Murder in the Paperback Parlor (11 page)

Sinclair wrote CIARA LOVELACE and BARBARA JEWEL on the slate.

“What about her fans?” Butterworth asked. “One of them could have poisoned Mrs. York—perhaps only with the intent to injure, not to kill. Point of fact, why
would
the poisoner offer an antidote unless he or she wanted something in return?”

“Like a complete rewrite of
Eros Steals the Bride
?” Jane puzzled.

Sinclair pursed his lips and then added DISGRUNTLED FAN below the names on the list.

“We have to put Nigel Poindexter up there too,” Jane said.

“I heard about the incident in the Madame Bovary.” Butterworth rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If Mr. Poindexter hadn't been spotted pacing outside the Romance and Roses Suite, I wouldn't think much of a journalist pushing buttons during an interview, but between his drinking habits and his dire financial situation, we'll have to take a closer look at the man.”

Jane watched Sinclair add Nigel's name to the list.

“My gut tells me that Nigel and Rosamund have met before,” she said. “I can't explain why I believe that, but the way they interacted implied a sense of familiarity. My impression of their lunchtime spat was that of a married couple rehashing an old argument. If I remember correctly, Nigel was the one trying to sever whatever connection they had.” Jane returned to that moment in the dining room. “It was Nigel who grew angry first. He glared at Rosamund and said, ‘We're done. It's over.'”

“How did Ms. York respond?” Sinclair asked.

“She looked furious, but then her face cleared and she smiled what I can only describe as a triumphant smile.” Jane paused to recall Rosamund's exact words. “Her reply to Nigel was, ‘You can't make it without me and you know it.'” Jane glanced at Sinclair. “What do you suppose that means? Nigel doesn't rely on Rosamund for article material. According to your background check, he's a freelancer for a dozen different publications.”

Butterworth filled a mug with coffee and pressed it into Sinclair's hands. “We'll have to dig deeper into Ms. York's past to see where her path might have crossed Mr. Poindexter's before. The conversation you overheard doesn't sound like the sort of dialog exchanged by strangers.”

Jane bit into a biscuit and couldn't help but sigh. There was something profoundly soothing about the taste and texture of the soft, buttery dough. It was as though someone had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and placed her feet in a basin of hot water. The feeling of comfort sank into Jane's bones and gave her strength.

“How did Ms. Stone react when you confronted her about her behavior?” Uncle Aloysius asked Jane. “Seeing
as she slipped a threatening note under Ms. York's door and has a criminal past—albeit a mild one—the young lady is, regretfully, my primary suspect.”

Jane's cheeks burned. “I missed my chance to speak with her at the truffle workshop. Prior to that, I saw her at a distance, looking deflated and forlorn, but had no luck contacting her directly. I called up to her room before yesterday's author panel and left several messages, but Maria didn't return my calls or stop by my office per my request. I also told the housekeeper on her floor to pass along my message, but she never saw Maria. The bellhops were keeping an eye out for her too, but there was no sign of her until the truffle demonstration.”

Uncle Aloysius leaned forward, his shrewd eyes sparkling. “Which of our suspects was present at this event?”

Following her uncle's train of thought, Jane inhaled sharply. “Rosamund sampled truffles from each table. The truffles were prepared by the attendees.” She stared at the names written in chalk. “Maria Stone personally handed Rosamund a truffle. So did several other readers.”

“Where were the other authors?” Sinclair asked.

“They all sampled truffles, but they were never at the same table at the same time. They rotated.”

Butterworth rubbed his chin, his expression pensive. “And Mr. Poindexter?”

“He stood by the fireplace. From his position, it would have been difficult for him to tamper with the truffles.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jane realized this wasn't strictly true. “However, I wasn't watching him every second. He could have swapped out the samples set aside for Rosamund. Apparently, her fondness for truffles, especially truffles with nuts, is widely known.”

“Every suspect was at this event.” Sinclair frowned at the slate. “We can't eliminate anyone. It was my hope that we could deliver the murderer directly into Sheriff Evan's hands, but now it looks like a full-blown investigation is unavoidable.”

