Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (7 page)

“Oh well. At least nothing’s broken or burned,” Jane said, collecting the plastic bubble bottles off the floor. They were covered with a sticky film and the soapy liquid had leaked all over the hall runner.

Too worn out to scrub the rug, Jane tossed the bottles into the trash, rinsed her hands, and opened the door to the boys’ room to make sure they were truly asleep. Fitz and Hem had perfected the art of fake slumber years ago, so she stood in place until she was convinced that they were actually asleep.

Satisfied that the twins were slumbering peacefully, Jane washed her face and put on her favorite pajamas, which were covered with designs of reading glasses, coffee cups, and books. She’d had them for so many years that they were quite threadbare at the knees and elbows, but she refused to discard them.

“You look like an orphan from our comic,” Fitz had told her several months ago while brandishing a graphic novel version of
Great Expectations
. The adaptation of Dickens’s famous tale had been geared toward a younger audience, and the twins had reread it a dozen times. In fact, they’d spoken in a Cockney accent for weeks and had only given it up when Eloise showed them a beautifully illustrated nonfiction book about Blackbeard the pirate. From then on out, Jane heard phrases like “shiver me timbers” and “walk the plank, ye dirty hornswaggle” until she thought she’d go mad.

Jane climbed into bed, smiling at the sudden memory of Hem helping himself to a butterscotch candy from the crystal bowl in Aunt Octavia’s sitting room. When she caught him in the act, he’d swaggered up to her and growled, “I give no quarter to wenches.” Aunt Octavia had responded by thwacking him on the bottom with her cane. The blow was featherlight, but Hem had been so shocked that he nearly burst into tears. Fitz came forward to defend his brother, threatening to make Aunt Octavia walk the plank. She’d squinted her eyes, curled her lip, and snarled, “Touch my plunder and I’ll send you straight to Davy Jones’s locker.” Seconds later, all three of them were doubled over in laughter.

“We have loads more memories to make together, Aunt Octavia,” Jane whispered as she settled back against her pillow. Picking up the book of Dundee’s letters, she decided to examine it a final time before calling it a night.

Jane was so groggy that she barely made it to the end of the introduction. She was about to set the book on her nightstand when, on a whim, she decided to see if there was a photo of the editor on the inside of the dust jacket. The moment she laid eyes on the image of a lovely young woman with long, wavy blond hair, Jane let out a gasp.

“It’s her!” she cried softly. “The woman who fell from her horse. The woman who died in the village.”

With her heart thudding against her rib cage, Jane grabbed the phone and willed her shaky fingers to dial Eloise’s number. It never occurred to her to call the sheriff. Jane was scared, shocked, and emotionally drained. She didn’t want to speak with the sheriff. She wanted to hear the familiar voice of her best friend.

Eloise managed to say hello before a tumult of words poured forth from Jane. She spoke clearly at first, describing Aunt Octavia’s collapse and how she’d been rushed to the hospital, but by the time Jane reached the part about discovering the identity of the dead woman, her speech had turned into an incoherent jumble.

“You can tell me the rest in person. I’m coming over,” Eloise said and hung up.

Jane dissolved into tears for several minutes and then went into the bathroom to splash water on her face. By the time she’d donned a robe, turned on a few lights, and cleaned up the mess Ned and her sons had made in the kitchen, Eloise was tapping on the back door.

As soon as she stepped into the house, Eloise threw her arms around Jane. “You poor thing! I brought an overnight bag, so go on and tell me everything from the beginning.”

Moved by her friend’s devotion, Jane squeezed Eloise’s arm and led her to the living room. She showed her the photograph of Alice Hart and said, “Now that you’re here, I should call Sheriff Evans. The last time I ran into him, I asked him about this woman. Alice. He told me that no one had come forward to claim her and that she’d finally been cremated. No final words were spoken for her. No prayers. Isn’t that terribly sad?”

Eloise studied Alice’s photograph and then met Jane’s eyes. “She’s so young. You told me that Doc Lydgate believed her death had something to do with her heart. Did Sheriff Evans confirm that theory?”

