Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (8 page)

Crypt cold
, Jane thought and rubbed her arms.

Sheriff Evans came out of the bathroom, his brow creased into a trio of deep furrows, and beckoned to her.

“I see that you decided not to wait, Ms. Steward.” His voice was full of reproach. “Now that you’re in, please don’t touch anything.”

Jane narrowed her eyes. “I have a responsibility to my guests, including this man. If something suspicious has occurred, I need to know about it.”

The sheriff returned her stare and then relented. Dipping his chin, he said, “I’m trying to get a sense of what happened. Can you look around and see if anything strikes you as out of place?”

Nodding, Jane moved deeper into the room. She eyed the capsized floor lamp and mahogany table and saw shards of broken glass on the floor. “Every room has a reading nook like this one,” she told the sheriff. “A soft club chair, a side table large enough to hold a drink and a dessert plate, and an adjustable lamp. The glass on the floor looks like it came from the carafe we put alongside the ice bucket.” She pointed at the desk. “We provide four tumblers as well. One of them is missing.”

“It’s next to the body,” the sheriff said, and Jane pivoted until she saw the tumbler resting close to Felix Hampden’s thigh. It appeared undamaged. “Anything else?”

Jane squatted near the broken carafe and sniffed. “I don’t smell liquor or soda. The stain on the carpet looks clear. Mr. Hampden must have poured himself a glass of water at some point before he knocked over the table and lamp.” She glanced at the bed. The snowy white top sheet had been turned down, and a chocolate truffle wrapped in gold foil rested in the center of each plump pillow. A floral arrangement had been placed on one nightstand, and a stack of Adela Dundee novels was on the other. Jane noticed that the books been arranged in order of publication, with her first novel,
Hall of Broken Mirrors
,
on top.

Jane frowned.

“What is it?” Sheriff Evans asked.

Jane gestured at the matching nightstand. “It’s probably nothing, but I’m surprised that the book Mr. Hampden won last night isn’t in plain view. He was so eager to claim it and leave the celebration in the Ian Fleming Lounge that I expected him to read every page before bed. It’s not on the desk either.”

“Hmm,” the sheriff grunted and opened the closet door. “His clothes are old-fashioned. Right down to his shoes. Take a look at this. I haven’t seen this kind of suitcase since we sold my grandmother’s at the church rummage sale. Mr. Hampden didn’t dress like he belonged to this century. That seems strange to me.”

“Not as strange as you’d think.” Jane joined him in front of the closet, relieved to turn her back on the little man’s body. As her gaze roamed over Felix’s Hampden exquisite suits, ties, hats, smoking jacket, and overcoat, she told Sheriff Evans about the Murder and Mayhem theme. “Mr. Hampden must have
really
wanted to be Umberto Ferrari for a few days. Even his pajamas are monogrammed with the famous inspector’s initials. It takes a true Adela Dundee fan to know that Umberto’s middle name was Benito.”

The sheriff ran his hands over the suits and then flipped open the suitcase lid and prodded the silky lining with his fingertips. “The book Mr. Hampden won. Is it valuable?”

Jane recalled her aunt’s extreme agitation over accidentally giving away her copy of
Lost Letters
. She couldn’t tell the sheriff why Aunt Octavia’s copy was special because she didn’t know. “A handful of people were determined to win that book. It’s a first edition and is probably worth several hundred dollars. Two guests tried to buy it from Mr. Hampden right after I presented it to him. I believe he refused both offers and seemed to be in a great hurry to get it away from everyone.”

The sheriff asked another question, but Jane’s mind had returned to the previous night. Once again, she was standing in the Ian Fleming Lounge as Felix Hampden maneuvered first around the man who looked like Colonel Hastings followed by the woman with the white hair. With a chill, Jane remembered the man who’d been skulking in the dark corner near the door. The man who’d left close on Mr. Hampden’s heels. But then the twins had dashed in to tell her about Aunt Octavia’s collapse and Jane had put aside all thoughts of Storyton Hall’s guests.

Jane glanced around the closet. “Except for the suitcase, there’s no place to hide a hardcover in here. Should we check the rest of the room?”

Sheriff Evans opened his mouth to answer when they heard a trio of sharp knocks. “That must be the paramedics,” Jane said.

The sheriff opened the door and gestured for the EMTs to enter. After they rolled in the gurney and knelt next to Felix Hampden’s body, Jane closed the door partway and stared at Lizzie through the crack. “Did they attract any attention?”