There was a light tap on the office door and Sterling let
himself in. Muffet Cat was close on his heels. The feline trotted straight to Jane, sniffed the air, and meowed loudly. Fearing he'd wake Aunt Octavia, Jane poured some cream into a saucer and placed it on the floor. Muffet Cat lowered his head, his white whiskers twitching, and set to lapping up the cream. “I know we don't have much time, but I've uploaded the footage from last night's guest floors, lobby, and outdoor cameras. I brought three laptops so we could divide the feeds among us.”

While distributing the laptops, Sterling assigned each person a video file to review. “Mr. Butterworth, you and Mr. Sinclair have the lobby. Miss Jane, you and Master Steward have the view from the terrace. I'll take the guest hallways since there are multiple feeds to watch at once.”

Jane pulled a chair up to her uncle's desk, put the laptop on the blotter, and clicked on the video file. She fast-forwarded the recording until the time stamp read 10:00
P.M.
“We've been given the easiest feed,” she whispered to her uncle. “No one in their right mind would be outside this late on a cold February night.”

“Other than Ms. York,” Uncle Aloysius said gravely.

“And her killer. Either this person wanted something from Rosamund, or they just wanted to see her suffer—to bear witness as she died a horrific death.” On the laptop screen, the wind stirred the tree branches and made the bushes shiver. Jane stiffened at the tiniest movement, but none of the dark shadows were human.

Finished with his cream, Muffet Cat jumped onto Jane's lap. He rubbed his chin against her hand, purring softly, and began kneading her cotton pajama pants with his front claws. Jane was surprised by his behavior, for Muffet Cat usually reserved his affection for Aunt Octavia. Jane glanced down at the portly feline. “It's all right,” she murmured to him as she stroked the shiny black fur. “It's going to be all right.”

Suddenly, Butterworth bolted to his feet, gripping his cell phone. “The sheriff has arrived. Mr. Sinclair, would you join Mr. Lachlan in the garden while I arrange for coffee for his men?”

“And for Mr. Lachlan as well,” Jane added. “He must be half-frozen by now.” She turned to her uncle. “Would you continue watching this? I need to be home before the twins wake up. If they find themselves alone, they'll leave the house in search of me.”

Sterling nodded. “I'll continue to review the feeds as well. Perhaps Master Steward and I will find something of import to share with the sheriff.”

Jane carefully transferred Muffet Cat to her uncle's lap and stood. “Thank heavens the arbor isn't visible from the main house. I might just have time to figure out how to handle this tragedy before our guests discover what's happened.”

Jane followed Sinclair and Butterworth through the apartment, down the hall, and into the staff stairwell. Emerging in the lobby, Jane was relieved to find that all was quiet. A few staff members were about, cleaning and polishing, but there wasn't a guest in sight.

Butterworth headed for the kitchens while Jane and Sinclair exited through the rear doors. Immediately assaulted by the frigid air, they hunched their shoulders and hurried across the lawn. Jane stopped at the entrance to Milton's gardens. “Please tell Sheriff Evans that I'll be available as soon as Fitz and Hem are dressed. I'll bring them to the kitchens for an early breakfast and ask one of the bellhops to run them to school when the times comes.”

She and Sinclair parted company, and Jane didn't expect to encounter another soul. However, when she got close to her house, she saw a tall man dressed in a black coat and black cap standing in front of her door.

“Edwin? What are you doing here at this hour?”

He came forward to meet her, his gloved hands held out before him. For a moment, she thought he meant to pull her in against his chest, but he merely cupped her elbows with his large hands. “I've always been an early riser, and I ride Samson almost every morning about this time. We were trotting close to Broken Arm Bend when I saw the caravan of sheriff's cruisers racing for Storyton Hall, so I gave Samson his head and rode hard until we reached the archery
range.” His dark eyes roved over her face and then moved down her body. “I'm glad to see that you're unhurt.”