“He didn’t come right out and say it, but I got the impression that the doc was right.” She grasped Eloise by the hand. “We need to get in touch with the sheriff. Alice’s family must be in agony. All this time, they had no idea that she visited Storyton. That she died here.
I
may forgotten about her, but there must be someone who’s been waiting for her to come home.”

Nodding, Eloise said, “I’ll take care of the phone call, but only if you promise to go to bed. You’re as pale as a wraith and I could pack the contents of La Grande Dame in the bags under your eyes.” She tapped the face of her watch. “You’ll be in high demand tomorrow morning. With your aunt in the hospital, a resort full of guests, and a lineup of special events, you can’t afford to stay awake another minute longer. And don’t set your alarm either. I’ll get you up by serving you a steaming cup of coffee.”

“That sounds really nice,” Jane said and gave Eloise a fierce hug. “You’re the best.”

“So my customers tell me. But I’d really like to hear those words spoken by a gorgeous single man. One who reads, has impeccable manners, and can watch
Masterpiece Theater
without dozing off. I’m setting the bar ridiculously high, I know.” Eloise grinned and shooed Jane up the stairs.

•   •   •

Jane awoke the
next morning feeling surprisingly well rested. It was only when she looked at the clock on her nightstand that she understood why.

“It’s so late!” she croaked and flung the covers aside. Pulling on her slippers, she opened her bedroom door, hurried to the end of the hallway, and paused. The twins’ laughter floated up from downstairs, but she also heard the timbre of a deep and unfamiliar voice intermingling with their high, excited tones. The strange voice was mistakably male.

It can only be Sheriff Evans
.
It must be urgent if he’s here at this time in the morning. He might need my help.

She was so focused on this possibility that she forgot she was dressed in slippers and ratty pajamas and had yet to brush her hair, let alone her teeth. Flying down the stairs, she hastened through the living room into the kitchen to find a tall man wearing black jeans and a slate gray T-shirt standing at her stove.

Sheriff Evans was in his late fifties. He was fair-haired, stocky, and had a slight paunch. This man was as sinewy as a panther and moved about Jane’s kitchen with a cat’s fluid grace. To Jane, the entire scene was surreal. There were Fitz and Hem, perched on their stools at the counter, casually drinking orange juice and exchanging knock-knock jokes with Edwin Alcott.

Why is Eloise’s brother in my house? What is he doing cooking eggs for my sons?

“Good morning,” she said, her voice hoarse. “What’s going on?”

When he glanced at her, Edwin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he didn’t say a word about her appearance. He simply turned, picked up the frying pan, and slid a picture-perfect tomato and basil omelet onto a plate. “Breakfast is served,” he said, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

Jane didn’t react. She just stood there staring until Fitz said, “Mom’s a total zombie without her coffee.”

“Yeah,” Hem added. “You’d better get her some or she might start eating our brains.”

“If she tries, I’ll tell her I need to cook them first. They’re much better that way.” Edwin winked at the twins and reached for the coffeepot while Jane wondered when she’d awaken from what could only be a very peculiar dream.

Fitz jumped off his stool and tugged on Jane’s hand. His fingers were sticky and dotted with flecks of pulp from the orange he’d been eating. Jane knew then that she wasn’t dreaming.

“Your eggs are getting cold,” Edwin said.

Still confused, she took a seat at the counter. After a few fortifying sips of coffee, her mind was able to function coherently. “Clean up your plates,” she told the boys. “And then get dressed and brush your teeth. It’s a school day.”

“Prison day, you mean,” Hem grumbled, but did as he was told. Fitz followed suit, murmuring something about jailbreaks under his breath.

After the twins thundered up the stairs, Jane turned to Edwin. “Thank you for making breakfast.” She indicated the empty stools the boys had vacated. “It looks like Fitz and Hem enjoyed every bite, and I don’t mean to sound rude, but why are you here? Where’s Eloise?”

“She went to the registration desk to find someone to cover for you.” Again, he looked amused. “You must sleep very soundly. Your sons don’t seem to have indoor voices.”

