Murder in the Paperback Parlor (12 page)

“Rosamund's killer wanted her to go to the arbor for a reason,” Jane said. “Either he sent her there because he intended to blackmail her—to exchange the antidote for money or something else—or he wanted her to die in the garden. Is the place significant or was it chosen because it's secluded?”

“Another question: What type of poison would the promised antidote treat? Mr. Sterling is currently analyzing a sample of Ms. York's stomach contents as we speak. Identifying the poison is paramount. We also need to know if she ingested the poison during the truffle workshop or earlier. At lunch, for example.”

Jane nodded. “I have to record the interviews between the suspects and Sheriff Evans. The sheriff has agreed to conduct them in the William Faulkner. I'm on my way there to break the news of Ms. York's death to Ms. Birch. May I borrow your phone? I need to place an order with a member of the kitchen staff.”

While Jane called in her request, Sinclair unlocked a desk drawer, pulled out a state-of-the art digital voice recorder, and slipped it into the pocket of his tweed suit jacket. He then smoothed his charcoal grey wool vest and straightened his paisley bow tie. “Right. Let's be off.”

In the lobby, every woman smiled or waved at Storyton's head librarian. Jane couldn't blame them. Sinclair was smart, kind, had impeccable manners, and could find the perfect book
for the most discerning reader. He also had an unparalleled taste in men's fashion and was the only department head to eschew the livery, preferring tweed suits and colorful bowties. Jane thought he bore a close resemblance to Sean Connery and many of the guests did too.

Sinclair was the closest thing Jane had to a father, and she felt steadier in his presence. Her own parents had died when she was just a toddler, and though Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius had lovingly raised her, Sinclair had always been the one she'd run to when she was injured or upset. And after her husband, William, had been killed in a car crash, Sinclair had been her crutch. He'd helped her manage Storyton Hall and had plied her with books about courage, strength, and fortitude. Eventually, the messages held within those stories had gotten through to Jane and she began to believe she could shoulder the double burdens of being a single parent and restoring Storyton Hall to its former splendor.

Until this morning, I thought I was doing a pretty good job
, she thought morosely.

Pushing open the door leading to one of the many staff corridors, she and Sinclair strode down the dim hallway until they reached a metal storage cupboard. Jane paused to make sure they were alone and then whispered, “All clear.”

Sinclair opened the cupboard and stepped inside. “Join me when you've finished with Ms. Birch.” He pushed aside a group of brooms. “Remember not to speak when you're in the hidey hole. Sheriff Evans might hear you. At best, he'll think Storyton Hall is overrun with rats. At worst, he'll realize that you offered him the use of the William Faulkner Room in order to eavesdrop on his interviews.”

“I'll be quiet,” Jane promised and closed the cupboard door.

Returning to the lobby, she entered the conference room to find Taylor Birch seated at the polished table, her eyes wide with fright. Upon seeing Jane, she shoved back her chair and got to her feet. “What am I doing here?” Her voice was shrill. “And where's Ms. York? I rang her room twice and when she
didn't pick up I went to her floor and knocked on her door. She didn't answer, and she always has me bring her a cup of coffee by now.”

Jane set the tumbler of whiskey on the sideboard. She gently pressed Taylor back down into her chair and then sat beside her. “Ms. Birch, I'm afraid I have terrible news and the best way I know to tell you is to be as direct as possible.” She took hold of Taylor's cold hand and spoke very softly. “Ms. York died early this morning.”

Taylor's jaw went slack. She stared at Jane, her mouth working.

Jane saw that the young woman was struggling to speak. “It's hard to take in,” she said. “Just give yourself a moment.”

“No,” Taylor finally whispered. She shook her head repeatedly, like a stubborn child refusing to listen. “No. It can't be true.”

Jane glanced at Sheriff Evans and he held up his hand to indicate that he was ready to take over.

“When was the last time you saw Ms. York?” he asked Taylor.

Taylor didn't seem to have heard him. Her glassy-eyed stare, an eerie echo of the expression Rosamund had worn the night she died, fixed on Jane. She continued to shake her head and whisper,
“No no no no.”

Jane held out her free hand. “Deputy Emory? Would you pass me that tumbler?”

