Murder in the Paperback Parlor (14 page)

“At this point, we don't know what happened to Ms. York. She was unwell yesterday afternoon, and we believe that her illness intensified over the course of the evening.” Jane gestured to her left. “This is Sheriff Evans of the Storyton Sheriff's Department. He's asking for your assistance in his investigation. If you have any helpful information about Ms. York—anything she might have said in passing or a remark she may have made during the truffle workshop, or at any other time, that you feel could be pertinent—please come forward after I'm finished.”

Next, Jane turned her right. “If the sheriff is unavailable, Deputy Amelia Emory would be glad to speak with you.”

A woman in the second row got to her feet. “You used the word investigation. Does that mean Ms. York's death is raising suspicion?”

A wave of anxious muttering swept over the room and Jane knew she must be the picture of composure if she wanted to prevent fear from spreading like a wildfire. “As I said, we don't know what brought on her sudden illness. I can assure you that it's not contagious, but the until the medical examiner completes his examination and reports his findings to the sheriff, we cannot say for certain what precipitated her passing.”

“What happens now?” another woman asked timidly from an aisle seat in the ninth row. “Are you going to cancel Romancing the Reader?”

“Absolutely not,” Jane said firmly. “I believe Ms. York would want you to enjoy the rest of the week's events. She came to Storyton Hall to interact with you, her readers, and to witness your delight as you learned Regency dances, created a reticule, or bid at the charity auction. I feel quite confident in saying that she would be disappointed if I canceled tonight's highly anticipated fashion show or tomorrow's male cover model search contest.” Jane paused to give the women a chance to mull this over.

“I don't want to miss either of those things,” a woman toward the front said.

Jane gave her a grateful smile. “Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. The national holiday of romance. Rosamund York was known as First Lady of Romance, so let's honor her memory by surrounding ourselves with flowers, music, food, candlelight, books, and handsome men. We have a trio of very talented authors in residence to help us continue celebrating the genre we all love. I say we go on. What do you say?”

Slowly, very slowly, a few women began to nod. And then, more and more ladies began bobbing their heads in agreement. This was followed by murmurs of assent from every corner of the room. Jane had swayed them, but she'd yet to tell her guests that they weren't free to leave.

“Today will be unpleasantly cold and rain will plague us until tomorrow. Please stay snug and dry inside and enjoy our afternoon activities followed by this evening's fashion show. If you have an urgent need to purchase something from Storyton Village, stop by the front desk and we'll be glad to assist you. I know that many of you are anxious to have your gowns fitted for tonight's fashion show, but you won't need to leave Storyton Hall to attend to this. Mabel Wimberly will be arriving shortly for the reticule workshop and has set aside several hours to make last-minute adjustments to your gowns.” She smiled warmly at her audience. “Thank you for your patience and understanding. Before we adjourn, let's take a moment of silence in honor of Rosamund York.”

Jane switched off the microphone and bowed her head. After a full minute, she descended the stage steps. Sheriff
Evans and Deputy Emory walked behind her and the women started quietly filing out of the theater. However, several ladies formed a queue by the theater door where they patiently waited to talk with the sheriff.

Jane hung back to listen to their accounts, hoping these women had valuable information to share. However, it soon became obvious that they were all only interested in engaging in wild speculation.

“I know exactly what happened. Ms. Rosamund took her own life because her new book was bound to be a failure,” one woman theorized.

“That's ridiculous,” a second woman said. “She could have changed the book. I'm sure her editor would have given her more time.
I
heard that she was suffering from depression. Maybe she popped too many pills by mistake. That would certainly make her feel ill, and celebrities seem to die from accidental overdoses all the time.”

Sheriff Evans listened patiently, but after hearing a woman suggest that Rosamund might be faking her own death in order to make a dramatic appearance at the fashion show, Jane had had enough.

Back in the lobby, she spotted Eloise, Mabel, and Mrs. Pratt standing by the center table and felt a lump form in her throat. The sight of her friends, tugging at their gloves and mittens, made Jane acutely aware of the weight of her responsibilities. She wanted to lean on them. For just a moment, she longed to share her heavy burden with the women she thought of as sisters.

“Jane!” Eloise rushed forward and gave Jane a fortifying hug. “Your poor thing. Are you holding up okay?”

Jane blinked dumbly. “How did you—”

“Everyone in the village knows about Rosamund. Deputies are canvasing every house, shop, and eatery in search of”—she stopped, glanced around the busy lobby, and lowered her voice—“your missing guest. Edwin canceled lunch service at the restaurant to join in the hunt. He and Sam are now roaming the woods on horseback. Such cowboys,” she said with a snort, but Jane saw pride in her eyes. Sam was the owner of Hilltop Stables and Edwin's oldest friend.