Even though it was accurate, the comment annoyed Jane. “So Eloise asked you to drive in from the village to babysit?”

“Actually, she tricked me into coming by suggesting that I practice my culinary skills on you. She thought I should get a second opinion and a third and a fourth before investing in a café.” He gestured at her untouched omelet. “Fitz and Hem ate while their food was still warm. If that tastes like tire rubber, it has nothing to do with my cooking.”

Taking the hint, Jane picked up her fork and popped a bite of omelet in her mouth. A medley of flavors—balsamic tomatoes, warm goat cheese, fresh basil, and fluffy eggs—washed over her tongue. “Delicious,” she pronounced after she’d swallowed.

It didn’t take her long to devour the rest of the omelet, and she realized that she’d eaten very little since tea the day before. And although Jane could feel the weight of Edwin’s gaze on her, she didn’t take dainty bites or pause to chitchat. Most women would probably be mortified over the idea of inhaling their food while such a handsome man watched their every move, but Jane didn’t care. She had too much on her mind to be concerned about being ladylike.

When she was done, Edwin removed her empty plate and served her a bowl of sliced strawberries garnished with a dollop of cinnamon sour cream. “No time to savor this, I’m afraid. You’re supposed to meet the sheriff in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“What?”
Jane nearly overturned her coffee cup.

Edwin nodded, his expression turning somber. “It’s about the woman who lost control of her horse.” Suddenly, he was leaning over the counter, his face inches away from Jane’s. His dark eyes were piercing, hawklike. “Tell me how she died. No one seems to know and I can’t stop thinking about her. A dozen times each day I wonder if I could have done more. Maybe if I’d reacted sooner or caught up to her faster . . .”

Jane shook her head. “You did everything you could. I saw you. You rode like the wind. You were intent on catching her. I could see it in every muscle in your body.” She was strangely tempted to reach out and touch his strong jaw. Shaking her head again, this time to clear it, she went on. “Doc Lydgate believed that she had some kind of preexisting heart condition. No one could have saved her, but at least you tried. I think that will mean a great deal to her family.”

Edwin didn’t respond, and Jane could see that he was deeply troubled by Alice Hart’s death. Jane recalled the fury with which he had pursued Alice’s spooked mare, the look of intensity in his eyes as he flew past the bookstore, his hand stretched out, grabbing desperately for the mare’s reins. She could easily imagine him scooping Alice off the ground, her long hair brushing against his shin as he rushed her into Doc Lydgate’s office.

Jane looked at Edwin now, but his face might as well have been made of stone so she abandoned the idea of trying to comfort him further. She didn’t know what else to say, and she didn’t have the time to search for the right words.

“I’d better get dressed,” Jane said, and he dipped his chin in silent agreement.

Upstairs, she showered and put on a wrap dress the color of fresh persimmons and a pair of brown leather boots. Hollering at the boys to make their beds and meet her at the front door, she gathered her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and spent another precious two minutes applying lipstick and mascara.

When Jane got downstairs, Edwin was gone and Fitz and Hem were engaged in a wooden sword duel.

“We’re way tardy, Mom,” Hem pointed out, sounding quite happy.

“We’ve already missed first period,” Fitz said, chiming in. “And we don’t have any lunch.”

Jane grabbed her purse and the book of Adela Dundee letters. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss second period too. Run straight to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Hubbard to pack you something to eat. Make sure to use your best manners because she’s very busy today. Then track down Mr. Sterling and see if he’ll give you a ride to school. I’ll write a note to your teacher. With Aunt Octavia in the hospital, she’s sure to excuse your lateness.”

The twins abruptly stopped their swordplay.

“Eloise said that she might not come home for a while,” Fitz said.

“And she’ll have to wear a paper hospital dress,” Hem added soberly. “Aunt Octavia won’t like that, so we thought we could bring her a dress. A new one from Miss Mabel’s shop.”

Fitz gestured at the mound of crumpled dollar bills on the kitchen table. “That’s our tip money from yesterday. We want to get her something nice.”

