Murder in the Paperback Parlor (20 page)

“We can make it look like there's a maintenance issue,” Lachlan suggested. “I'll roll two housekeeping carts into the center of the hall and hang a
Work Zone, No Admittance
sign from the carts. That should do the trick.”

Jane liked the idea. “Will you see to that immediately? Mr. Sinclair needs to review the footage from our security cameras and I have to return to the ball.”

Lachlan nodded and hurried off.

“What do you think of Ms. Dupree's story?” Sinclair asked as they hustled back to the manor.

“Georgia Dupree has wanted to upstage Rosamund York for years, and I believe she'd cross several lines to achieve that goal. The fact that she sheltered Nigel has me thinking that she's either deranged or totally blinded by her desires.”

Sinclair grunted. “Perhaps she was seduced. Mr. Poindexter clearly had a way with words.”

“I'd like to know what words he spoke to Lily Jamison. I saw the two of them dancing together just before Nigel left the room.” Jane felt a chill race up her spine. “He was murdered minutes later. If I'd followed him instead of going to the front desk to examine the laundry orders, he might still be alive.”

Sinclair took her hand. “You've come a long way in the short time since you were named Guardian, but you will never know the intentions of every soul passing through Storyton Hall's gates.” He released her hand and swept his own in the direction of the manor house. “Think of all the
books in the library that have plain brown leather covers. They look utterly unremarkable. Now, consider what happens when the cover is opened—how a cornucopia of images sweeps the reader along on an unpredictable journey. Your guests are all like books you've never read before.”

“Then I need to become better at reading people.” Jane's voice was heavy with self-recrimination. “Two people have died this week, Sinclair.”

“This story isn't finished.” Sinclair opened the back door. “You haven't had much control over the plot thus far, but you
can
influence how this tale will end.”

Jane responded with a determined nod. “I have to do everything in my power to make sure Sheriff Evans has what he needs to make this arrest stick.” She hesitated, her hand on the door. “But what if Georgia is telling us the truth? What if she didn't kill Nigel and the real murderer is roaming free? I must consider all possibilities. Call me the moment you've finished reviewing the video footage, okay?”

“I shall,” Sinclair said.

The two parted in the lobby, and Jane hastened to the ballroom, where she spotted Lily seated in a chair by the punch bowl.

At this late hour, the dance floor was considerably less crowded, and the only Cover Girls still at the ball were Eloise, Anna, and Violet. Anna and Violet were dancing with models while Eloise chatted with Billy the bellhop. Jane knew Billy was a devoted reader of fantasy novels and was undoubtedly sharing his views on the latest work by George R.R. Martin or Neil Gaiman.

Jane saw Eloise enthusiastically gesticulate as she spoke with Billy. Eloise's passion for all the literary genres was contagious and Jane wished she could join the conversation. She'd like nothing better than to help herself to some punch, pull up a chair, and forget about the dead body in the parlor. Instead, she asked Lily Jamison to follow her into the lobby.

“Gladly. I'm exhausted,” Lily said. “Not many women are paid to travel to a beautiful resort or are given the happy assignment of dancing with a dozen gorgeous guys, but I'm
not much of a night owl. I usually fall asleep with a book in my hands by ten.”

Jane offered to walk Lily to her room. In the elevator, Jane said, “I saw you dancing with a tall, thin man in a tuxedo. He wasn't a model or a staff member. His name was Nigel. Do you remember him?”

“I know this sounds terrible, but the names started blurring together after my fifth or sixth dance partner,” Lily said.

“He may have discussed romance novels. Possibly those written by Ms. York.”

The elevator doors opened and Lily stepped out of the cab. “I did have an unusual exchange with a man. He never mentioned his name and he was strangely eager to talk about the Venus Dares series. He also wanted to know if I'd read her Eros novel and was very keen to hear what I thought of it. At the end of the song, he asked me such an odd question.”

“Which was?”

Lily stopped in front of the door to her suite. “He wanted to know if Heartfire would continue to publish Venus Dares novels if someone were to produce previously unseen Venus Dares manuscripts. Isn't that a bizarre thing for a complete stranger to say?”

If Jane wanted to tell Lily about Nigel's death, this would be the moment to do so, but she decided that it would be prudent to distrust everyone. She didn't dare confide in Lily Jamison, as much as she would have liked to be honest with her. “And you've never seen this man before?”