The deputy sprang to comply. She placed both the tumbler and a mug of hot coffee on the table.

“Drink this,” Jane said, wrapping Taylor's fingers around the glass.

When Taylor didn't move, Jane put her palms under the tumbler and raised it to Taylor's mouth. “Drink this. Go on, you can do it,” Jane said soothingly.

Taylor drained the tumbler and shuddered slightly.

“That's a girl.” Jane took the glass away. “You're going to be okay. How about some coffee? It'll warm you up. You're cold to the touch.”

Taylor reached for the steaming mug, but her hands shook so violently that coffee sloshed over the conference table.

Jane held the mug for her and Taylor took a tentative sip. “How will I be okay? She's gone. And so are my dreams.”

“That's not true,” Jane said. “I know how tirelessly you worked for Ms. York. And guess what? She still needs you. You've been her voice for months. Don't stop now.”

This roused Taylor from her stupor. “I
am
her voice. Her readers depend on me.”

“Then help the sheriff. Tell him what you know.”

Sheriff Evans nodded gratefully at Jane and repeated his earlier question.

“I last saw Ms. York in her room. She'd sent me to the village for medicine because she had an upset stomach. I hired one of the drivers to take me to the pharmacy and by the time I came back, Ms. York was really sick.” Taylor looked stricken. “Was she dying? Could something have been done to save her?”

Instead of answering, the sheriff jotted a quick note on his pad. “When did you return with the medicine?”

“Just after seven. I checked the time because we were supposed to be in the dining room by then, but after taking one glance at Ms. York, I knew she wouldn't be leaving her room.” Taylor cradled her mug. “I asked if she wanted to have a bowl of broth sent up, but she said she couldn't stand the thought of food.”

“Could you describe her appearance?”

Taylor's gaze shifted to the rain-splattered window. Her eyes grew unfocused and Jane guessed she was lost in her memories of the previous night. “She was sweating. Like she'd just finished a tough cardio workout. Her hair was sticking to her face and her skin was a funny color. She kept clutching her stomach and moaning. When I suggested she see a doctor, she told me that she just needed rest. She sent me away, saying that she didn't want to be disturbed and that she'd call me in the morning. That was the last time I saw her.”

Taylor covered her mouth with her hand, as though trying
to keep a sob from escaping. Jane squeezed her arm. “You did your best to help her.”

“Ms. Birch, we don't know how Ms. York died, and we won't have a definitive answer until the medical examiner shares his findings, but I'd like to hear your opinion of your employer's frame of mind. Before she became ill, was she content? Angry? Troubled?”

Taylor blinked in confusion. “Troubled?” Her eyes flitted wildly between Jane and the sheriff. “You didn't find her in the bathtub or anything like that, did you?”

“No,” Sheriff Evans was quick to reply. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to imply that Ms. York's death was a suicide. However, I cannot say that it was accidental either. That's why I'd like you to tell me as much as you can about her time here. What was her frame of mind? Who did she associate with? Did she feel threatened? Any detail could prove helpful.”

Taylor's mouth contorted in anger. She pointed at Jane and shouted, “I
told
you that letter was a real threat! You should have pressed charges against the crazy woman who wrote it! And it
had
to have been a woman—one of Ms. York's rabid fans gone off the deep end.” Taylor face turned an alarming shade of red. “What did you do about the situation? Did you kick the woman out or let her stay? Because if she had anything to do with Rosamund York's death, I'll make sure the whole world knows that you're to blame!”

“Ms. Birch—” The sheriff tried to interject, but Taylor didn't even look at him. Her eyes glittered with fury.

“I'll tell everyone that it's
your
fault that one of the greatest romance writers of our age is gone! When I'm through, this place will be a tomb. A
tomb
!”

Droplets of spittle landed on Jane's cheek. She wiped them off with her palm and felt how flushed her own skin had become. It was difficult not to shrink in the face of Taylor's accusatory glare. After all, her outrage was completely justified. What if Maria Stone turned out to be the killer? Not only had Jane allowed Maria to remain in Storyton Hall, but she'd also failed to confront her about the note she slid under Rosamund's door.