Jane gave them a tender smile. “That’s very sweet, boys, but I don’t want you worrying about Aunt Octavia. She’s going to be just fine. It might take a while, but she will be. We’ll see about having a new dress made for her before she comes home. Okay?”

“Okay,” they said in unison.

“Now get going or you’ll be so late that you won’t need a lunch.” She gave each boy a gentle push and watched them race down the gravel path leading to Storyton Hall. Her pace was a trifle slower. Even though she was also late, the resort manager could hardly be seen hiking up her skirts and running across the back lawn, but she walked as fast as she could and arrived in the lobby breathless and flushed.

Sheriff Evans was pouring himself a cup of coffee from one of the large urns set up on a table near the grandfather clock. Jane would have loved another jolt of caffeine too, but she decided to wait until she’d spoken with the sheriff about Alice Hart.

“Good morning,” she said with forced cheer. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Should we go into my office?”

The sheriff nodded. “I heard about your aunt. I hope she recovers quickly.” He held up his mug. “Excellent coffee, by the way. We only have Folgers at the station. Nothing wrong with the instant stuff, but it can’t hold a candle to this.”

“We like our guests to start their day with a zing. Shall we?” Jane led him behind the registration desk and into her office. The moment she’d closed the door and Sheriff Evans had settled into a chair, she opened the book of Adela Dundee letters and pointed at the photograph on the dust jacket. “Is it her? The woman who died in the village?”

“Yes, it is.”

Jane took a seat and clasped her hands together. “Goodness. How did her family take the news? Had they reported her missing?”

The sheriff frowned. “Miss Hart’s parents weren’t aware that she was missing. They admitted to not being close with their daughter. For instance, they had no idea that she’d left her job as a faculty member at a school for the arts in Vermont or that she’d broken her engagement with a fellow teacher at the same school right before coming to Storyton. Miss Hart didn’t even tell them she had a boyfriend. They had to hear about him from one of Alice’s high school friends.”

“Are her parents coming here?”

“No. Mr. Hart isn’t well enough to travel from their Nebraska farm. That’s where Alice was from originally.”

Jane looked down at the splayed book on her desk. “This gets sadder and sadder. What about her fiancé?”

The sheriff made a helpless gesture. “Can’t get hold of the fellow. He’s on sabbatical this semester in some town in England. I left him a voice mail message. Not with specifics, mind you, but I made it clear that I needed to speak with him about Miss Hart immediately.”

“The poor man. I can’t imagine—” Jane began when the door to her office was suddenly flung open by a housekeeper named Lizzie.

“Ms. Steward!” Lizzie’s voice was hushed but agitated. “We have a Rip Van Winkle on the third floor.” Spotting the sheriff, she added, “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but this is urgent.”

The sheriff gave Jane a quizzical look. “What’s a Rip Van Winkle?”

“It’s code among our staff,” Jane replied, getting to her feet. “It’s only supposed to be used when one of our guests has gone to sleep. Permanently.” She turned to Lizzie. “What room? Is our Van Winkle traveling with someone or are they alone?”

Lizzie looked dismayed. “I don’t know. I came straight here. This is my first Rip Van Winkle. I’ve never seen a . . .” The middle-aged woman trailed off. “I heard about the guest who met his Maker on the tennis court five years ago, but I’ve only been here for a few months. To be honest”—she prattled on, clearly flustered—“I never thought it would happen in one of my rooms. It’s awful.”

Jane had never set eyes on a dead body before Alice Hart’s, so she completely understood the housekeeper’s distress. She’d been away at a hotel management convention when an elderly man had expired on the tennis courts. He’d been playing against his wife, who was twenty years his junior and extremely fit. Apparently, the heat and exertion had proved too much for him and he’d slumped to the ground in the service box, clutching the tennis ball in his left hand. “You did the right thing, Lizzie,” Jane said soothingly. “We’ll take it from here.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the sheriff said. “Which room is your Rip Van Winkle in?”