Lily shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“What do you tell him?”

“The truth—that Heartfire would be interested in anything by Rosamund York,” Lily said. “I planned to follow that statement with a question of my own, but when the song ended, my partner thanked me for the dance and left the room.”

Jane nodded encouragingly. “What would you have asked him, given the chance?”

Lily let out a dry chuckle. “I'd obviously had too much punch, because there was something about the way he looked
at me when he mentioned those manuscripts that made me believe they might actually exist. It's ridiculous, but I was going to ask if he had proof. I wanted to ask if he knew Rosamund.” Staring down at her brass room key, Lily traced the design of the open book on the fob. “I wasn't even Rosamund's editor, but I'd love to get my hands on those manuscripts. I'd be the heroine of Heartfire.” She laughed. “See? This is why I shouldn't stay up this late. I'm clearly functioning on half a brain. But why are you interested in this man? Did he tantalize all his dance partners with questions about undiscovered manuscripts, or was I the only one?”

“He might have mentioned them to another person,” Jane said. “If I discover more, I'll let you know. But for now, I've delayed you long enough. Have a restful night.”

“After all that dancing,” Lily said as she unlocked her door, “I'm going to sleep like the dead.”

*   *   *

Moments later, Jane
joined Sinclair in the security office.

“Someone entered Storyton Hall through the rear entrance.” Sinclair pointed at a monitor. “Watch.”

He played the feed and a figure wearing opera gloves and a floor-length hooded cloak ascended the stairs from the back terrace and crept into the manor house. Her movements were slow and stealthy, as though she were trying to be especially quiet.

“Her face is turned away from the camera,” Jane said. “Does she reappear on the lobby footage?”

“No.” Sinclair hit the fast-forward button and kept his gaze fixed on the time stamp. He then paused the feed. “Less than ten minutes later, she leaves the way she came in.”

The dark figure moved more quickly and her gait was somewhat ungainly. She took the steps two at a time, her shoulders hunched.

“She looks like Quasimodo,” Jane said, and asked Sinclair to replay the footage again, this time in slow motion, but there were no distinguishing characteristics about the figure. Again, she kept her face turned away from the camera.

Jane sank into a chair. “What about Georgia? When does she show up?”

“Seven minutes later.” Sinclair sped up the footage until Georgia, coatless and wide-eyed with shock, bolted through the doorway and onto the terrace. Her hair streamed out behind her as she ran and her mouth was open, forming a dark oval.

“Good Lord,” Jane whispered. “That's hardly the expression of someone who just committed murder. I probably looked just like her after I saw Nigel.”

Sinclair picked up the phone. “I'm ordering a pot of strong coffee. I don't think we'll see our beds tonight—not unless we find the woman in the cloak.”

Jane pointed at the screen showing The Great Gatsby Ballroom. “The Ladies' Choice Ball is over. Everyone's either retired to their guest rooms or returned to their homes in Storyton Village. So where is the woman who bludgeoned Nigel Poindexter with a candlestick?”

“We should also ask ourselves why she killed Mr. Poindexter,” Sinclair said. “Did she need to silence him?”

“Or did she want what he promised Georgia Dupree?” Jane was suddenly energized. She jumped out of the chair and pointed at the television displaying the back terrace feed. “After Rosamund's body was discovered, Nigel went into hiding. He took his laptop case with him. Where is his laptop now? It might contain drafts of every Venus Dares novel. Ideas for future books. Unpublished manuscripts. That computer could be worth its weight in gold.”

Brows furrowed, Sinclair quickly rewound the footage and replayed the scene of the woman's exit from Storyton Hall. “Ah,” he said. “If she's hiding a laptop case under that cloak, it would explain her ungraceful posture.”

As Jane replayed the footage once more, she caught a flash a familiar label sewn into the side front lining of the cloak.

“I need to call Mabel,” Jane said. “We're looking at one of her Regency cloaks. When I'm done with that call, we'll have to speak with every woman who ordered a cloak from La Grande Dame. The guests won't thank me for disturbing them, but I have no choice.”

Sinclair understood at once. “By process of elimination, the lady who doesn't answer her phone or respond to the knock on her door is our prime suspect.”