“If you'd kindly excuse us, Ms. Steward,” Sheriff Evans said, and Jane knew she was being given a command.

“Of course,” Jane said, getting to her feet.

She opened her mouth to say that she was sorry, but then closed it again.

The person she should apologize to was no longer capable of offering her forgiveness, so she left the room without another
word.

Jane didn't join Sinclair in the hidey-hole right away. Instead, she headed for the front door where Butterworth stood, as straight-backed and unblinking as a yeoman warder. Jane considered the similarities between the elite guardsmen and the Fins. The yeoman warders protected the Crown Jewels, while the Fins guarded a priceless treasure: Storyton's secret library.

What will happen to the Eighth Wonder of the World if Storyton Hall falls into ruin
? Jane wondered and then dismissed the defeatist thought.

“I'm going to listen to the rest of the interviews,” Jane told Butterworth quietly. “If the sheriff doesn't trim the suspect list by the time the morning's events are over, I'll have to make an announcement during luncheon. As of now, this evening's Regency fashion show will proceed as planned. I'd rather have all the guests in one place where we can keep an eye on them.”

Butterworth nodded. “I concur.” He cleared his throat, a sure sign of disapproval. “What of your plans with Mr. Alcott? Though I am willing to offer my services as conductor—”

“
If
I decide to honor my commitment to Edwin, I'll ask
your backup to lead the band.” Jane glanced at her watch. “I wanted to make sure the twins got off to school on time. Did you see them?”

Again, Butterworth made a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Indeed. Mr. Alcott drove past so that Hemingway and Fitzgerald could wave to me. They seemed quite merry and were undoubtedly thrilled to be running behind schedule.”

Jane suppressed a grin. To Butterworth, tardiness was a serious transgression.

“Text Sinclair if you need me,” she said.

Turning, she saw Maria Stone walking toward the west wing. Billy the bellhop was her escort, and though he seemed to be chatting with her in his usual friendly manner, Maria's lips were clamped together and her face was an unreadable mask.

“After all those years in foster care, she's probably adept at concealing her emotions,” Jane murmured and then hurried back to the broom cupboard in the servant's corridor.

Having only entered the hidey-hole once before, Jane couldn't help but feel like one of the Pevensie children in
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
as she shoved the brooms aside, released the hidden catch, and pushed the door inward to reveal a dark cavity. Jane took two steps forward and then reached her hand out to the side. When her fingers came in contact with the wall
,
she closed the secret door behind her, and then shuffled along until she saw an illuminated pattern of overlapping octagons on the floor. The light slanting through the brass air intake vent made it possible to recognize Sinclair's silhouette. She sank down beside him without a sound.

Sinclair fumbled for her hand and gave it a squeeze. Jane knew that he was trying to reassure her, to negate Taylor's claim that Jane was responsible for Rosamund's death.

As Jane returned the gesture, she heard the sheriff say, “I should have arranged for a holding area for our persons of interest. Unless one of them decides to confess, we'll need to keep them sequestered while we conduct the rest of our interviews. Is Deputy Phelps still working on background checks?”

“Yes, sir,” Deputy Emory answered. “He already e-mailed reports on every suspect except Ms. Dupree. I have the first report open on my screen.”

“Good. Deputy Phelps will have to babysit our suspects while he continues his research. We'll have to ask Ms. Steward for a suitable space. I'll give the front desk a call and see what she can do for us.”

Suddenly, Jane found herself holding Sinclair's phone. He'd typed a message into the text box:

I'LL OFFER THE JAMES HENRY LIBRARY. I CAN ASK DEPUTY PHELPS TO WATCH FROM MY OFFICE SO AS NOT TO ALERT THE OTHER GUESTS SHOULD THEY COME LOOKING FOR A BOOK. YOU STAY PUT.

Jane's fingers flew as she typed:

WHILE THE SUSPECTS ARE BEING INTERVIEWED, HAVE LACHLAN SEARCH THEIR ROOMS. IF THESE INTERVIEWS DON'T REVEAL ANYTHING, MAYBE THEIR ROOMS WILL. WE CAN'T WAIT FOR THE SHERIFF TO OBTAIN A WARRANT. WE MUST PROTECT THE HALL AND THE REST OF OUR GUESTS.