“The Mystery Suite, sir. It’s that funny little man who kept pretending to be a fictional Italian detective. That Umberto Ferrari character.”

Jane flinched as if she’d been struck. “Our Van Winkle is Felix Hampden?”

“Yes, that’s his real name! I remember writing it on my welcome letter.” Each member of the housekeeping staff left a personal note in the guest rooms they serviced in order to let their guests know how to reach them should they require extra linens, pillows, a cot, or anything else.

Jane picked up the book of Adela Dundee’s letters and showed it to the sheriff. “He won a book just like this one last night. My great-aunt donated it, but she wrapped up her personal copy by mistake, so I went to his room last night to see if I could make a trade. For some reason, my aunt’s copy was very special to her.” Jane sighed. “Unfortunately, Mr. Hampden didn’t respond to my knock. Because it was late, I didn’t feel I had the right to disturb him. And yet, what if he’d been ill at that moment? What if I could have helped him?” Jane knew her words echoed those Edwin had spoken back in her kitchen.

“Well, whenever his end came, I don’t think it was a peaceful one,” Lizzie whispered theatrically.

Sheriff Evans paused in the middle of dialing the paramedics. “What makes you say that?”

“He looks like he was in terrible pain. His eyes are bulging out and his hands are like claws. He fell in a heap with his arms and legs twisted this way and that.” She shuddered. “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but it was really scary. I don’t want to go in there again.”

The sheriff stood. “Don’t worry, Ms. Steward can show me the way. In the meantime, it would be best to keep the news about the Rip Van Winkle between the three of us. Could you do that for me Mrs. . . .”

“Benton,” Lizzie said. “
Miss
Benton.” She blushed prettily; obviously not as upset as she’d been several minutes ago.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Jane suggested to Lizzie while the sheriff made his call to emergency services. “Have a cup of strong tea and something to eat. After you’ve taken a moment to recover, would you keep an eye out for the ambulance? I’d like its arrival and the removal of our Rip Van Winkle to be witnessed by as few guests as possible.” Lizzie promptly agreed, and Jane ushered the housekeeper from the room.

Jane led Sheriff Evans to the third floor where she unlocked the door to room 316. Gathering her nerves, she was about to step inside when the sheriff said, “I should go in first.”

Jane felt a tightening in her throat. Keeping her hand on the knob, she glanced back at the sheriff. “I don’t understand.”

“Based on Miss Benton’s description, I should assess the scene before anyone else enters the room. Would you please remain in the hall? Just for the moment?”

Though he’d asked politely, Jane knew she was being given a command. She moved aside, but held her foot against the inside of the door so it wouldn’t close all the way.

I am the manager of Storyton Hall
, she thought.
I have every right to see what’s in that room.

Peering around the door, Jane caught a glimpse of
Felix Hampden. He was lying on the carpet, his arms and legs bent at odd angles. Jane took in his chalk white face and unblinking gaze. She noted that Hampden wore blue pinstriped pajamas and that his feet were bare. His fingers were curled into rigid claws.

No wonder Lizzie was frightened
.

Jane stood in the threshold and watched Sheriff Evans circle around the body. Jane had never seen him work before, but she’d read enough books to recognize that he was examining the room for signs of foul play. When he disappeared into the bathroom, her attention was once again drawn to Felix Hampden’s face. His pale skin was etched with agony, and his eyes, which had been so lively the last time she’d seen him, were frozen orbs of pain and surprise. Jane hadn’t expected to see such emotion on the dead man’s face. Alice Hart certainly hadn’t worn such a tortured expression.

Without even realizing she’d done so, Jane was suddenly in the room and was standing an arm’s length from the dead man.

“Do heart attack victims look like this?” she asked the sheriff in a hushed voice. The man who pretended to be Umberto Ferrari might be gone, but his death filled the space with a formidable presence that he could never have commanded in life. To Jane, there was a heaviness throughout the room. It was as if the shadows of night refused to depart with the dawn. They’d stayed with Felix Hampden, hovering around him like a black fog, turning the air inordinately cold.