Under his deliberate scrutiny, Jane felt her body temperature rise several degrees. “I'm well enough, but one of our guests has been murdered. She's a famous author and I have no idea how the resort can survive the scandal.”

Edwin tightened his grip on her arms. “If anyone can maneuver Storyton Hall through treacherous waters, it's you.”

“What makes you so confident? Eloise and I are as close as sisters, but you've only been in Storyton for a few months. You and I barely know each other.”

“But I was here this past autumn, remember? I saw you fight for justice for another murder victim. You wouldn't back down, no matter what the cost to you and yours.” He brushed a wayward curl from her cheek. “Besides, one can't help but be reassured by a woman wearing a sock monkey hat.”

Blood rushed to Jane's cheeks. She couldn't begin to imagine how idiotic she looked in pajamas pants and a hand-knit monkey hat. “I should go in. The boys will need—”

“Let me take care of them,” Edwin offered. “I took the liberty of putting Samson in the garage and I can ride him back to Hilltop Stables later. If you trust me with your sons and a set of car keys, I'll feed Fitz and Hem and drop them at school.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “After all, you might want to change your clothes before joining the sheriff.”

For the first time that morning, Jane smiled.

After inviting Edwin inside, she left him to examine the contents of her refrigerator while she went upstairs to rouse the twins.

Groaning, they finally got out of bed and Jane hurriedly showered, dressed, and wrangled her rebellious curls into a loose bun.

Downstairs, she found the twins sitting at the kitchen counter, riveted by whatever story Edwin was telling them. “And so, the only way to defeat the fearsome ogre for good was to
eat
his yellow eye. That eye held all his magic, you see.”

“Awesome,” Hem said. “And this is what it looked like?”

Edwin slid a plate in front of each boy. “Yes. Unlike you and your brother, the hero didn't have orange juice to help get it down his throat. But he was a brave lad and he ate every morsel without complaint.”

“I bet I can do it faster than he did!” Fitz boasted, picked up his egg-in-the-hole, and took an enormous bite from one end.

Not to be shown up by his brother, Hem dug out his entire egg with his fork and popped it into his mouth.

“You'd both make excellent heroes,” Edwin said with a grin. Seeing Jane, he quickly sobered. “Call me if our evening plans need to be postponed.”

Tonight's the fashion show
, Jane cried inwardly.
And my long awaited dance with Edwin.

She held Edwin's eyes, thinking of how much she liked the sight of him in her kitchen. “I don't want to cancel. I was really looking forward to a waltz or two.” She gazed at him for a long moment and then finally said, “Thank you for this.”

Kissing the boys on the top of their heads, she pulled on her coat and opened the door. Her front stoop was wet. She raised her eyes to the sky.

The moon and stars were long gone, replaced by clots of gray clouds. A tentative rain had begun to fall, but as Jane looked to where the hills rose high above the tree line, she saw an ominous band of charcoal gray. This dark smudge was a portent of heavier precipitation. The rain would force Storyton's guests indoors, which was a boon because they might not see the sheriff's cruisers or the coroner's van. However, it also meant that Lachlan would be tied up with bowling and board game competitions and would be unable to help with the investigation. Worst of all, a violent downpour would wash away trace evidence.

Quickly stepping back inside the house, Jane grabbed an umbrella from the coat rack and then struck out for Milton's gardens.

She walked briskly until she noticed the yellow crime scene tape. Battered by wind and water, the tape writhed and quivered like a plastic snake, and Jane hesitated. Despite the
chill, she stood in place for a moment, recalling a proverb she'd once heard from an elderly woman in the village.

“‘The drowning man is not troubled by rain,'” she whispered.

And then, Jane reluctantly advanced toward the cluster of somber men, the sepulchral garden, and a body shrouded in
white.

Catching sight of Jane, Sheriff Evans issued several quiet commands and then walked to her side. He touched the brim of his brown hat deferentially, and the water gathered around the brim streamed over his face.

“A sorry business.” After wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he gestured first at the gurney and its burden, and then, at the expanse of grey sky.