“None whatsoever,” Lizzie said. “The ambulance is parked at the delivery dock and the men came up in the staff elevator. I wouldn’t have let them out if there’d been guests in the hallway. Most of them are on the Lewis Carroll Croquet Lawn participating in today’s tournament.”

Jane sighed in relief. “Well done. I know you’ve already gone above and beyond for Storyton Hall today, but can you stand guard until our Rip Van Winkle has been moved downstairs?”

Lizzie stood arrow straight. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done, Ms. Steward. You gave me a job when no one else would. I spent half of my life raising children or caring for my ailing mother. You’re the only one who believed I had anything to offer an employer.” Suddenly, she cocked her head. “Hurry, Ms. Steward! Close the door!”

Jane did, but not before she caught a flash of white tennis shoes from across the hall.

“We took such a long nature walk that we’re afraid we’ve missed the whole croquet tournament,” Jane heard a woman say in response to Lizzie’s greeting.

“I think you can still participate, ma’am. It’s so beautiful outside that most of the guests showed up to play.”

“We’d better hurry,” a man said and then his voice faded as the couple headed to the elevator. Because Storyton Hall was built of thick plaster, stout beams, and the finest quality timber, guests rarely lodged noise complaints. So when Jane shut the heavy wooden door, the only sounds she could hear came from inside the room.

“. . . looks like a cardiac arrest,” a paramedic was saying to Sheriff Evans.

The two young men loaded Mr. Hampden onto the gurney and covered him from feet to crown with a sheet. Jane crept closer as they strapped his body into place, thankful that their movements were both deft and gentle.

“Will someone be following us?” one of EMTs asked Jane.

She shook her head. “He was by himself, I’m afraid. We should have emergency contact information on his registration form. We’ll need to retrieve that immediately and inform his family of his passing.”

“I can place that phone call for you,” the sheriff was kind enough to offer. “You’ve been through quite enough already.”

While the paramedics packed their kits, Jane pulled the sheriff aside. “What about the book?”

He brandished a pair of gloves. “I plan to search for it as soon as the room is clear.”

Jane drew herself up. “And I plan to join you. This room, the missing book, and the gentleman who had it in his possession are my responsibility.” Without waiting for a reply, she moved to the door and peeked out. The hallway was empty of guests so she turned to the paramedics and waved for them to wheel the gurney across the hall and into the staff elevator.

After touching Felix Hampden’s arm through the thin, white sheet in a gesture of farewell, Jane stepped out of the cab. When the elevator doors slid shut with a mournful sigh, she collected a pair of gloves from the housekeeping supply closet and returned to the Mystery Suite to examine Felix Hampden’s belongings.

At first, Jane was uneasy about rummaging through a guest’s drawers, but her discomfort was soon displaced by amazement. She’d never seen such a marvelous collection of vintage clothing.

“Every item conforms to Adela Dundee’s descriptions of her detective,” she told Sheriff Evans. “The reading glasses, white undershirts, suspenders, short ties, leather gloves, and a rolled umbrella are exactly like those Umberto Ferrari owned. Mr. Hampden traveled with a whole drawer of silk handkerchiefs. He must have spent a small fortune on these items.”

The sheriff pointed at the bathroom. “His toiletry kit looks old, and as far as I can tell, his grooming tools are too. However, Mr. Hampden had to resort to a few modern amenities like a toothbrush and nasal spray. Those were hidden inside one of the hand towels next to the sink.”

Curious, Jane walked into the bathroom. Her eyes swept over a Bakelite comb, wooden lint brush, gold-plated razor, silver travel soap and toothbrush container, tweezers, scissors, and a nail file. There was also a jar of Morgan’s Pomade, which Umberto Ferrari used to keep his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee from turning gray. “Unreal,” she whispered and then spied the plastic bottle of nasal spray and tiny tube of toothpaste tucked into the fold of a towel.

“It’s as if he were ashamed of them,” she murmured to herself.

She found Sheriff Evans running his hand between mattress and box spring, but after another fifteen minutes of searching, he sighed and said, “The book isn’t here.”

Jane had to agree. “Maybe he sold it last night after all.”

The sheriff stared at her. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“No” she admitted. “He bribed my twins to make sure that he’d win that book. He wanted it very, very badly. I could see the triumph in his eyes when I handed it to him. There was a look of joy there. Greed too. A sort of crazy zeal.”

“Now he’s dead and the book is gone.”

Jane hated to voice her fears, but she had no choice. “Is it possible that the two things are related?”

“I hope not,” the sheriff said, stooping over to pick up a shard of broken glass. He pivoted it to the light, and tiny rainbows speckled the carpet. “But until we find out how Mr. Hampden died, this room should remain off limits.”

