Murder in the Paperback Parlor (17 page)

“I don't doubt that.” Sterling smiled, but his smile faltered and then vanished altogether. “Actually, he and your aunt would like to speak with you. They're in their apartments.” He turned back to the screens. “I believe Mr. Sinclair is also present. He found a definitive link between Mr. Poindexter and Ms. York.”

Thrilled by the idea that they might have some insight into Nigel's reason for killing Rosamund, Jane rushed upstairs.

Her aunt was in the living room, an exquisite heart-shaped wreath made of paper roses resting on her lap.

“How lovely!” Jane cried. “Are the flowers made of book pages? And which novel?”

“You'd have to ask Mr. Alcott that question,” Aunt Octavia answered testily. “He sent this on behalf of himself and his sister.”

Ignoring her aunt's dour look, Jane reached for the wreath and examined its petals. “It's poetry. Examples of different poetry. This one's Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and I believe this line about spring's first rose was written by E. E.
Cummings. And here's ‘One Flower' by Jack Kerouac. Someone knows what makes good verse.”

“
Someone
knows a great deal about books,” Aunt Octavia said derisively.

“You're acting like that's a bad thing.” Jane laid the wreath on the coffee table. “Are you upset that book pages were used to make this wreath or because I danced with Edwin last night?”

Even though Jane had spoken gently, Aunt Octavia's eyes darkened in anger. “I've told you before that Mr. Alcott isn't a suitable partner, but you refuse to listen.”

“It was just a dance,” Jane said, stunned by her aunt's reaction.

Aunt Octavia snorted. “You and Mr. Alcott were the only couple dancing in a candlelit ballroom. If that wasn't a scene set for romance, then I don't know what is.”

Jane's ire rose. “And what of it? I've been alone for seven years! I need—”

Sinclair appeared from the direction of Uncle Aloysius's office and cleared his throat. Shooting an apologetic glance at Aunt Octavia, he said, “Pardon me, but before we're further sidetracked by the subject of waltzes, allow me to show this to Jane.”

He proffered a sheet of paper. “Miss Jane, these are all the conferences Mr. Poindexter and Ms. York simultaneously attended. Note how many there are in the beginning.”

As Jane studied the printout, her ill temper subsided. “This can't be coincidence.”

Sinclair shook his head. “I don't think so either. I also looked up every article he wrote during this period—we're talking two years' worth of conferences—and Mr. Poindexter barely published a word. In fact, I'm not sure how he made a living as he didn't seem to have regular employment.”

Jane sank into the sofa opposite Aunt Octavia and sighed. “A mystery within a mystery.”

“There's more,” Sinclair said, placing a second sheet of paper on top of the first. “Rosamund York must be a pseudonym because she doesn't exist in government databases. I've
yet to discover her real name. I even placed a call to her editor and was met with stony silence. Rosamund York didn't come into existence until the year prior to the publication of her first book. Because Ms. York doesn't have a literary agent, only certain members of her publishing company know her legal name. Without that name, I cannot search for other places where she might have crossed paths with Mr. Poindexter.”

“Her real name could be the key to solving this whole puzzle,” Jane said. “She might have wronged Nigel—or someone else—before she became Rosamund York.”

Sinclair nodded. “An assistant editor from Heartfire, Ms. York's publishing company, will be arriving later this afternoon. Perhaps she can be persuaded to help us.”

“If she refuses, she can talk to Sheriff Evans instead.” Jane's anger sparked into life again. “Once I see that she and the sheriff are comfortably settled in the William Faulkner, I'll creep behind the wall and listen to every word they say.”

“It may come to that,” Sinclair said. “In the meantime, Mr. Sterling and Mr. Butterworth will interview anyone who made deliveries to Storyton Hall on the day Mr. Poindexter disappeared. Someone must have seen
something.
”

Sinclair moved to leave, but Jane held out her hand. “Would you stay for a moment? Please?”

