hampden, the Umberto Ferrari look-alike, appeared from behind a potted ficus tree. He glanced about in desperation and then, seeing Jane, made his way to her side with that quick, funny little gait of his. He was the only guest in costume. “Beautiful
signora
. Would you be so kind?” He stroked his pencil mustache in agitation. “I, the most dashing and intrepid inspector in all of Europe, am confounded by this clue.”

Examining the slip of paper, Jane read the line out loud. “‘Hemlock in the cocktails, wasn’t it?’” She tapped her chin and tried to remember which book the quote came from. “I believe this is from
The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side
.”

When the little man gave her a baffled frown, Jane tried again. “You didn’t investigate this case,
signor
. Miss Marple, the British lady sleuth, was the investigator. However, I believe the key word here is ‘cocktail.’”

Hampden’s eyes darkened. “
Signorina
Marple? She is no detective!
A woman cannot detect. It is a man’s job!” And with that, he spun on his patent leather heels and waddled off in the direction of the Ian Fleming Lounge.

Butterworth sidled up to Jane. “The gentleman seems rather upset.”

“Mr. Hampden seems to take his role as Ferrari very seriously,” Jane said. “I hope he isn’t nasty to the Miss Marples, Nancy Drews, or Harriet Vanes over the next six days, or things could get unpleasant.”

The butler nodded in agreement. “I heard several individuals express a keen interest in winning the hunt. If I might ask, what prize has them so motivated?”

They both watched a young woman run into the lobby, stop in the middle of the floor to examine her map, give a small cry of dismay, and then leave again the way she’d come.

“It’s a book,” Jane said. “A lovely book, to be sure, but I hadn’t expected it to create such zealous reactions. The collection of letters written by Adela Dundee to her husband before he died in the war supposedly reveals how she came up with Umberto Ferrari among other writing secrets. Aunt Octavia donated the first edition copy from her personal library. She’s been looking forward to this event ever since I mentioned it.”

“So I gather,” Butterworth said with the barest hint of a smile. “A bellhop told me that your great-aunt has had a wing chair and footstool moved from the Daphne du Maurier Morning Room to the back porch. She is presently holding court at the top of the stairs. She has that ridiculously coddled cat on her lap and is feeding him tidbits while he casts superior glances at all the guests.”

Jane laughed. “She must be loving the attention. And if Muffet Cat is getting treats, then I can only assume Aunt Octavia is gulping down shortbread cookies and tea cakes as fast as she can.”

“Indeed.” Butterworth cleared his throat, a sure sign of disapproval.

“She eats as though she had the metabolism of an Olympic gymnast, which, unfortunately, she doesn’t, but none of us can do a thing with her,” Jane said helplessly. “Aunt Octavia is the queen of Storyton Hall. Unfortunately, our monarch won’t even acknowledge that she’s diabetic.”

Butterworth opened his mouth to reply when the woman with the cloud of white hair returned to the lobby. Gripping a clue in her closed fist, she marched up to Jane and said, “I don’t have time to play silly games. What’s the answer to this?”

What a poor sport
, Jane thought but pasted on a smile. “May I?” She gestured at the crumpled scrap of paper.

The woman issued a snort of impatience and peeled the clue from her damp palm. Her forehead was also glistening with perspiration and her eyes were wild.

“Are you feeling all right?” Jane asked in concern.

“I’ll feel better after I’ve won,” the woman replied tersely.

Ignoring the guest’s rudeness, Jane scanned the quote. “You need to proceed to the Isak Dinesen Safari Room. It’s down the lobby, through the—”

“I know where it is!” The woman snatched the paper from Jane and jogged away.

Butterworth cleared his throat again. “Perhaps we should have retained Dr. Lydgate for the evening. If the other guests are as desperate to achieve victory as that one, they might very well come to blows.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jane said, giving the butler an affectionate pat on the arm. “These people are mystery fans. Readers. Bibliophiles. They’re far too refined to resort to violence.”

•   •   •

In the end,
it was Felix Hampden, aka Umberto Ferrari, who claimed the prize. Jane presented him with Aunt Octavia’s gift-wrapped book in the Ian Fleming Lounge. Most of the guests applauded the little bald man with the pencil mustache and then rushed to the bar to alleviate the thirst brought on by physical and mental exertion. However, several people hung back, obviously interested in sharing a private word with Felix Hampden.