“I’ll inform the staff.” Though she sounded cool and professional, Jane was filled with a quiet dread. After telling Sheriff Evans that she’d meet him downstairs, Jane locked the door to the Mystery Suite and glanced at the brass key nestled in her palm. Like all of Storyton Hall’s guest room keys, its tag was engraved with the image of an open book and the Steward family motto. Written in Latin, the motto,
De Nobis Fabula Narratur
, roughly translated to
Their Story is Our Story
.

Jane ran her fingertips over the letters. “Heaven help me,” she whispered. “What am I going to say to Aunt Octavia?”

By the time the croquet tournament was over, Jane had assigned a front desk clerk to provide Sheriff Evans with Felix Hampden’s personal information. That being done, she’d retreated to her office and called the hospital. Her uncle told her that her aunt was still sleeping peacefully, and when Jane offered to take a turn watching over Aunt Octavia, Uncle Aloysius politely declined. Unsurprised by his response, Jane promised to bring him a change of clothes and a nourishing lunch as soon as she made sure that everything was running smoothly throughout Storyton Hall.

It was clear that spending the morning on the back lawns had given the Murder and Mayhem guests a healthy appetite. The Kipling Café, Storyton Hall’s al fresco eatery, was packed. Guests savored the October sunshine while the waiters bustled about serving Julius Caesar salads, Herman Melville chowder, Homer’s pulled pork sandwiches, or Mark Twain chicken biscuits along with iced tea and lemonade. Guests in search of a more refined meal bustled inside the manor house, hoping to find a vacant table in the Madame Bovary Dining Room.

To call forth the atmosphere of the wedding feast in Flaubert’s novel, Storyton Hall’s dining room had been decorated in shades of white and pale blue. Louis XVI–style dining chairs painted a snowy white were gathered around tables draped in blue cloth. William Morris’s Brer Rabbit wallpaper brought the room’s high walls to life, and the wood paneling had been painted the color of fresh cream. The centerpieces were filled with roses, lavender, freesia, and fern leaves, and the linen napkins were rolled into tight scrolls and secured by a piece of ribbon. At the end of each ribbon was a strip of paper bearing a quote about food. Jane was examining the reservation book when a nearby guest read his quote out loud.

“Mine’s by Oscar Wilde,” the young man told his three dining companions. “It says ‘After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.’”

“Then I might forgive
you
for thumping me and Dad in croquet,” said the girl seated to his left. “At breakfast, Dad was totally bragging about how easy it was going to be to beat you and Mom.”

“I was off my game,” admitted the older gentleman across from her. “But I promise to make it up to you when we play pickleball tomorrow.”

“Hear that, Mom? You’d better not party too hard at tonight’s costume ball. You need to bring your A game so we can crush these two tomorrow.” The young man gave his sister a playful nudge.

“I don’t get to be a tomboy named George every day,” the mother replied. “I plan to take full advantage of being thirty-something years younger. And if that means I’m moving a little slow during pickleball, then too bad. I’ve been looking forward to this ball for weeks. Do you know how rare it is to meet other people who’ve heard of Enid Blyton? Let alone The Famous Five? I am in literary heaven!”

The family entered into a good-natured debate over whether Georgina would attend any event that required fancy dress. Jane would have liked to listen in some more, but she didn’t have the time. As she moved through the dining room toward the kitchen, she realized that she was envious of the family of four. Her family was meant to have four members instead of three. But now Jane had to raise the twins by herself.

“That’s not true. There’s also Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius,” she murmured. “And Eloise. The Cover Girls. Sinclair, Sterling, Butterworth, Ned, and Mrs. Hubbard.” She silently listed names until her heart felt full enough to burst. In the kitchen, Mrs. Hubbard’s warm and floury embrace chased away the remnants of Jane’s temporary melancholia.

“I called the hospital a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Hubbard said after releasing her. “Your aunt’s awake and showing signs of her glorious, feisty self. I didn’t tell your uncle about the Rip Van Winkle—figured he had enough on his mind. But I think he’s wondering why you haven’t left Storyton Hall yet. I couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse except to tell him that you were taking care of some important tasks and would be on your way shortly.”

Jane frowned. “You know about the Rip Van Winkle? I thought we’d been so discreet.”

“You were, honey. One of my assistants stepped outside for a cigarette break while the men were loading the Van Winkle into the ambulance. Was the gentleman old? Did he depart in his sleep?”

This was precisely the type of conversation Jane wanted to avoid. “I’m not sure what caused him to pass, but we must protect his privacy. Can you ask your assistant to refrain from discussing this with anyone?”