Jane then called her uncle into the room. Facing the three people who'd been her mentors, advisors, and surrogate parents, she said, “It's time for all of you to tell me about Edwin Alcott. Why the stern warnings, Aunt Octavia? Why the sideways glances from you and the other Fins, Sinclair? Whenever Edwin enters Storyton Hall, there's a noticeable chill. What do the three of you know about him that I don't?”

Aunt Octavia looked at Uncle Aloysius and said, “We have no choice. Tell her.”

When her uncle's kind eyes filled with sorrow, Jane was suddenly afraid of what he had to say.

“We didn't think he'd stay in Storyton, my girl,” her uncle said solemnly. “And we never imagined he'd try to win your heart. If we'd seen that coming, we would have spoken sooner. I see that we were foolish to have waited this long.”

“What has he done?” Jane's voice was thin with anxiety.

Aunt Octavia held out her hands in supplication. “Because he's your best friend's brother, we decided not to elaborate on his nature when he first returned. We didn't want the knowledge to taint your friendship with Eloise. You two have been like sisters since you came back to Storyton all those years ago.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her mauve velvet housedress and wound it through her fingers. “You're falling for him, Jane, and the man isn't worthy of licking your boots.”

Jane growled in exasperation. “Stop dancing around the subject. What sins has he committed?”

“The most deplorable kind,” her uncle muttered.

“He is the worst of men,” Aunt Octavia said, her mouth pursed in disgust. “A book thief.”

Picturing Edwin hoarding a stack of overdue library books, Jane nearly laughed. “What are you saying—that he steals books from shops and libraries? I find that hard to believe when his sister owns a bookstore.”

“We're not talking about a boy filching a comic book,” Sinclair said gravely. “Mr. Alcott is a notorious and highly-skilled thief. He steals extremely rare books. Irreplaceable books. Invaluable books. Books worth more than gold and jewels.”

Jane stared at Sinclair in astonishment. “Books like . . .” She pointed at the ceiling. “Like ours?”

“Yes,” Sinclair said.

“I thought he was a travel writer!” Jane spluttered.

Aunt Octavia smirked. “One cannot own properties around the world on a travel writer's salary. Free and clear, I might add. Mr. Alcott also bought his new café outright. He's a wealthy man, Jane.”

Unable to sit still a moment longer, Jane began to pace the floor. “I can't believe this. A book thief? Who does he work for?”

“He's a freelancer,” Uncle Aloysius said. “Or perhaps, I should use the term mercenary. In short, he's paid by the job. Very handsomely too. He goes by the name the Templar. I believe this is a nod to the Knights Templar, though why
he choose that moniker is beyond me.” He turned his gaze to the hearth, where a crackling fire created an atmosphere of somnolent warmth that was, to Jane, completely incongruent with their conversation. Her heart felt as cold and heavy as a dropped anchor.

Her uncle continued his narrative. “It can take months for the Templar to steal one book. First, he must establish himself in the region of the world where the book is located by finding employment and befriending the locals. Next, he studies, observes, and plans. Once he's arranged for a suitable distraction to take place, he strikes. He's as silent as a shadow and as patient as water wearing down stone.”

“Has he ever been caught?” Jane asked. She desperately wanted the image her uncle was painting to be untrue, but even as she fought against it, she could picture Edwin creeping through a museum at night with the stealth of a panther. How many times had she compared him to a feline on the prowl? “Does he have an arrest record?”

Sinclair straightened his paisley bow tie. “He does.”

“I'd like to see it,” Jane said, pressing her hands to her throbbing temple. “But not now. I need to be alone. I'm going upstairs.”

The lever that would release the secret door leading to Storyton's hidden library was hidden behind an air return vent at the back of Aunt Octavia's walk-in closet. Without saying another word, Jane rushed into her aunt's room, shoved aside the colorful dresses, and pushed a metal shoe rack out of the way. Using the penknife tucked inside one of her aunt's slippers, Jane unscrewed the vent panel, tossed it on the carpet, and then removed the key she wore on a long chain around her neck. The key stayed hidden under her shirt and she only took it off when she showered or slept.