“Yes.” Jane's eyes were locked on the monitor. “Dante Alighieri claimed that pride, envy, and avarice were the sparks that set a fire in the hearts of all men. I believe that such a fire fueled Georgia Dupree's actions. But what of this woman?” Jane touched the image of the hooded figure. “What sparked the fire in her heart? And who else does she mean to
burn?”

“Hello?” Mabel's sleepy voice was a soft rasp.

“I'm sorry to call you at this hour,” Jane said. “But it's urgent.”

There was a rustle at the other end of the line and Mabel whispered, “What's wrong?”

“Nigel Poindexter has been murdered.”

“Good Lord!” Mabel was now fully awake. “What can I do to help?”

Jane was touched. How many people would respond to news of a murder by instantly offering assistance? “The killer's face was hidden by the hood of one of your Regency cloaks, so I need the name of every woman who bought a cloak from you.”

“I'll have to look in my record book. It's downstairs,” Mabel said. “I'll get right back to you.”

Jane begged her to hurry and then hung up. She paced behind her desk for several minutes, feeling a fresh pang of regret over having disturbed Mabel's sleep. Between the dress fittings, the fashion show, and the reticule workshop, Mabel had to be exhausted.

We can all rest after I catch the killer,
Jane thought.

The phone rang and Jane lunged for it.

There were fourteen names in all, but Jane only recognized two of them. After thanking Mabel, Jane hurried out to the reception desk. Andrew was on duty and Jane quickly explained what she needed from him. Within seconds, he'd pulled up the room number of the first name on the list and was dialing the extension.

Moving to the other computer, Jane looked up Barbara Jewel's room. As she reached for the receiver, Jane recalled how happy Tobias and Barbara had been on the dance floor. The pair had stared at each other as though no one else existed, as though the music was playing for them alone.

Jane swallowed a lump in her throat. She'd felt that way two nights ago when Edwin had taken her in his arms and led her in waltz after waltz.

“For your sake, Tobias, I hope Ms. Jewel answers her phone,” Jane said as she pressed the number keys.

Barbara Jewel didn't pick up.

Jane called Butterworth next and told him to knock on Ms. Jewel's door. She then returned to the security room. Sinclair was studying a still frame of the hooded figure. He was concentrating so intently that his bushy brows were nearly touching.

“Do you remember seeing Barbara Jewel in tonight's footage?” Jane asked.

Sinclair reached for the controls. “Yes. I spotted her leaving just before eleven.”

Jane was confused. “Leaving? To go where?”

“You'll see.” Sinclair pointed at the screen displaying footage of the front entrance. Sure enough, there was Barbara Jewel. Draped in her Regency cloak, she and Tobias Hogg descended the stairs to a Pickled Pig Market van. Tobias opened the passenger door for Barbara, held her elbow as she climbed inside, and then kissed her hand.

When the van pulled away, Jane felt a wave of relief. “I didn't expect her to leave with Tobias, but I'm glad to see that she wasn't involved in Nigel Poindexter's murder. I like her.”

“Apparently, Mr. Hogg does as well,” Sinclair said with a
hint of reproach. He clearly disapproved of Barbara going home with a man she barely knew. “Who else is on your list?”

“Andrew is calling the other ladies as we speak. I told him to get me if a guest fails to pick up her phone. The only names I recognized were Barbara Jewel and Rosamund York.”

Sinclair shot her a questioning look. “Ms. York ordered a cloak?”

“No, Mabel made one for her in hopes of getting some free publicity,” Jane said. “If someone gained access to Ms. York's room—” She inhaled sharply.

“What is it?” Sinclair asked.

“Rosamund's publicist.” Jane clapped her palms against her cheeks. “Taylor Birch had access to Rosamund's room! Taylor, who wore Rosamund's dress the night of the fashion show. Taylor, who'd do anything to break into publishing.
Anything
at all!”

Sinclair headed for the door. “I'll look up her room number,” he called over his shoulder.

Jane contacted Butterworth and was unsurprised when, several minutes later, the butler reported that Taylor hadn't responded to repeated knocking on her door.

“Use the master key and let yourself in,” Jane said. “Sinclair and I will join you shortly.”

As Jane hurried through the lobby, she tried to organize her thoughts by sharing them with Sinclair. “I think Ms. Birch discovered that Nigel wrote Rosamund's books. Maybe she overheard them arguing over money or something that hinted at their secret partnership.”