Mrs. Hubbard crossed her heart. “On my honor, I won’t let her breathe a word!”

Now that the cook had been made aware of the choicest bit of gossip to grace Storyton Hall in years, Jane doubted that Mr. Hampden’s death would remain a secret for long, but there was nothing she could do about that. The kitchen was the epicenter of the resort. Sooner or later, all news of import was shared here. “I need to fill a hamper with fresh fruit and sandwiches for my uncle,” Jane said, hoping to change the subject. “Any suggestions?”

Beaming, Mrs. Hubbard gestured at the picnic basket sitting on a nearby counter. “There’s enough there to keep Mr. Steward going for two days. Butterworth took the liberty of packing a bag for him as well. Sterling has it in the car, and he’s waiting for you out back. Is there anything else I can do for you besides look after Muffet Cat?”

Jane had to fight back tears. Giving Mrs. Hubbard a quick hug, she said, “You’re like a mother to me. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hubbard dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Go on now before I cry in the au jus, and the guests complain that I’ve been too heavy-handed with the salt.”

Picking up the laden wicker basket, Jane found Sterling polishing the “Spirit of Ecstasy” hood ornament on his favorite Rolls-Royce. When he heard Jane approach, he stuffed the chamois cloth into his pocket and opened the passenger side door with a flourish.

Sterling didn’t talk much during the drive, preferring to hum along with a Mozart piano concerto instead. Both the music and Sterling’s low humming were relaxing and Jane let the stirring notes of the piece wash over her as the sleek sedan climbed up and down the mountain roads.

Jane got out at the hospital’s main entrance. Sterling handed her the picnic basket and promised to bring in her uncle’s suitcase after he found an acceptable parking place. Smiling, Jane wished him luck. She knew that he was extremely particular about parking spots and that he kept a stack of orange cones in the trunk of every Rolls. She had no trouble visualizing him building a barrier of cones around the car in, say, the newly paved lot reserved for physicians.

As she approached her aunt’s room, Jane’s smile broadened. She could hear Aunt Octavia complaining. Her voice was loud and determined. She sounded strong. “I most certainly will
not
eat that!” she declared heatedly.

Quickening her pace, Jane entered the room to find her aunt glaring at a bowl of soup broth. “Oh, Jane!” she cried upon seeing her great-niece. “Would you please explain that I am not an infant? That I require solid food if I’m to get better? I want to be discharged from this prison as soon as possible.”

Jane gave the nurse an apologetic shrug. “You’ve been through an ordeal, Aunt Octavia. Why don’t you eat this just to make sure your system can handle it, and then later on, we’ll see if your doctor thinks you can partake of the picnic Mrs. Hubbard prepared.”

Her aunt’s eyes darted to the basket. “What did you bring me, my sweet girl?”

“This is really for Uncle Aloysius,” Jane said. “He needs to keep his strength up if he plans to spend his days and nights in that recliner.”

Aunt Octavia dropped back against her pillows and crossed her arms over her chest. “Mark my words. We are going back to Storyton Hall before sundown.”

The nurse shook her head. “Tomorrow is the earliest you can expect to be discharged, Mrs. Steward. The doctor wants you to try to stand again after lunch, and we still need a complete assessment from the physical therapy department.”

Jane shot a concerned glance at her uncle and then turned to the nurse. “After a meal and a short rest, she’ll give it another go. In the meantime, could I speak with you in private?”

Handing Uncle Aloysius the picnic basket, Jane ignored her aunt’s splutters of indignation and followed the nurse into the hall. “Is my aunt having trouble with balance? Is that a result of the stroke?”

The nurse nodded. “It’s not uncommon. Her muscles are weak. It’ll take time and hard work before she can stand without assistance, let alone walk.” She put a hand on Jane’s arm. “I’ve seen lots of stroke patients. A stroke can affect one person in a totally different way from the next person, but what I’ve noticed is the patients with the strongest personalities—those with the most passionate resolve to get back to normal—have the best recovery. And your aunt seems like the type of person who won’t accept life in a wheelchair. She’s a fighter and that’s really good.”

“A wheelchair?” Jane was horrified. “She’ll hate that. She doesn’t mind her cane because she thinks it lends her an air of elegance and authority. But a wheelchair? She’ll see that as a total loss of independence. Does she know yet?”

“Like I said, we need a full eval from a physical therapist before the doctor can come up with a cohesive prognosis. She’s got a tough road ahead of her, but I can tell that she also has a great support system.”