Jane noticed that the woman with the white hair was the first to approach him. Brandishing a checkbook, she took out a pen and held it over a blank check. When Hampden shook his head and politely excused himself, her face grew purple with fury.

He didn’t get far when his path was blocked by a man who looked remarkably like Hugh Fraser, the actor who’d played Captain Arthur Hastings opposite David Suchet’s Poirot in several film adaptations of Agatha Christie’s novels. The man clapped Felix Hampden on the back and gestured for him to take a seat. Jane couldn’t hear Hampden’s response, but she saw him stiffen, execute a dismissive bow, and walk away. She didn’t care for the manner in which the Hastings doppelgänger glared at the smaller man as he departed.

If the Hastings look-alike’s angry expression had Jane concerned, it was nothing compared to the unease she felt when she saw a man step from the shadows in the corner of the room to follow Felix into the hall. The man’s black clothing and the stealth with which he moved unnerved Jane. She also didn’t care for the way his baseball cap, emblazoned with a green sea serpent, was pulled down over his brow. She was about to go after both men when Fitz and Hem came barreling through the doorway.

One glance and Jane knew that her sons were scared. They were so rarely frightened that the sight of their pale faces and wide eyes filled her with dread.

Jane signaled to them, and within seconds, Fitz was tugging on her arm. “Aunt Octavia’s sick!”

Hem nodded frantically. “Come quick!”

“Show me,” she said in a steady voice that belied her anxiety.

The boys led her to the Jane Austen Parlor. Four male staff members had managed to move Aunt Octavia onto the rose-colored fainting couch. A housekeeper was removing her shoes while another dabbed at her forehead with a wet cloth. Muffet Cat was under the couch, his yellow eyes wide as moons. Upon seeing Jane, he released a frightened mewl that was so out of character that everyone in the room exchanged startled glances.

Crossing the floral rug, Jane maneuvered around groupings of Victorian furniture and side tables crowded with knickknacks. She could feel the portraits of her Steward ancestors watching her from within their gilt frames as she dropped to her great-aunt’s side.

Jane lifted her aunt’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Aunt Octavia? Can you hear me?”

Her aunt’s closed eyelids fluttered and she moaned. Jane fought back tears. Her indomitable aunt seemed deflated. Diminished. And when she spoke, her voice was thin and weak. “The book. The one you gave as a prize. Two copies. I gave you . . . wrong book.” Octavia opened her eyes. “It cannot leave Storyton. Get our copy back before . . .” She trailed off. Her eyes fell shut and she lay utterly still.

“Aunt Octavia!” Jane shook her aunt’s shoulder. “Call the doctor!” she shouted while her fingers searched for a pulse in her aunt’s fleshy neck. She found it. Thready and faint, but there all the same. “Thank God.” Jane allowed herself a single sob and then looked up, taking in the pinched and worried faces gathered around the couch. “Anyone have a mirror?”

“I do.” A desk clerk rushed forward and placed a silver lipstick case in Jane’s hand. Jane opened the case and held the narrow mirror beneath her aunt’s nose. When it turned cloudy, she nearly sobbed again.

“Is she going to be all right?” Fitz whispered and knelt beside Jane.

“I think so,” she whispered back.

Hem got on his knees on her other side and put his small hand on her arm. He didn’t say a word, but the presence of her two sons gave Jane the strength she needed to regain her composure.

“Lizzy, would you go to my aunt’s rooms and fetch her insulin kit? And tell my uncle what’s happened.” A pretty young woman nodded and hurried from the room. “Ned, would you wait by the entrance for Doc Lydgate?” The bellhop snapped his heels together and departed. “Thank you, everyone. Thank you for staying calm and acting so quickly. Well done. I think we should clear the room now. Give my aunt a little space.”

The statement was absurd, considering that only a handful of people were in the spacious room. However, the combination of the ornate furniture, busy wallpaper, curios, and shock had Jane feeling claustrophobic.

After murmuring words of encouragement, the staff withdrew, all except for Mrs. Hubbard. She refused to budge. “I’ve known Ms. Octavia my whole life and I won’t abandon her now,” the head chef declared, and Jane had no choice but to demur.

“What book was Aunt Octavia talking about?” Fitz asked, reaching under the couch to stroke Muffet Cat’s head. But the cat didn’t want to be touched. He retreated deeper into the shadows, his yellow eyes shining with agitation.

“I’m not sure,” Jane said. “She might have been referring to the book we awarded the victor of the scavenger hunt.”