Murder in the Paperback Parlor (10 page)

“I'm afraid she no longer feels the sting of the cold,” Butterworth said gravely. “Ms. York is
dead.”

Jane sprang out of bed, pulled her warmest wool sweater over her pajama top, and slipped her bare feet into lined boots. Hurrying down the stairs as quietly as possible, she grabbed her coat and her sock monkey hat and then rushed outside.

The winter night was bitterly cold. High stars huddled around the moon and pale clouds scudded across the inky sky. Jane was too stunned to fully comprehend that she was jogging across the frost-covered grass toward a dead body.

She rounded the end of the hedge to find two figures near a weeping cherry tree. Whispers floated over the dormant plants and hard ground, and Jane's step faltered.

Suddenly, Butterworth directed a flashlight beam her way, creating a path of yellow light over the flagstones.

Follow the yellow brick road
, Jane thought wildly as her gaze traced the light to its source. She recognized the other man by the tree. It was Sinclair.

Jane approached the men, rubbing her hands together against the cold and her own fear. She didn't want to be in this garden. She wanted to climb back into bed, snuggle beneath a pile of
warm blankets, and not get out again until she heard the beep of the coffeemaker and smelled the aroma of her favorite dark roast wafting upstairs.

You are the Guardian of Storyton Hall
, she reminded herself.
You must face this.

Sinclair was the first to speak. “She's under the arbor.”

Drawing strength and comfort from his familiar face, from his kind, intelligent eyes and the furrows of worry on his brow, Jane exhaled and said, “Take me to her.”

Sinclair led her deeper into the garden while Butterworth followed close behind. He didn't say a word, but walked in a partial crouch, his body as tense and coiled as a cat preparing to leap.

Jane thought of how this path would look come springtime. Rows of cheerful daffodils and tulips would grow at the feet of vibrant azalea bushes. The dogwood trees would unfold their bride-white petals and the sweet pea vines would climb up and over the wood arbor. The bench under the arbor was a highly coveted reading spot on mild spring days. And no wonder. To be surrounded by blooms and butterflies while sipping peach iced tea and reading was like spending a few hours in paradise.

At the moment, two more Fins blocked Jane's view of the bench: Sterling and Lachlan.

“Miss Jane has come,” Sinclair said and the two men retreated, allowing the weak moonlight to wash over a figure in a white coat. Jane remembered how elegant Rosamund York had looked the day of her arrival. She'd worn the coat over a red dress and her lipstick shade had perfectly matched the dress. Jane's first impression had been that Rosamund possessed the glamour and grace of a movie star, but that glamour was gone now.

Death has diminished you,
Jane thought, her gaze traveling from Rosamund's scuffed heels to her stained coat. She sniffed and recoiled involuntarily. Glancing at the ground in front of the bench, she asked, “Was she sick to her stomach?”

“Several times,” Lachlan said. “I was able to track her
movements from the back terrace to the bench. She struggled to make it this far, Miss Jane. Her shoes are scraped, her coat is smudged with dirt, and she has leaves in her hair. I'd say she lost her footing more than once.” His gloved hand hovered in the air above Rosamund's leg. “May I show you?”

Jane knew she'd have to call Sheriff Evans, but she and the Fins needed to investigate the scene first. Once the sheriff and his team were involved, all evidence would become his domain. Jane couldn't surrender control just yet. Storyton Hall, its occupants and treasures, were her responsibility.

“Yes,” she answered and watched as Lachlan gently and respectfully pushed Rosamund's coat and skirt up to her mid-thigh, exposing raw, angry scrapes on both knees.

“Have you searched her pockets?” Jane asked, unable to quell the tremble in her voice. She was no forensic investigator, but she could tell that Rosamund's death had been terrible. The poor woman had vomited, fallen, and fought with the last of her strength to travel into the heart of the garden, and Jane wanted to know why.

“Not yet. We were waiting for you,” Sterling said and gestured for Lachlan to step aside.

A chunk of matted hair covered most of Rosamund's face, and Jane knew they'd have to move it. They had to look at her, to stare at every inch of her face, to see if signs of how she'd met her death were written there.