The nurse gave Jane a comforting smile and headed into the room across the hall.

“Jane!” Aunt Octavia called out. “Stop talking about me this instant. I might be in the hospital, but it’s not a mental hospital. Therefore, I have a right to know what’s going on!”

“I’m sorry.” Jane stepped back into the room. “I was just trying to get caught up on the situation. Last night, you were sleeping peacefully and I had a million questions no one could answer. I still feel like the world’s turned upside down and I need to understand exactly what happened. Storyton Hall feels empty without you and Uncle Aloysius.”

Jane sensed she’d chosen her words well because the stormy expression vanished from her aunt’s face. “Tell me, Jane. Were you able to get the book back without too much trouble?”

Uncle Aloysius, who’d been happily consuming a roast beef sandwich, stopped chewing and gave his wife an anxious look. “My dear, you should focus on your recovery. I’m sure Jane has everything under control.”

Jane shrank under her aunt’s penetrating gaze. “All is well at home,” she said. “I don’t have the book, but I will. I paid a visit to the gentleman’s room last night but he was indisposed.” Pulling a chair up next to the bed, Jane laid her hand on her aunt’s. “What makes your copy special? Why were you so upset when you realized you’d given away the wrong book? I’ve examined the version of Adela Dundee’s
Lost Letters
we were supposed to award as the prize, and though it looks like a fascinating read, I can’t see why the mix-up has caused you such distress.”

“You wouldn’t spot the difference unless you removed the dust jackets from both copies. There is a letter hidden inside my copy,” her aunt said.

“A letter? From whom? Is it important?”

Aunt Octavia gave a little shrug. “I haven’t read it, but I believe it contains a secret about Adela Dundee. It’s her handwriting on the envelope, of that I have no doubt.

Jane was flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you read it?”

“Because both the letter and the book belong to Storyton Hall, not to me. I was tempted to read it, I can assure you, but the envelope is sealed and I’ve learned over the course of my tenure at Storyton Hall that it’s best to leave such things undisturbed.” Aunt Octavia released a heavy sigh and turned to her husband. “I believe the time has come, Aloysius.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, as though reluctant to agree. When he opened them again, he seemed to have aged ten years. “The burden should have fallen on our son’s shoulders. Or on your father’s shoulders. Jane, you will be the only female and the youngest Steward to bear its weight.”

“And its honor,” Aunt Octavia said, looking at her husband. “Remember how you fretted that I’d leave after I learned your secret? Instead, I shared in your pain and your pride. It brought us closer together. Being married to a Steward has made my life rich and colorful. And it gave me meaning—something to hold on to after we lost Cedric.” With a tender smile, Aunt Octavia reached under her hospital gown and pulled a long, gold chain from the depths of her décolletage.

Jane had seen the chain against the skin of her aunt’s neck since childhood, but had never known that a large gold locket decorated with intricate scrollwork was attached to its end.

“How beautiful,” she said, her fingers reaching out of their own accord. “Is it old?”

“Very,” her aunt replied. “Far older than what’s inside. Here. See if you can open it.” She laid the locket in Jane’s palm.

Turning the heavy oval locket over, Jane saw that the motto written on the key tags of Storyton Hall had also been engraved into the gold. She ran her fingertips around the locket’s smooth sides, marveling at the lack of visible hinges. Jane had always loved puzzles, and though a dozen different tasks awaited her at Storyton Hall, she was too enthralled to pass up the chance to solve a riddle. Bringing the locket closer, she inspected the scrollwork on the front. At the very center was a plain rectangle that immediately reminded Jane of a closed book. On each side of the rectangle was a cluster of arrows.

Acting more on impulse than anything else, she laid the locket on its back in the palm of her left hand and pressed down on the arrows with her thumb and the next three fingers of her right hand. Nothing happened, so she readjusted her fingers, leaving the thumb free to put gentle pressure on the book-shaped rectangle. The locket opened with a soft click. Inside was a key.

Her aunt and uncle were smiling at her as if she’d just performed a heroic feat. Jane was shocked to see tears in her uncle’s eyes. “What does this open?” she asked, pointing at the key. “What burden? What secret?”

“The symbols on that locket represent the ancient and venerable role of the Steward family,” Uncle Aloysius said. “Do you see the arrows surrounding the book?” When Jane nodded, he continued, “Before the locket was made, my great-great-grandmother kept a key inside the hidden compartment of a gold, diamond, and opal bracelet. The key was hidden behind the largest opal. Prior to that, there was another vessel and another key. Our family’s mission is, and always has been, to protect knowledge.”