Sinclair patted her arm in wordless agreement and then pointed at the voice recorder, which was placed on the dusty floor directly below the air vent. Leaving his phone in her palm, Sinclair disappeared without a sound.

By this time, the sheriff had already left a message with the front desk clerk, and, judging from his next remark, was examining Maria's background check. “Ms. Stone has an arrest record.”

“Yes, sir,” Deputy Emory said. “If you look here, you'll see that most of the charges relate to trespassing and disturbing the peace. This part highlights her more recent activities.”

A full minute of silence passed before the sheriff said, “It would appear that Ms. Stone is a woman with a strong opinion. If I run into a wall with her, I'll take a back seat and let
you do the talking. She might respond more openly to a member of her own gender.”

Smart man,
Jane thought.

As it turned out, Maria was hostile from the get-go. Jane barely heard the sound of her shoes on the carpet before Maria shouted, “What is this? Why was I brought here?”

After introducing himself and Deputy Emory, the sheriff apologized for disturbing Maria's morning. “We'd like to ask you a few questions and would appreciate your cooperation. Would you care for coffee or water?”

“No!” Maria snapped. “Just get to the point. I know my rights and I don't have to tell you—”

“Sit down, Ms. Stone,” the sheriff said in a soft, authoritative tone. “I have no intention of violating your constitutional rights, but I would like you to account for your actions between noon and midnight yesterday.”

“My
actions
are none of your business,” Maria retorted. “What's this about?”

Sherriff Evans paused for a moment and then said, “Rosamund York was found dead this morning.

Jane heard Maria's sharp intake of breath. “What?”

Her surprise sounded genuine, but Jane knew that people were capable of feigning surprise.

“I answered your question,” the sheriff said. “Now it's time for you to answer mine. Take us through your movements yesterday, Ms. Stone.”

Though Maria complied, she spoke in a sulky mumble. She gave a terse account of her activities, omitting any specific details or observations, and ended by saying that she'd had a pleasant dinner with a group of women who shared her beliefs, and then went to her room to post an update on her blog. “If you had my computer, you could check the timestamp,” she said in a taunting voice that rankled Jane. “But since I'm not going to give it to you, you'll just have to take me at my word.”

“What's your blog about?” Deputy Emory asked and Jane assumed Sheriff Evans had wordlessly signaled for his deputy to take over the interview.

“It's a group blog maintained by women interested in
protecting the rights, freedom, and equality of other women. We fight all kinds of social injustices like racism and gender discrimination.”

“That's a worthy use of social media,” Deputy Emory said. “Better than some of those beauty or fashion sites that seem to be all the rage.”

Clever girl,
Jane thought.
You knew just which button to push
.

“That kind of superficial focus is
exactly
what women don't need,” Maria said, instantly animated. “I'm not saying we shouldn't care about our appearance, but as long as women are viewed as Barbie dolls, we won't be given an equal wage or the same benefits as men.”

“Is there a term for your movement? And did you come to Romancing the Reader to gather material for your blog?”

“We're known by several terms and not all are flattering,” Maria said. “But we're basically modern feminists. And no, I didn't come here with a political agenda. This trip was
supposed
to be my dream vacation.” She paused. “I expected to meet lots of like-minded women because I assumed that anyone who was a fan of Venus Dares believed what I believed. Some of the attendees do, but others are hopelessly trapped in a 1950s mentality.”

Deputy Emory made a noise to show that she was listening and then asked, “You mentioned Venus Dares. Who is she?”

In response, Maria launched into a lengthy monologue about Rosamund's celebrated heroine. Soon, she and Deputy Emory were chatting like old friends. “It sounds like you really admire Ms. York's work.”

“I did.” Maria's anger flared back into life. “That was
before
she penned an offensive piece of crap featuring a chauvinist hero. He's an oppressor of women. The
complete
opposite of everything Venus Dares represents. This Eros guy treats women like they're some kind of sub species. Like they're brainless. And they still like him despite how he acts. That's the worst part! How weak the female characters are. The whole book made my stomach turn!”

Deputy Emory whistled softly. “I don't like stories where
women are made to look inferior. That book would have upset me too. But nothing can be done about it, right? Isn't the novel already published?”