“Yes,” Jane agreed softly.

They stood in silence as the gurney was pushed down the garden path toward the loading dock. Jane glanced up at the high hedge and felt a tiny measure of relief that the only people who would witness Rosamund York's sad exit were the sheriff and his team, Lachlan, Butterworth, and herself.

Nearby, a deputy snapped an evidence collection kit shut. Issuing a nod to Sheriff Evans, the man strode off, a second deputy falling into step beside him. The moment they were gone, the rain intensified, as though it could no longer hold itself in check.

“I think we've gotten all we can hope to get for now,” Sheriff Evans told the company at large. “Phelps, you're with me. You too, Emory,” he added, crooking his finger at a young
female deputy with clear blue eyes and auburn hair. To Jane, he said, “Shall we talk inside?”

“Please,” Jane said, hugging herself for warmth. “Let's go to my office.”

She and the sheriff headed for the manor house with Lachlan, Butterworth, and the two deputies followed behind.

Leaving her umbrella in a stand on the back terrace, Jane shook the water from her coat and dipped her chin in appreciation as Sheriff Evans did the same.

Except for two members of the housekeeping staff, the lobby was empty. One woman was polishing the wood tables while a second woman added water to a floral arrangement. They both stopped to stare at the dripping procession of lawmen and Storyton staff members.

Butterworth frowned in marked disapproval and the women immediately returned to their work.

At the front doors, Butterworth slowed. “I'll have a coffee tray sent to your office, Miss Jane,” he said. “Mr. Lachlan and I had best return to our duties.”

Jane knew he wasn't referring to his position as Storyton's butler, but his role as a Fin. After demanding discretion from the staff, he and Lachlan would rejoin Sterling, Sinclair, and Uncle Aloysius. Like Jane, they'd use the precious time remaining before the guests appeared for breakfast to discover the identity of Rosamund's killer.

“Good morning, Sue,” Jane greeted the front desk clerk solemnly. “Sheriff Evans and I have some business to discuss. Could you see to it that we aren't disturbed? Other than to take delivery of a coffee tray, that is.”

“Of course,” Sue said and smiled politely at the sheriff and his deputies. Without the slightest hint of curiosity, she returned to examining the checklist of guest requests, which she'd placed next to the schedule of the day's events.

Struck by a thought, Jane told Sheriff Evans to go through to her office. When he and his deputies had moved away, Jane edged closer to Sue and asked, “Are any of our guests checking out today?”

Sue shook her head. “No. The rooms are all occupied by
Romancing the Reader attendees. I don't expect any of them to leave until Saturday.”

Other than Rosamund York, who departed involuntarily
, Jane thought glumly.

“Please inform me at once if any guest expresses a desire to check out this morning,” Jane said and then entered her office.

Sheriff Evans sat in one of the guest chairs across from Jane's desk while the two deputies stood like bookends behind him.

“I'll grab another chair,” Jane said. “I have a great deal to tell you.”

After borrowing a chair from the surveillance room, Jane invited the deputies to sit. They only did so at the sheriff's urging and perched at the edge of their chairs like attentive schoolchildren. Sheriff Evans folded his hands over his slightly rounded belly and sighed. He was in his late fifties, but he looked older this morning. It was as though the early phone call and the time spent in the cold, gloomy garden had suddenly aged him.

“We collected as much evidence as we could before the rain started,” Sheriff Evans began. “We took the necessary photographs as well as samples of the victim's vomit. And I'm sorry to say this, Ms. Steward, but I have no choice but to open an investigation into the murder of Rosamund York.”

“Murder,” Jane repeated woodenly.

“You don't seem surprised.” The sheriff's gaze sharpened.

Jane shook her head. “I'm not. Unfortunately, Ms. York made enemies from the moment she entered Storyton Hall. Still, how can you be so certain? A murder has the potential to ruin us, Sheriff.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, the sheriff removed a plastic evidence bag and laid it on Jane's desk blotter. He gave her half a minute to examine the note, not realizing that Jane had already read it, and then tapped the bag with his index finger. “Do you know who wrote this?”