Jane hesitated. She didn't want to gaze at a pair of unblinking eyes. She wasn't afraid of much, but she knew Rosamund's glassy stare would haunt her sleep. “Are her eyes closed?”

“Yes,” Lachlan said. “It was the only kindness I could offer her.”

“Thank you,” Jane whispered.

Having already replaced his leather gloves with latex ones, Sterling carefully turned out the pockets of Rosamund's coat. Jane beckoned for Lachlan to move closer to Rosamund's head. “Would you push her hair back?” Jane asked. She was unwilling to touch the dead woman, as though making contact with her lifeless body would somehow contaminate her.

Lachlan had no such reservations. He carefully pried the hair off Rosamund's cheek and folded the stiff strand over her ear. Jane frowned at the dried spittle on Rosamund's smooth cheek and chin. “I wish I could clean you up,” she whispered softly. “I know you'd hate being seen like this. I'm so sorry.”

Sensing Lachlan's eyes on her, Jane shrugged as if to say, “I don't care what you think,” but Lachlan said, “We can help her another way—by finding out what happened to her.”

“She didn't die of natural causes.” Sterling passed a crumpled note to Jane.

Sinclair and Butterworth, who'd taken up guard positions along the path, abandoned their posts and came to stand behind Jane, clearly eager to hear what the note said.

Smoothing the paper, Jane read the two lines aloud:

IF YOU WANT THE ANTIDOTE

BE AT THE ARBOR AT MIDNIGHT

“Antidote? She was
poisoned
.” Jane studied Rosamund's face and tried to stay calm. Questions tripped over themselves in her brain, but Jane shut them out. She could only concentrate on one thought. One word.

“Poison,” she repeatedly numbly. “That explains Rosamund's need to purge her stomach again and again. But who wrote this?” Jane held the note by its wrinkled edges, suddenly hating the sight of it. Its existence was perilous for Storyton Hall. Someone had murdered one of Storyton's guests. A famous guest. Soon, the chaos of scandal would descend upon them, giving the murderer the perfect opportunity to escape.

“Miss Jane.” Sinclair touched her arm. She blinked and then nodded at him.

“We mustn't allow any of our guests to check out,” she told the Fins. “I don't care if we have to pretend that all the trains have derailed and that every tire on every Rolls-Royce has a puncture. No one leaves the resort.”

Sinclair pointed at the note. “Should we return that to Ms. York's pocket for the sheriff to find?”

Jane stared at Rosamund. With the moonlight falling upon her winter-white coat, pale hair, and waxen face, she looked like a marble woman. A tomb sculpture. Jane knew she could keep the note and the sheriff would be none the wiser, but the woman on the bench was not made of stone. Even though what had made her human was gone and all that remained was a hull, Rosamund York been alive a few hours ago. She'd been a guest of Storyton Hall. It was Jane's duty to see that Rosamund's killer was brought to justice, and that meant giving the sheriff their full cooperation.

“Mr. Butterworth? Would you place the call to Sheriff Evans?” Jane refolded the note. “Direct him here and beg him to be as discreet as possible. The twins won't stir for another hour, so I'll wake Uncle Aloysius and tell him what's happened. Lachlan, would you stay with Ms. York? While we wait for the sheriff, Sinclair, Sterling, Butterworth, and I will come up with a suspect list in my uncle's study.”

“The kitchen staff will be arriving soon,” Sterling said. “They're bound to see the sheriff and his deputies. And the coroner's van.”

Jane considered what could be done to restrict the wild speculation that was sure to run rampant among the kitchen staff. Jane was desperate to keep the news of Rosamund's untimely death from reaching the guests' ears as long as possible.

“Allow me to deal with the staff,” Butterworth said in a steely voice. “Anyone spreading rumors will answer to me. But what of the note, Miss Jane?”

Jane met the butler's eyes and then her gaze slid away, fixing once again on the ghostly form of the woman whose work was beloved by countless numbers of readers. Jane slid the note back into Rosamund's pocket, and then covered her bare legs with her coat as tenderly as a mother tucking a child into bed.

For a moment, Jane kept her gloved hand on Rosamund's arm. Within the hour, the moonlit arbor would be filled with noise and artificial light, and Jane felt that Rosamund, whose life was defined by the written word, deserved to have words
spoken over her before she become known as a case number. As a murder victim.