“No, we were given advanced reader copies.” There was a glimmer of hope in Maria's voice. “There's still a chance to make changes, and if Ms. York's publisher doesn't want to offend thousands of readers, they'd better do some major revising. Honestly, they'd be better off canceling the project. There's nothing salvageable in that drivel.”

“Were you able to talk to Ms. York about this? To tell her how you felt about her new book?”

Maria snorted. “It was pretty obvious how the majority of the women here felt about
Eros Steals the Bride
. Most of the ladies here aren't outspoken like the women in my Matilda group—that's the name of our organization—but they made it clear how much they disliked the book. Dozens of us tried to ask questions during yesterday's panel, but the moderator protected Ms. York from having to answer.”

“So you hadn't expressed your concerns to Ms. York at all?” Deputy Emory pressed the issue and Jane sensed she was trying to get Maria to confess that she'd written Rosamund a threatening letter.

Maria didn't respond. Even from where Jane sat on the other side of the wall, she could feel a shift in the air. The silence was heavy with unspoken words. “Tell me why I'm really here, Sheriff Evans. I've had enough of the bad cop/good cop routine.”

A chair creaked on the far side of the table as the sheriff shifted his weight. Jane pictured him leaning forward and tenting his hands in an attempt to convey the gravity of the situation. “I don't think Ms. York's death was an accident, so if there's anything you'd like to tell me about your dealings with the victim, now would be the time.”

“I have nothing to say,” Maria said and Jane marveled at her stubbornness.

The sheriff gave her a long moment to change her mind and then used the radio attached to his uniform shirt to call Deputy Phelps. “Ms. Stone, you will join Ms. Birch in the
library. You will not speak to her or to the other guests. Right now, you are a person of interest in this investigation. If, at any point, you'd like to come forward with any additional information, the deputy will escort you back to this room.”

“You have no right—”

“I'm investigating a suspicious death,” the sheriff interjected curtly. “You may want to reflect on my use of the term ‘suspicious' while you're sequestered in the library. Deputy Emory, please show Ms. Stone out and return with Ms. Jewel.”

Barbara Jewel was clearly shaken by the sheriff's presence and completely transparent in describing her movements of the previous day. She didn't even ask why she was being questioned until Sheriff Evans had all the information he needed. It was only when he thanked her for her time that she haltingly asked why he'd wanted to speak with her in the first place. After learning of Rosamund's death, Barbara burst into tears.

“I was unkind to her yesterday!” she wailed. “I was jealous of the attention she was getting. I've never cared much about bestseller lists or awards, but I do covet my connections to my readers and I felt threatened by Rosamund—as though she was out to steal every reader for herself.” She stopped to blow her nose. “It was so childish of me. Readers aren't like that. They'll buy hundreds of books in the genre they love and they don't limit their support to one or two writers. I know that. And yet, I was still envious of Rosamund's popularity. I snubbed her. I was rude. Now I'll never have the chance to make amends!”

Eventually, Deputy Emory led the distraught novelist from the room.

Ciara Lovelace was next. Like Barbara, she was willing to provide the sheriff with a specific timeline and was equally upset when she heard about Rosamund's passing. Unlike Barbara, Ciara didn't cry. She fell quiet and didn't speak again until Deputy Emory asked if she had anything to add.

“I acted like a girl in a high school clique,” Ciara said very softly. “Georgia kept whispering into my ear, pointing out ways that Rosamund stole our thunder at every conference. I was so swayed by her comments that I didn't stop to consider
my own behavior. Is there anything I can do? Can I assist her family in some way?”

“Are you acquainted with Ms. York's family?” Sheriff Evans asked.

“No. I only knew Rosamund on a superficial level. We've attended many of the same conferences. She was friendly enough, but she always kept herself apart from the rest of the authors.” Ciara sighed. “She and I never talked about anything beyond books or the publishing world at large.”

As he had with Barbara, Sheriff Evans thanked Ciara for her frankness and cautioned her not to discuss the case with anyone.

The door opened, closed, and opened again five minutes later.

“Damn it!” Georgia Dupree cried. “That stupid cat nearly tripped me!”