Jane slid the key in the keyhole with one hand and turned it clockwise while moving the lever handle next to the keyhole counterclockwise. She heard gears spinning deep inside the wall.

She returned to the living room, where the china cabinet had swung away from the wall to reveal a vertical slash of
darkness. Feeling the eyes of her aunt, uncle, and Sinclair on her, Jane plunged into the void.

There was a battery-powered lantern on the floor just inside the opening and Jane's fingers closed over the handle. Switching it on, she began to climb the narrow, spiral stairs leading to the turret room.

She hurried upward, swatting impatiently at cobwebs. She'd never felt such an acute need for solitude, for a silent sanctuary.

At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the metal door, shut it behind her, and sagged against it. Her chest was tight with anger and something that felt like grief. She'd been falling for Edwin Alcott, but he was not the man she believed him to be. The man who'd volunteered to hunt for Nigel Poindexter. The man who'd made breakfast for her sons. The man who'd kissed her in the center of a ring of candlelight. He was not Jane's Mr. Darcy. He was a rogue and a liar. Worst of all, he was a book thief.

As tears burned down Jane's cheeks, she set the lantern on the table in the center of the room, pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, and moved to the wall of drawers. Though the space looked like a bank's safety deposit vault, Jane could sense the presence of many books. Just thinking of all the stories tucked safely away in this fireproof, temperature-controlled room made Jane's world less imbalanced.

Wiping away her tears with the back of her glove, she opened a random drawer and reached inside.

The treasure she pulled out was a hand printed copy of T.S. Eliot's poems. Jane drank in the beautiful engravings in the margins, replaced the book, and thumbed through a diary belonging to Ralph Waldo Emerson next. The words of the long dead writers spun a cocoon of warmth and safety around her, softening the raw edge of her pain.

After spending another thirty minutes studying the contents of the drawer, which included a fragment of Latin script encased in Plexiglas and bearing the label: ENNIUS (c. 239 BC–c. 169 BC,
Father of Roman Poetry),
Jane's fingers backtracked to a slim volume of George Eliot's poems. A
laminated bookmark tucked inside the front cover read, AKA MARY ANN EVANS. Jane remembered that George Eliot was the male pseudonym for the female writer, Mary Ann Evans.

Jane sat down at the table and gently leafed through the book. “You used a man's name so that you'd be taken seriously. Has a man ever used a woman's name? I wonder . . .”

Replacing the poetry book, Jane closed the drawer and removed her gloves. She picked up the lantern, moved to the door, and turned to face the room again.

“As long as I live and breathe, Edwin Alcott will never step foot in this library,” she vowed to the silent space. “I will not let my guard down again. I swear it.”

She closed the heavy door, descended the staircase, and reentered the living room.

“Are you all right, my girl?” Uncle Aloysius asked, his eyes filled with concern.

“I will be,” Jane said firmly. “If you'll excuse me, there's a lead I'd like to pursue before our next round of guests arrive.”

Aunt Octavia arched her brows. “What of Mr. Alcott?”

Jane drew herself up to her full height. “Mr. Alcott will learn to keep his distance from Storyton Hall. If he doesn't, he may end up with an arrow sticking out of his chest. And I'm not talking about Cupid's arrow, but one bearing Storyton's gold-and-blue fletching. Like that cursed little cherub, I've become a damned good shot.”

Jane went straight to her office, shut the door, and unlocked the desk drawer where she'd placed the biographical sketches on Maria Stone and Nigel Poindexter.

Skipping over the details on Nigel's journalism career, Jane went farther back in time to when he taught English and creative writing classes at a small Florida college.