“That cowboy can throw me over his saddle any time,” Mrs. Pratt declared fervently.

Mabel elbowed her in the side. “What would your Scotsman make of your infatuation with a younger man?”

Ignoring the remark, Mrs. Pratt fixed her attention on Jane. “Maybe we should we find a more private place to chat.”

Recalling that she'd asked Mrs. Pratt to collect information on Lachlan, Jane nodded. “Let's go to the Jane Austen Parlor. It's bound to be empty, seeing as most of the guests are in the dining room. I'll order a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea. We can have lunch while we talk.”

Over Dijon chicken salad sandwiches, Jane told her friends most of what she knew. Normally, she would have held back dozens of details, but since Rosamund's murder didn't seem connected to Storyton's secret library, there was no need to omit much. She didn't mention Sterling's lab, the hidden passageway outside the conference room, or the surveillance footage, but she told them enough to have them gawking in shock.

“Nigel has to be the killer,” Eloise said. “The poisonous seeds were found in his room and he's fled for the hills.”

“He could also have been in collusion with another guest,” Mrs. Pratt suggested.

Mabel raised a finger to stop anyone else from speaking. “But what's the man's motive? Jane, do you think Nigel and Rosamund were lovers?”

“All I can say is that they weren't strangers, even though that's exactly what they were pretending to be,” Jane said.

Mrs. Pratt refilled her teacup with the day's featured blend, a fragrant and invigorating jasmine green tea. “Theirs must have been a case of unrequited love. It would take an intense depth of rage to plan such an agonizing death for a former flame. I only saw Nigel in passing, but he seemed like a friendly enough soul. I guess he fooled everyone.” Frowning, she pulled a piece of paper from her handbag. “I've had no luck digging up anything on Rosamund's past. All I managed was a chronological list of her public appearances.”

“That could be useful,” Jane said. “If we cross reference
those appearances with Nigel's published articles, we'll discover if he and Rosamund attended the same events. That would help prove my theory that they knew each other.”

“Where can Nigel be hiding?” Mabel puzzled. “Unless he packed foul-weather gear, he won't last long outdoors. He'd have to travel many miles to go over the mountain. Even with my natural padding, I need my heaviest wool sweater and my puffiest coat just to walk from one end of the village to the other.” She shook her head. “Folks who think it doesn't get cold in this part of Virginia haven't visited in February.”

“At least it's nice and toasty in here,” Eloise said, smiling at Jane. “I'm glad you didn't cancel tonight's festivities. I'm sure Nigel will be found by then and everyone can focus on having fun. I don't know if I'm more excited about donning my Regency gown or seeing the men in their top hats and tails. Especially Sam and Edwin. I don't know how you convinced them to participate, Mabel.”

Mabel winked. “I have my ways. Besides, what would a fashion show be without a bevy of attractive men on hand to escort the ladies down the catwalk? The male cover models don't arrive until tomorrow, so I had to make due with our local lads. Fortunately, we have plenty of lovely men to choose from.” She took Mrs. Pratt by the hand. “You might just swoon tonight, my dear. Both Gavin and Lachlan will be attired in Regency-era Highland costumes. And they cut fine figures.
Very
fine figures.”

“I'm surprised Mr. Lachlan volunteered to be a part of this spectacle,” Mrs. Pratt said in a theatrical whisper. “I wouldn't think he'd be comfortable being in front of a crowd, seeing as he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Jane felt a rush of sympathy for the quiet and reserved Fin. “I got the feeling that not only had he seen action in the Middle East and in Afghanistan, but that he'd also lost some of the men in his unit. Men he was very close to. However, I didn't know about the PTSD. How awful for him.”

Mrs. Pratt sipped her tea. “Yes, the men he fought beside were like brothers to him, but his deepest emotional wound occurred following his last tour of duty. Gavin told me that
Mr. Lachlan was present when his
real
brother, a DEA agent, was killed during a house raid. The back steps of the house had been booby-trapped, you see. The poor man never stood a chance. Lachlan, who'd been on a ride-along with his brother at the time, witnessed the terrible event.”