Sinclair pushed open the door to the staff stairwell. “Judging by the manner in which she blatantly disregarded our technology policy, she's a strong-willed young lady.”

“A young lady who'd grown tired of being a lackey,” Jane added. “Taylor told me that she dreamed of a career in publishing. She said that it's a highly competitive field and that she'd need an advantage to get her foot in the door.” Jane jogged down the third floor hallway. “What if she stumbled upon the perfect advantage?”

“An unpublished Venus Dares manuscript on Mr. Poindexter's laptop, for example?” Sinclair said.

“I'm not sure.” Jane lowered her voice so as not to disturb the other guests. “Nigel would surely have multiple copies of each file. You and I have met dozens of writers. They all keep backup files. And while I can't say why Nigel's laptop is such a prized possession, I think Taylor killed him to get it.”

When the pair reached Taylor's room, they found the door slightly ajar. Inside, all the lights were on and Butterworth was carefully poking through the young woman's drawers. Jane noticed that he'd donned a pair of gloves.

“Ms. Birch's toiletries are missing. As is her phone,” Butterworth said. “I haven't finished with my search, but nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.”

Jane nodded. “Sinclair, can you see if Taylor left any notes or clues in the trash?”

While Sinclair rifled though the bathroom bin, Jane examined the contents of the writing desk. She found nothing in the top drawer other than a Storyton Hall pen and notepad. However, the pen looked strange. An object was lodged beneath its metal clip and when Jane held the pen under the direct light of the desk lamp, she knew at once what it was.

She showed the castor bean to Butterworth.

Sinclair stepped out of the bathroom, peered at the pen, and pulled out his phone. “Mr. Sterling, we need to locate Ms. York's publicist, Taylor Birch. We believe she took Ms. York's cloak, entered Storyton Hall through the terrace entrance, and waited for Mr. Poindexter in the parlor. After striking him with the candlestick, she fled, undoubtedly to hide Mr. Poindexter's laptop.” He paused to listen. “Yes, you and Mr. Lachlan should search the outbuildings.”

“I bet Taylor believes she's gotten away with murder. Literally.” Jane stared at the castor bean. “She knew where our cameras were in position and avoided facing them. Because she wore gloves, her prints won't be on the murder weapon. If we don't recover that laptop, all we'll have on her is this castor bean. It's enough for the sheriff to take her in for
questioning, but it doesn't prove that she killed Nigel. And possibly Rosamund.” Jane shook her head. “At this point, I have no idea who murdered whom.”

“Let's focus on what we do know,” Butterworth said. “Ms. York was poisoned with castor beans. The fact that Ms. Birch has one of these beans in her room suggests that she could have been involved in the first murder. Nigel also had beans in his possession, so nothing is clear about Ms. York's death. If Ms. Birch took Ms. York's cloak, however, then it's likely she committed the second murder. That means Ms. Dupree didn't kill Mr. Poindexter, though we can still use her arrest to our advantage. If Ms. Birch thinks she's gotten away with murder, she might do something foolish.”

Jane fell silent while she weighed their options. “Perhaps we can entrap Ms. Birch with a little help from Lily Jamison.” A plan took shape in her mind. “I'll speak with Lily in the morning. Until then, we must find that laptop.”

“As well as the cloak we believe Ms. Birch wore tonight,” Sinclair said. “The cuffs or sleeves are probably stained with Mr. Poindexter's blood. One cannot inflict that kind of damage without . . .” he trailed off. “You saw the wound, Miss Jane.”

“Yes,” she said absently, her eyes scanning the room. “Where are you, Taylor? If killing Nigel was a premeditated act, then you'd want an alibi for tonight. Your toiletries are missing. So where are you sleeping? And with whom?”

Butterworth and Sinclair exchanged a brief, whispered conversation, and Jane raised her brows in question. “What are you talking about?”

“We think you should grab a few hours' rest. Tomorrow will be a trying day and you need to be sharp, especially if we're going to act like we know nothing of Ms. Birch's involvement.”

Jane nodded. “We'll have to inform the guests that there's been another tragic death at Storyton Hall, and before they have a chance to panic, assure them that Sheriff Evans has already made an arrest.”

“Precisely,” Sinclair said.

“I don't like deceiving our guests.” Jane put the pen back in the desk drawer.