“If only I could get my hands on a yearbook,” Jane murmured and then recalled an ad she'd seen online. The ad, which featured a smiling high school girl with a mane of hair teased to the high heavens, promised to replace missing yearbooks.

Wondering if the same service was available for college yearbooks, Jane did a Google search and was pleased to discover that not only were the yearbooks from Sarasota College available, but they'd also been uploaded for anyone to view. Every yearbook from the mid eighties to the present was listed. After glancing back at Nigel's timeline, Jane opened the virtual yearbook from 1999.

Clicking until she reached the faculty pages, Jane zoomed in on the photos of the English Department. “There you are. Nigel Poindexter, adjunct professor.”

Jane studied Nigel's face. She'd found him bookishly handsome when they'd first met, but there was something even more attractive about his younger self. He had a kind, honest face and his smile was playful. “You must have been carefree then—before all the debts began piling up,” Jane addressed Young Nigel. “Your students must have loved you. I wonder how many coeds had a crush on you.”

Jane continued clicking on yearbook pages until she found a section called “Clubs & Activities,” where she spotted a photograph of Nigel flanked by several students—mostly female—who formed the Creative Writing Club.

Zooming in again, Jane examined every face, but none of the young women resembled Rosamund York. Just in case, she looked over the entire graduating class, but none of the girls were Rosamund.

Foiled, Jane began to search through other yearbooks. As the years passed, Nigel continued to teach the same classes and run the same club, but none of his students included a pretty young woman who would one day become a successful romance writer named Rosamund York. That is, until Jane saw the photograph of the Creative Writing Club from 2004.

“Gotcha!” she cried.

No names were listed below the image, but Jane was positive that she recognized the college student perched on the edge of Nigel's desk. At twenty-two, this woman had yet to possess the sophisticated style she'd later cultivate, but she was a natural beauty. In the photograph, she wore tight jeans with holes in the knees, a striped tank top, and ankle boots. Her blond hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she wore too much eye makeup, but her skin glowed with good health and her big, bright eyes gazed at Nigel Poindexter in adoration.

For some reason, the naked expression of desire on Rosamund's face made Jane think of Edwin. Shaking her head dismissively, she searched the online yearbook until she found Rosamund's senior portrait. Jane stared at the familiar face and the halo of blond hair and murmured, “It's nice to meet you, Rosie Yates.”

Jane thought of the promising career awaiting this young
woman and of how her life would come to an abrupt and violent end in a cold, dark garden.

“You didn't deserve such an ending,” Jane whispered.

For the next thirty minutes, she tried to find information on Rosie Yates. Her efforts bore no fruit until Rosie's name popped up in conjunction with a writing contest sponsored by
Writer's Digest
. Rosie hadn't won the grand prize, but she'd snagged first place, which entitled her to a cash prize as well as the publication of her story in the magazine.

“Is this where your writing career began?”

The contest had occurred in 2004, the same year Rosie had been a student of Nigel Poindexter's.

Rosie won two more contests that year. She received another cash award for a contemporary short story, but the second contest was a major coup. The Golden Palm Contest was for novel-length historical romance and included the privilege of having one's manuscript critiqued by the editor of a well-known publishing house. The Florida Chapter of Romance Writers of America printed a short piece featuring quotes from the winners, including Rosie.

“I couldn't have succeeded without the help of my mentor,” Rosie had said during the interview. “He might be a man, but he taught me more about writing romance than any of my female teachers. I guess he's my muse.”

“Was he more than that, Rosie?” Jane asked. “I think he was. I think you and Nigel were partners.”

Jane printed out the Sarasota College yearbook photos, and the details about the writing contests Rosamund York had won as Rosie Yates, and left her office.

She didn't make it very far because Sue stopped her to point out an arrangement of red poppies sitting on the reception desk. “These are for you. Mr. Green is delivering the rest of the Valentine's flowers to the guest rooms. Mrs. Pimpernel is assisting him.”

“Good,” Jane said, her mind still fixed on what she'd learned back in her office.