Fingers of cold air snaked under Jane's collar. Shivering, she glanced up at the black, hulking trees and the memory of a short poem by Wordsworth came to her. The lines seemed fitting, there in the silent garden where a woman's last breath had been offered like a gift to the sleeping plants.

Jane whispered the poem over Rosamund.

A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees
.

Sinclair bowed his head as Jane spoke. One by one, the rest of the Fins did the same.

“We'll catch the person who did this,” Butterworth said, and Jane knew he was addressing Rosamund's body. He then turned to her. “I'll call the sheriff's office and issue a warning to the kitchen staff. Mr. Lachlan, while you await the sheriff's arrival, would you retrace Ms. York's steps once more? I'm wondering if her assailant left any telltale signs along the path. According to Gavin, no one is your equal when it comes to tracking.”

Lachlan immediately set to work. He moved at a deliberate pace, the beam of his flashlight casting shadows in his wake, his arm swinging from left to right like a pendulum.

“I'll download last night's camera footage onto a laptop and meet you in your uncle's study,” Sterling said. “We must hurry if we're to make any progress before the cavalry arrives.”

Together, they all turned away from the dead woman, leaving her alone in the dark.

*   *   *

“This had better
be a matter of life and death,” Uncle Aloysius croaked hoarsely as he fumbled with the deadbolt. The door swung inward and his octogenarian face, etched with sleep lines, appeared in the opening. “It's half past five, Jane. What the devil are you doing up and about?” And then, seeing Sinclair standing behind Jane, Uncle Aloysius's furry eyebrows knit together in consternation. “Come in, come in.”

If the situation hadn't been so grave, her uncle's appearance might have amused Jane. He wore a shaggy green robe over flannel pajamas featuring a repeating pattern of fishing flies. His slippers were shaped like a pair of largemouth bass, and his white hair stuck out in all directions like a porcupine's quills.

“We should go to your office,” Jane whispered. “I don't want to disturb Aunt Octavia.”

“That would be most unwise,” her uncle agreed.

Uncle Aloysius took a seat behind his massive oak desk while Sinclair approached a large landscape painting hanging between bookcases. “Would you lend me a hand, Miss Jane?”

Jane helped Sinclair take the painting off the wall. They turned it around, revealing a piece of slate, and propped the painting on the empty easel Uncle Aloysius kept in the corner of his office. Sinclair then took a tea caddy off the bookshelf and withdrew a piece of chalk from within.

“This doesn't bode well.” Jane's uncle gestured at the blank slate, his expression solemn.

“There's been a murder,” Jane said, feeling a surreal sense of detachment. “We need to make a list of suspects and figure out how to conduct our own investigation before Sheriff Evans arrives. Once he gets here, Storyton Hall will be thrown into chaos.”

Uncle Aloysius crossed his arms across his chest as though bracing himself for impact. “Who was killed? And where?”

Jane told him. When she was finished, Butterworth entered bearing a tray laden with a coffee pot, mugs, and buttermilk biscuits. Steam rose from the golden crusts of the biscuits and Jane knew they'd just come from the oven. Her traitorous stomach growled and she reddened in embarrassment.

“We should all eat something,” Butterworth said, catching sight of her blush. “This promises to be a trying morning. I phoned the sheriff's office, and Sheriff Evans will be here shortly.”

Sinclair waved off the coffee and took up position next to the slate. He wrote the word POISON in the far corner, and in the center, the word, SUSPECTS. “I'll begin by writing Maria Stone's name unless anyone objects.”

No one did.

“Add Georgia Dupree,” Jane said. “She was tremendously envious of Rosamund York and envy has a way of rotting people on the inside.” Jane went on to describe the threat she'd overheard Georgia mutter in the lobby upon her arrival.

Uncle Aloysius tented his fingers and studied Jane. “What of the other authors?”

Jane considered his question. “I didn't sense any animosity until Ms. York announced that she'd be giving away advanced reading copies of her new book. It caused a riot at the charity auction. After that, Ms. Lovelace and Ms. Jewel became noticeably unfriendly to Ms. York. In fact, Ms. Lovelace even made a comment about Ms. York being poisoned by a reader prior to the truffle sampling.”