“Romancing the Reader is nearly over,” Butterworth reminded her. “If Ms. Birch committed murder, we must find proof before time runs out.”

Jane ran her hand over the Storyton Hall notepad. “I'll compose a letter to slip under every guest room door. Once the announcement's been made and the guests realize Georgia Dupree is missing, they'll assume she's the killer. This might destroy her reputation.”

“She risked her reputation the moment she decided to harbor Mr. Poindexter,” Sinclair pointed out.

“That's true,” Jane agreed. “While I write the statement, I'd like the two of you to review all the video footage from an hour prior to when Nigel was killed until now. We need to know where Taylor spent the night if we want to poke holes in her alibi. To do that, the person she's sleeping with will have to admit that she wasn't in his room until after Nigel was killed.”

After making sure that Taylor's room was exactly how they'd found it, Jane turned off the lights. In the hallway, she sighed heavily. “How will I break the news to Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia? And what about the twins? They're bound to hear that something awful happened at Storyton Hall. It was one thing to keep Rosamund's murder from them, but there's no way I can prevent them from learning about a second death.” She rubbed her temples. “I can't have them hearing about it from someone at school.”

“Take time to speak with your sons in the morning,” Butterworth said. “Mr. Sinclair and I will handle things during your absence.”

Jane gave him a grateful smile. “All right. Thank you.”

“And I wouldn't worry about your aunt and uncle,” Sinclair said as they emerged from the stairwell into the lobby. “They come from tough stock. As do you, Miss Jane.”

The trio parted ways and Jane headed home. She managed to shrug off her coat and shoes before collapsing on the living room sofa. “I'll just close my eyes for second,” she mumbled drowsily.

She fell asleep almost instantly, and her dreams were haunted by frightful images of bloodstained cherubs. Dozens of them surrounded her as she stood in the middle of the Jane Austen Parlor. Their plump arms stretched out, reaching for her, their chubby fingers grasping hungrily. Jane turned to flee, but Nigel Poindexter blocked the doorway. She looked at his misshapen skull and the trickle of blood dripping onto his shirt collar and tried to scream, but she couldn't utter a sound. Something was obstructing her airway.

Jane shoved her fingers down her throat and pulled out a thin, metal object. It was the pen Jane had found in Taylor's room. The pen with the tiny castor seed wedged beneath its metal clip.

Only the seed was gone.

*   *   *

The next morning,
Jane wheeled a cart into her aunt and uncle's apartment. “Who's ready for breakfast?” She smiled, hoping her makeup hid the fatigue etched into her face. “I have scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit.”

Muffet Cat trotted into the room and meowed. Jane gave him a tiny piece of bacon. He gulped it down, licked his lips, and stared at her with expectant eyes.

“You're up early,” Aunt Octavia said. The twins were dressed in sweaters and corduroy slacks, but Aunt Octavia was still in her terry cloth bathrobe and fuzzy striped socks. Uncle Aloysius wore plaid pajamas and his favorite pair of fish-shaped slippers.

Jane fixed plates for her sons and then poured coffee for her aunt and uncle.

Fitz and Hem carried their plates to Aunt Octavia's small library table while Jane conversed with her aunt and uncle in hushed tones. After a time, she joined her sons.

“There's something I need to tell you,” she said, looking from Fitz to Hem. “One of our guests passed away last night.”

Hem stopped chewing. “We had a Rip Van Winkle?”

Jane hesitated. Rip Van Winkle was a code the staff used to describe a guest who'd expired in their room or on the
grounds. Prior to the Murder and Mayhem event, there had only been one Rip Van Winkle in the history of Storyton Hall. But after Jane discovered the body of a guest in the Mystery Suite last autumn, Fitz and Hem had learned about the code name and its meaning.

However, Nigel hadn't died peacefully in his sleep or suffered a heart attack on the tennis court, as had Storyton Hall's first Rip Van Winkle. He'd been brutally murdered.

They don't need to know that
, Jane thought.

“Sheriff Evans has already taken care of everything,” she continued, being deliberately vague. “I don't want you to talk about this at school. It is our duty to protect the privacy of all our guests—even a Rip Van Winkle. Do you understand?”

The boys nodded and said, “Yes, ma'am.”

“Do you have any questions?” Jane studied her sons. She wanted to dissuade them from gossiping about the latest death, but she also needed to make sure the news hadn't upset them.