“Aren't you going to read the card?” Sue asked in surprise.

Jane would have liked to tear the card into shreds, but
she smiled and shook her head. “Not at the moment. I have too much to do.”

In the Henry James library, she found Sinclair presenting a thick tome to an elderly woman. “This should keep you occupied until tonight's festivities, ma'am.”

“Are you sure?” The woman squinted at him through a pair of reading glasses with hot pink frames. “I can polish off most books in a single sitting.”

“It's over eight hundred pages and I believe there's enough historical detail to slow your pace.”

The woman frowned. “I still say that time travel belongs in science fiction novels, but I'll give this”—she paused to read the title—“
Outlander
a try.”

Sinclair smiled warmly. “That's all any author, or librarian for that matter, can ask.”

“I'm glad we own the rest of Diana Gabaldon's novels,” Jane said to Sinclair after the woman had gone. “I have a feeling that guest will be back for more.”

“One can only hope,” Sinclair said. His eyes moved to the papers in her hand. “Did you find something?”

Jane glanced around to make sure she wouldn't be overheard, but all of the library's occupants had their noses buried in books. “A crazy thought came to me when I was in our
special
library. I was looking at a poem written by George Eliot.”

“The pseudonym for a very talented lady writer,” Sinclair said.

“Yes. A woman writing as a man. Thinking about gender roles led me to wonder why Nigel Poindexter attended so many conferences for authors and readers of romance novels. Even if he'd been madly in love with Rosamund, would he really travel to every conference just to be near her? She would have been preoccupied with panels, lectures, banquets, etcetera.”

“When Mr. Poindexter showed up with a bottle of Scotch and began to pace outside Ms. York's guest room, you suggested the possibility that he was either in love with her or obsessed with her.”

Jane moved to a bookshelf and ran her fingers along the
spines. She breathed in the scent of leather, old paper, and dust. To her, there was no sweeter perfume in the world. Tracing the gilt letters on an edition of
Wuthering Heights
, she said, “The most celebrated romance stories have mostly been written by women. The Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell, M. M. Kaye, and so on. But if you take romantic poetry or plays into account, writers like Shakespeare, Blake, Neruda, Rumi, Keats, and Byron balance out the genders. So let me ask you this: Can a man pen a bestselling romance novel?”

“Certainly,” Sinclair answered. “I can think of several.
The French Lieutenant's Woman
by John Knowles, D. H. Lawrence's
Women in Love
, E. M. Forster's
Room With a View
, and who could forget Boris Pasternak's
Doctor Zhivago
?”

Jane nodded in agreement. “Do you see what I'm trying to say? What if Rosamund and Nigel were more than lovers? What if they were partners?” Beckoning for Sinclair to follow her to the closest table, she spread the printouts across its polished surface and pointed at Rosie's senior photograph. “What if this young woman fell in love with her writing teacher? What if she had the ideas, the look, and the charisma, but lacked the talent to become a popular romance novelist?”

“Rosie Yates.” Sinclair stared at the image. “You found her. Well done.”

Jane tapped the photograph of Nigel posing with the Creative Writing Club. “What if
he
had the talent, but wasn't the right gender? After all, how many bestselling
contemporary
romance novels are written by men?”

Sinclair studied the printouts. “If Mr. Poindexter truly possessed the ability, he could have written under a female pseudonym.”

“For a little while, maybe, but today's writer is expected to have a website and a social media presence. Eventually, Nigel would be pressured into making appearances—attending book signings, conferences, library talks. He wouldn't be able to hide behind a female name forever.”

“You make a valid point,” Sinclair said.

Jane looked at her printouts and sighed. As interesting as her research was, it wouldn't help them locate Nigel.
“What if he's still near Storyton Hall? He might be entertaining a wild hope of speaking with the Heartfire editor? Of convincing her that he's the real author of the Venus Dares books.”