The women fell silent. Jane was torn between regret and anger. On one hand, she was sorry that she'd asked Mrs. Pratt to gather information on Lachlan, but she was also upset to learn about Lachlan's issues months after he'd been hired. Gavin should have been more forthright with her concerning Lachlan's past. Knowing what she now knew, Jane wasn't sure that her newest employee was truly capable of protecting her family. Though he might be in dire need of professional help to cope with his PTSD, as far as Jane knew, Lachlan spent all his free time traipsing about in the woods.

“Mr. Lachlan might be among the walking wounded—a man whose injuries aren't visible to the naked eye—but thank goodness he found Storyton Hall. He definitely belongs here,” Eloise said softly. “Storyton's books, beauty, and isolation are a balm to the saddest of souls.”

“I agree. I've always felt that this house and our village were imbued with restorative powers,” Mabel said.

“Oh, yes, they're very peaceful and soothing.” Mrs. Pratt chuckled wryly. “As long as you discount the fact that somewhere in our bucolic utopia, a murderer is on the
loose.”

Jane was perched on a stool reviewing Friday's menu when the twins burst into the kitchens.

“Mom, I made you something!” Fitz unzipped his backpack and dug around inside. He pulled out a pink construction paper heart with a white doily fringe. “I wrote a poem for you. Its says, ‘Roses are red, cold lips are blue, and there's no cooler mom than you.'”

Jane examined the wobbly handwriting and felt her eyes grow moist with tears. “Oh, honey. I love it.”

“I made one too,” Hem said, stepping in front of his brother. His heart was purple and white. “It says, ‘Roses are red, the summer sky is blue, and I will always love you.'”

Jane enfolded her sons in her arms. She inhaled their boyish scent of soap, rubber cement, and Rice Krispie Treats.

“Did you celebrate a birthday at school?” she asked. “I smell marshmallows. In someone's hair. Again.”

Fitz and Hem pulled back and exchanged astonished glances.

“Good nose, Mom,” Fitz said.

“It was Lacy's birthday and we had treats at recess, so we're already hungry,” Hem said. “Can we have a snack?”

Jane nodded. “Go wash your hands. Mrs. Hubbard has been waiting to show you her work of art.”

The boys jostled each other on the way to the sink. Just when Jane was about to scold them for squabbling, Mrs. Hubbard placed a pair of ruby-red dishes on the counter. “Take a seat, boys. I want to hear all about your day.”

The twins hurriedly finished their ablutions and reached into their book bags for a second time.

“Surprise!” they shouted and presented Mrs. Hubbard with a handful of tissue paper flowers tied with a piece of yarn. The stems were creased and the flowers had been thoroughly squashed at the bottom of their bags, but Mrs. Hubbard didn't seem to notice.

“You darlings!” she cried, as though she'd been given a precious gem. After kissing each boy on the cheek, she said, “I'll put these in my best vase. Be right back.”

Jane was continuously amazed by Mrs. Hubbard's creativity. She'd cut honeydew, cantaloupe, and strawberries into heart shapes and loaded them onto a bamboo skewer. The fruit shish kebabs were laid next to a bowl of homemade yogurt dip.

“I smell honey,” Fitz said and plunged the top of his kebab into the dip.

Mrs. Hubbard returned with a remarkably improved bouquet. The tissue blossoms had been fluffed and the stems were now supported by green pipe cleaners and floral wire. “These are going to have pride of place in the kitchen,” she declared, still beaming.

The twins devoured their snack, carried their plates to the sink, and slung their bags over their shoulders.

“Do you have homework?” Jane asked as the three of them struck out for their house.

“Just reading,” Hem said.

“For twenty minutes,” Fitz added. “That means we're free until bedtime because we always read before we go to sleep.”

Jane shot her son a sideways glance. “Do comic books count as homework reading?”

Fitz sighed. “No. Miss Bedelia wants us to read books about
love
.”

Hem made a gagging noise and Fitz stuck his finger in his mouth and rolled his eyes.

Suppressing a smile, Jane said, “Why don't we read together when we get home? I'll get the fire going and we can snuggle under blankets on the sofa and take turns doing the voices.”

The twins brightened at this suggestion and immediately began speaking in high-pitched, singsong voices. The faster they talked, the faster they walked. Eventually, they broke into a run, racing to see who could touch the front door first.

Once inside their cozy house, Jane told the twins to prepare their reading space while she made herself a cup of coffee. She'd normally drink decaf at this hour, but she wanted to be wide-eyed and alert for both the fashion show and her waltz with Edwin.

When the coffee was ready, Jane carried it into the living room, lit a fire, and sank into the sofa cushions with a grateful sigh. Bookended by her sons, she asked, “What are we reading first?”