At that moment, someone knocked on the office door and Jane called, “Come in.”

Billy the bellhop opened the door and tipped his cap. “I'm sorry it took me so long to bring your coffee service, but Mr. Butterworth felt your guests might like a little something to eat.” Having delivered the message, Billy wheeled in a cart bearing a silver coffee urn and several plates covered by shiny steel domes.

Butterworth must be trying to buy time
, Jane thought.
I hope the Fins find something on those video feeds. And quickly.

As soon as Billy left, Jane filled three mugs with piping hot coffee and added cream, sugar, or both based on the preference of her guests. After distributing the mugs, she waved at the evidence bag on her desk.

“I wish I could point the finger at a specific person and you'd close this case without delay, but I'm afraid things aren't that straightforward.” Jane removed the domed lids to reveal platters of warm croissants, perfectly fried bacon, and a quartet of mini egg and cheese soufflés baked in white ramekins. She served the food, poured herself a cup of coffee, and then returned to her seat. “All I can do is give you the names of the guests you'll want to interview and my reasons for naming these particular individuals.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” the sheriff said, staring at the food on his plate as though uncertain what to do with it.

Seeing his indecision, Jane motioned for her guests to eat. “You might as well get some food in you while I'm talking. I can put everything in writing after I've given you a brief rundown of the key players.” She gave Sheriff Evans a pleading look. “I only ask that you and your deputies be as discreet as possible. The last thing I want is a resort full of hysterical guests.”

“That won't help us either, ma'am,” the sheriff said. “Considering the circumstances, I can't allow anyone to leave, but I don't need to drag people out through the front door in cuffs, either. We can find a way to work together, Ms. Steward. I'm only interested in seeing that justice is served.”

Jane nodded. Sheriff Evans was courteous and competent and though Jane liked him well enough, she fervently wished
there was no need for his presence at Storyton Hall. Unable to stall any longer, Jane ran through the names of the suspects Sinclair had written on the slate board in her uncle's office.

While she talked, Deputy Emory typed notes into a small laptop. The minutes ticked by and Jane felt like she was in a witness box providing testimony and that Deputy Emory was the court stenographer. Jane found it slightly unnerving that while the young woman's nimble fingers flew over the keys, her big blue eyes never left Jane's face.

When Jane finally finished and the deputy's hands fell still, Sheriff Evans stared into the middle distance and stroked the stubble on his chin.

“I'd like to conduct preliminary interviews on sight if that's all right with you,” he said after a long moment of silence. “May I commandeer one of the smaller conference rooms?”

“Of course.” Jane suppressed a sigh of relief. Allowing the sheriff the use of the William Faulkner Room had its advantages. First, the suspects would be more at ease there than in the stark interview room at the sheriff's station. The William Faulkner, with its wood paneling, lush carpet, oil paintings, and comfortable swivel chairs, was certainly less threatening. Secondly, Jane could listen in on every interview. Storyton Hall was filled with secret nooks, hidey-holes, and passageways, and it just so happened that a secret corridor had been constructed between two of the smaller conference rooms. Accessible through a hidden door in the back of a broom cupboard, Jane could tiptoe down the narrow aperture and squat down next to the air return panel. From this position, she could record the interviews and replay them later for the Fins.

Unless the sheriff is able to obtain a confession
, Jane thought, but immediately dismissed the idea. After all, most of the suspects stood to gain from Rosamund's death. Georgia would probably become America's premier author of Regency romances. As for the Ciara and Barbara, their novels were likely to see a surge in sales after the media attention they'd receive once the news of Rosamund's untimely end spread. As for Maria Stone, she would no longer have
to worry about a sequel to
Eros Steals the Bride
. The book that had so incensed her would be a standalone.

And quite possibly Rosamund's biggest seller
, Jane mused to herself.
Everyone will buy it because it's Rosamund York's last novel.