“That would be rather foolhardy,” Sinclair pointed out. “Unless he aspires to write from behind bars. And this is all conjecture, Miss Jane. We have no proof that Mr. Poindexter could pen a romance novel, though I admit his articles are very well written. I read as many as I could over the past forty-eight hours.”

At that moment, Ned entered the library. Spotting Jane, he hurried over to her and whispered, “The UPS truck just pulled up to the loading dock. Mr. Butterworth told me to fetch you as soon as we saw it coming down the driveway.”

“Thank you, Ned.”

“We'll keep chipping away at this,” Sinclair said to Jane before turning to assist a guest. She nodded and followed Ned out of the library.

As usual, the kitchen was a scene of organized chaos. Mrs. Hubbard was wielding a wooden spoon and barking commands like a five-star general. When the UPS driver appeared up in the doorway, she waved at him.

“I have a tin of cookies for you, Grant. They'll keep you warm on this cold Valentine's Day. Would you like milk or coffee to go with them?”

The man in brown glanced at his watch. “I'd love a coffee, but I don't want to trouble you in the middle of your lunch rush.”

Mrs. Hubbard beamed at him. “Oh, Jane will see to it, won't you, dear?”

Jane led Grant to a counter near the walk-in refrigerator. “It's wise to keep a safe distance. Mrs. Hubbard has been known to throw things.” She gave Grant a conspiratorial wink and then fetched a takeout cup and carried it to the commercial coffeemaker. “I'll brew you a fresh pot. It'll only take a minute.”

Grant checked his watch again and Jane quickly pulled on an oven mitt and slid a steaming triple berry tart from the
cooling racks onto a dessert plate. Setting the plate as well as a napkin and fork on the counter, Jane said, “Have a treat while we wait on the coffee.”

“Twist my arm.” Smiling, Grant cut into the tart and waved at a plume of steam.

“I wanted to ask you a hypothetical question,” Jane said as she put her signature on Grant's handheld device. “Could a person hide in the back of your truck?”

Grant considered the question. “I guess someone could squeeze in between boxes, but I'd probably find them at the next stop.”

“Where do you go from here?”

Pausing to load his fork, Grant said, “To the village. I start at the Cheshire Cat and work my way down Main Street.” He ate half of his tart in two bites. “Does this have anything to do with your missing guest?”

Jane stared at him. “How did—?”

“My wife shops at the Pickled Pig. While she was in line at the deli counter, she heard some other customers talking about it.” He polished off his tart, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and put down his fork. “I'm sure that I've never had a stowaway, ma'am, but I parked right next to the florist's van. Maybe his van was unlocked.”

Though Jane felt leaden with disappointment, she thanked Grant, gave him his coffee, and wished him a good day.

“I nearly forgot,” Grant said on his way to the door. “The box on top of today's stack is a little worse for the wear. It was like that when I loaded it at the warehouse, but I wanted to let you know, especially since the contents need to be kept frozen.”

Seeing that the damaged box was addressed to Landon Lachlan, Jane took it off the pile and carried it to the counter. There was a deep gash in one side and the tape securing the flaps closed was partially torn. Jane lifted one of the flaps and tried to peek inside, but a layer of air pillows blocked her view of the contents.

Jane glared at the box. She knew she had no business opening it, but when she recalled how Eloise had gazed at
Lachlan with the same look of adoration a student named Rosie had bestowed on her teacher, one Nigel Poindexter, Jane felt a rush of anger.

“I need to make sure Lachlan is worthy of Eloise's affection. Clearly, Nigel didn't deserve Rosie's, just as Edwin doesn't deserve mine.” Jane removed a serrated knife from the knife block and severed the remaining strip of tape.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Mrs. Hubbard was suddenly at Jane's side. She placed a bowl of soup on the counter and frowned. “You look a bit peaked. Sit down and warm your belly with my chicken and wild rice soup.” She pointed at the box. “I hope that's the crème fraîche I ordered ages ago.”