Hem handed her a thin paperback. “
Too Many Valentines
.”

Fitz placed his on top of Hem's. “Mine's better. It's called
Don't Be My Valentine
. It's a mystery, so someone might get killed. It would be better than reading about kissing and stuff.”

Fitz's mention of murder whisked Jane from the snug, warm room and transported her to the gloomy early morning in Storyton's rain-soaked garden. She pictured the gurney and its shrouded burden and shuddered. The sight of Fitz and Hem playing tug-of-war with Miss Bedelia's book quickly dispelled the vision, however.

“Stop it,” Jane said. “You can play rock, paper, scissors to see who goes first.”

Fitz's paper covered Hem's rock, so Jane began to read
Don't Be My Valentine
. When she was done with the first page, Fitz read the next one, and then passed the book to Hem. They continued this rotation, pausing to laugh or comment on the story, until the book was finished. Jane took a break to gulp down the rest of her coffee before the trio read Hem's book.

“We can earn extra credit if we finish this book of Valentine's Day poems too,” Fitz said.

“You two take turns with the poetry book,” Jane said, standing up. “I need to start supper.” She tucked the blanket under the boy's bums, tickling each of them as she did so. They squealed and squirmed until Jane was giggling too.

In the kitchen, Jane washed potatoes and carrots and took a roast out of the refrigerator. She wanted to get the meat in the oven before Ned and his girlfriend, Sarah, arrived.

She'd just set the oven timer when the doorbell rang.

“Come in, come in,” Jane hastened Ned and Sarah inside. “You both look frozen. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

Ned politely declined. “Actually, Sarah and I were planning to make a special V-Day hot chocolate with the twins after supper.”

“It's strawberry hot chocolate served in mason jars,” Sarah whispered so Fitz and Hem wouldn't overhear. Jane's gown was draped over her arms. Carefully laying it on the kitchen table, Sarah pulled a magazine photo from her coat pocket. “See? It has a strawberry ice cream base—which is why it's pink—whipped cream topping, and a melted chocolate rim.”

“They'll love it.” Jane smiled at the young couple. “Supper's in the oven. I expect to be rather late, so I'll just settle up with you now.” She pressed an envelope of cash into Ned's hand. “I'd better go upstairs and change.”

“We ran into Ms. Osborne in the lobby,” Sarah said. “She wanted us to tell you that she'll be here in fifteen minutes to do your hair.”

Jane paled. “That doesn't leave me much time. Okay, now I really have to hustle!”

With the twins in good hands, Jane showered as quickly as she could, rubbed lotion into her winter-dry skin, dabbed perfume on the inside of her wrists and behind her ears, and then reached for a palette of eye shadow in glittering rose and gold shades.

By the time Violet arrived, Jane was dressed in her gown. Her long, wavy hair hung down her back and she was brushing
her strawberry blond locks when there was a light tap on her door.

“I hope you're decent because I'm coming in!” Violet called.

“I'm as decent as I'll ever be,” Jane answered.

Violet entered the bedroom and gasped. “You're a vision! Seriously, Jane, you truly look like you just stepped from the pages of
Pride and Prejudice
. Edwin is a lucky man.”

At the sound of Edwin's name, Jane started. She hadn't told anyone except Butterworth and the members of the Storyton band about her date, but if Eloise knew, chances were the other Cover Girls did as well. “It's just a dance,” she said, trying to act cavalier.

“Just a dance, my foot. Except for the band, the two of you will be alone in the ballroom. Edwin will be in tails and you'll be a gilded angel in his arms.” Violet touched the pale gold silk of Jane's gown. “Mabel really outdid herself, and I happen to have a matching gold ribbon to keep those curls in place.” She clasped her hands together. “Any man would melt at the sight of you.”

“Thank you,” Jane said. She ran her fingers over one of the puff sleeves, touched the gathered bodice, and adjusted the edge of her swelling bust line. “I just hope everything stays in place. I couldn't reach all the buttons. Would you mind?”

“I'll get them after I finish with your hair. You might as well breathe freely for the moment.” Violet shook her head. “It's no wonder women were always fainting back then. I'm glad Mabel asked me to model a day dress. Mine is a darling muslin number with lavender trim. It's quite flattering. Hides all my curves.”

“Your curves are beautiful,” Jane said. “Sam seemed to enjoy looking at them at our previous ball.”

Violet waved this off, but Jane saw the glimmer in her friend's eyes. “Sit in the chair, lady. I need to get started.”