“I wonder if you could clarify something,” Sheriff Evans said, breaking into Jane's thoughts. He'd scooted his chair back in order to view Deputy Emory's laptop screen. “You said that you were under the impression that Mr. Poindexter knew the victim—that the two had met before.” Jane nodded and the sheriff continued. “You're far more knowledgeable about the publishing world than any of us, so what would be your best guess as to Mr. Poindexter's motive? Wouldn't Ms. York be more useful to him alive? He can hardly interview her now.”

“If Mr. Poindexter were the last person to conduct an interview with Ms. York, he could sell that interview to the highest bidder,” Jane said. “I don't know how much he could expect to make or even if he's capable of committing premeditated murder in exchange for a one-time payoff. This is purely supposition on my part, but I did get a strong feeling that he and Rosamund knew each other intimately.”

“I appreciate your candor. We'll begin with the suspect list you provided.” The sheriff got to his feet. “Deputy Emory, you and I will conduct the interviews while Deputy Phelps runs background checks.” At the door, the sheriff turned back to Jane. “I wish your hotel wasn't filled with so many disgruntled fans. It sounds like any number of people would have gladly poisoned Ms. York.”

Jane thought of how Rosamund had tried to reconnect with those fans during the truffle demonstration. It seemed to Jane that Rosamund had been succeeding. Could one of those women truly been angry enough to poison her? Wouldn't Rosamund or Taylor have noticed a cold light in their eyes? A tightening around the mouth? A trembling hand? Words punctuated with quiet fury?

“Taylor!” Jane cried softly. “I almost forgot about Taylor Birch, Ms. York's publicist. You'll want to speak with her
as well. The young lady knows more about her employer than anyone in the hotel.” Jane gave Sheriff Evans an imploring look. “Would it be all right if I tell her about Ms. York? I'm afraid she's going to take it very hard.”

Sheriff Evans shot a glance at the wall clock. “I imagine your guests will be stirring by now. Do you have an event scheduled for this morning?”

“Two, actually. A Regency dance class and a Romantic Reads quiz show. After lunch, we're offering a Make-Your-Own-Reticule workshop.”

The sheriff nodded. “As long as no one leaves the premises, I see no reason why you shouldn't carry on with these events. We'll send for Ms. Birch first and I'd welcome your presence during her interview. After that, we'll move down our suspect list. If I can't make an arrest after speaking with the individuals you've named, then we'll have to address the guests en masse.”

Though Jane knew this was unavoidable, she cringed at the thought. At least she was somewhat involved in the sheriff's investigation and was therefore keeping her promise to find Rosamund's killer.

“I'll have Sue call up to Ms. Birch's room,” Jane said. “I should also stop by the Ian Fleming Lounge, as I'd like to have something on hand to help Ms. Birch cope with the shock. William Faulkner said, ‘There's no such thing as bad whiskey.'”

“On a day like today, I'd have to agree with Faulkner.” Sheriff Evans gestured at the door. “After you, Ms. Steward.”

In the Ian Fleming Lounge, Jane poured two fingers' worth of whiskey in a tumbler and then asked Sheriff Evans and Deputy Emory to meet her in the conference room.

“It's unlocked, so go in and make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “I want to arrange for water and coffee to be delivered. Perhaps refreshments will make the interviewees less anxious.”

The sheriff had used The William Faulkner Room on a previous occasion, so he and Deputy Emory headed down the lobby toward the west wing without delay.

As for Jane, she hurried to the Henry James library in search of Sinclair. The library was empty and Sinclair was in his cramped office, whispering into a cell phone. After ending the call, he turned to Jane with a grave expression.

“We've reviewed all the video feeds. The cameras picked up Ms. York's harrowing journey from her room, through the lobby, and out to the terrace. No one followed her.”

“Could her poisoner have avoided the cameras if he or she knew where they were located?” Jane asked.

Sinclair frowned. “That is most unlikely. One would have to be aware of the existence of our secret cameras, and only your uncle and the Fins know where they are.”