Jane complied. While Violet brushed her hair and began to divide it into sections, Jane traced the vertical embroidery on the front of her dress. The floral design continued around the entire hem and Mabel had stitched tiny gemstones along
the bust line. Violet piled Jane's hair on top of her head, exposing her long neck and shapely shoulders.

“The final touch,” Violet said, winding a length of gold silk over Jane's curls. She stuck bobby pins here and there, finished buttoning Jane's gown, and then smiled in satisfaction. “Go look at yourself, milady.”

With a swoosh of silk, Jane walked into the bathroom. She almost didn't recognize the regal-looking woman in the mirror. Most of her hair had been braided, pinned high on the top of her head, and secured by the twice-wrapped gold ribbon. Violet had allowed a fringe of curls to frame Jane's face. The effect was pure romance.

“You're a master of your craft.” Jane kissed her friend on the cheek. “I've never felt this lovely or this confident. You and Mabel have done more for me than you realize.”

“Just make sure Sam is my runway escort and we'll call it even.” Violet quickly collected her supplies. “I have one more client to squeeze in before I get ready. See you backstage!”

After Violet left, Jane decided that she had just enough time to stop by her aunt and uncle's apartments before supervising the final arrangements in the Great Gatsby Ballroom.

Jane kissed her boys good night, slipped on her coat, and headed outside.

The rain had stopped, leaving behind a blue-black sky traversed with wispy clouds. The moon peeped in and out of the clouds, illuminating the frost-sparkled ground.

“I'm glad Regency ladies didn't wear stilettos,” Jane said to herself. With her feet comfortably encased in ballet flats, she hurried into the manor house and ascended the staff staircase to the third floor.

“Jane, my girl!” Uncle Aloysius exclaimed upon opening his door. “It's a good thing you've come by. I just spotted something of great interest while reviewing this morning's video footage.”

Shrugging out of her coat, Jane frowned. “But I thought you and Sterling went over that footage multiple times.”

“We watched the feed from last night, yes, but not what
was recorded a few hours later. Consider this, my girl. Where were you at half past five this morning?”

“Standing in Milton's gardens with the Fins,” Jane said. “Gazing down at Rosamund York's body.”

Uncle Aloysius waved for her to follow him. “Indeed! While you were all preoccupied at the arbor, Nigel Poindexter was making his escape. A partial escape, at any rate.”

“Aloysius!” Aunt Octavia barked from the doorway leading to the bedroom. “Have you nothing else to say to Jane before launching into investigative mode?”

Glancing from his wife to his great-niece, Uncle Aloysius looked confused. “Er . . .”

“You're resplendent, my dear!” Aunt Octavia bellowed and held out both hands. “Let me drink you in. Can you do a slow turn? I don't want to miss a single detail.”

“Oh, er, yes,” Uncle Aloysius mumbled. “You look lovely, Jane. Very lovely.”

Scowling at him, Aunt Octavia put her hands on her hips. “Men.”

“How are you feeling?” Jane asked her aunt. “I'm sorry that I haven't stopped by until now. Has your cold abated at all?”

Aunt Octavia patted the pocket of her housedress. “Never fear, I'm armed with tissues. And between cups of ginger-honey tea, several cat naps, and a hot bath scented with peppermint oil, I might live to see the morrow.”

“You know I couldn't go on without you, my love,” Uncle Aloysius said to his wife. “Would you like to join us in my office? I was just going to show Jane what our prime suspect was up to this morning.”

“Only if you pour me a dram of whiskey when you're done. I need to keep my strength up.”

In his office, Uncle Aloysius went straight to the laptop on his desk. Carrying it to the table by the window, he pulled out chairs for Jane and his wife.

“Note the time stamp, ladies. It's a quarter past five. At this hour, the only people unfortunate enough to be awake are outside in Milton's gardens. I suspect Mr. Poindexter was fully aware of this fact, for here he comes now.”

Uncle Aloysius pressed the space bar and there was movement on the laptop screen. At first, it was just a shadow on the carpet in one of the guest room halls. But then, the shadow thickened and became more substantial. A dark figure, wearing a coat and hat, opened the door leading to the stairwell and disappeared inside.

After hitting the space bar again, Uncle Aloysius opened a new window and pointed at a second image. “This is the lobby feed. Our camera faces the elevator bank, but if you look closely, you can make out a change in the light on the right-hand side of the screen.”

Uncle Aloysius started the footage. Jane peered intently at the screen and saw the ghost of a movement in the hall. A faint man-sized shadow fell across the floor and then, just as quickly as it had formed, it vanished again.