Murder in the Paperback Parlor (21 page)

Hem looked thoughtful. “Was it a man or a lady?”

“A man,” Jane said.

Fitz laid his fork down and reached for his orange juice. “Was he old?”

“He was about forty.” Jane knew that the twins viewed anyone over thirty as being old.

Hem twisted his napkin in his hands. “Are
you
old, Mom?”

Jane knew what Fitz meant. “This man died because of an injury, not because he was forty. Okay? You don't need to worry about the same thing happening to me or to Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius. We're all safe.” She hugged both of her sons. “Come on, I'll drive you to school. We can sing the Broken Arm Bend song all the way there.”

Fitz and Hem thanked Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius for letting them spend the night, gave Muffet Cat a quick scratch behind the ears, and then grabbed their coats and book bags.

“Last one to the car is a rotten egg!” Hem shouted.

“And the first one has to eat it!” Fitz retorted.

Following the boys to the apartment door, Jane cast an exasperated glance over her shoulder. Her aunt and uncle were smiling.

“Longfellow once said, ‘Youth comes but once in a lifetime,' but those two keep me young.” Uncle Aloysius wriggled his toes, making the red mouth of his fish-shaped slippers open and close.

Aunt Octavia swatted her husband. “Quickly, Aloysius. We don't have a moment to lose. You and I need to get dressed and take up positions at the reception desk. As soon as the guests read Jane's letter, they'll want a more detailed explanation. Or worse, a refund. Jane needs to focus on catching a murderer, so you and I must handle the rest.”

Uncle Aloysius grabbed his wife's cane and pointed it in the air. “To battle!”

Muffet Cat, startled by the movement, dashed out from under the sofa and into the hall. He padded to the door leading to the staff stairwell, where he sat on his haunches and meowed.

“Let's go, Muffet Cat.” Jane opened the door. “It's hunting time.”

*   *   *

After dropping the
boys at school, Jane parked in front of the sheriff's department.

She entered the squat stone building, which looked more like an English cottage than a law enforcement hub, carrying a hamper in each hand. The larger basket was for the sheriff and his deputies and the smaller one was for Georgia Dupree. It was Jane's plan to offer food from Storyton Hall's kitchen in exchange for a visit with Georgia.

“Is that a bribe?” Sheriff Evans asked when Jane stepped into his office. “Because if you have buttermilk biscuits in that hamper, I'll probably say yes to anything.”

“I do have biscuits,” Jane said. “And I'd like to spend a few minutes with Ms. Dupree. She's still a guest of Storyton Hall, so I feel responsible for her.”

The sheriff accepted the basket and called to Deputy Emory.

“Show Ms. Dupree to an interview room, but leave the door open a crack and stand outside,” Sheriff Evans told his deputy. “You never know what you might hear.” To Jane, he
said, “Ms. Dupree was not very cooperative last night. Other than insisting she had nothing to do with Mr. Poindexter's death, she refused to talk.”

“She might be telling the truth.” Jane quickly explained her theory that Taylor Birch was the real murderer. “But I have no proof. Yet,” she added. “With Ms. Dupree's help, I might be able to get something more concrete.
If
she's willing to speak with me, that is.”

The sheriff opened the hamper. “She turned her nose up at our breakfast, so if she's hungry enough, she might be willing to chat. See if you can find out why she wrote Mr. Poindexter a check for five thousand dollars. It was found in his tux jacket.”

Filing the detail away for later, Jane said, “I'll do my best.”

A night in the sheriff's holding cell hadn't improved Georgia's prickly disposition, but when Jane offered her an egg and cheese biscuit, Georgia managed to grumble a soft, “Thank you.”

“I also have hot, strong coffee,” Jane said, placing the thermos and a container of cream on the table. She waited while Georgia served herself.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Georgia cast a suspicious glance at Jane.

Jane leaned in. “Because I don't think you killed Nigel. However, the rest of the story you told me last night was made up of partial truths. To catch the real murderer, I need to know everything.”

Instead of replying, Georgia unwrapped her biscuit and placed a paper napkin on her lap. Jane decided to let her eat while she continued to talk.

“Nigel was supposed to meet you, but when you showed up in the parlor, he was dead and his laptop was gone.” Jane dug into the hamper and came out with a Tupperware container filled with cut strawberries. “I'm not sure why his computer mattered to you. Nigel undoubtedly kept backups of every file he created, so the only conclusion I can draw is that you wanted a current file—something that was generated during the Romancing the Reader event. Am I getting warm?”

Georgia, who'd devoured the biscuit as though she hadn't
eaten in days, wiped her mouth with her napkin and sat back in her chair. “Nigel and I were going to work together. He spent many hours in my room, and whenever I was free, he and I would add to the outline we were creating for the next Eros book. Nigel's an incredible writer, but he got it all wrong with Eros. He was sick of writing Venus Dares and wanted to use a male voice for a change, but his protagonist was a pig. I told him exactly how to rework the first book and shared my ideas for the second. He loved them.” Georgia's eyes shone. “We were both really excited about the future. The plan was for me to continue writing my Regency novels while Nigel and I penned the Eros series together.”

“How?” Jane asked. “
Eros Steals the Bride
will be published under Rosamund's name.”

“And mine.” Georgia's predatory smile surfaced. “As soon as I heard about Rosamund's death, I called my agent, and
she
talked with Rosamund's editor later that same day. My agent told Rosamund's editor that not only had
Eros Steals the Bride
been poorly received by the readers at Storyton Hall, but that I could fix it and continue writing the series for them. It was practically a done deal. All I had to do was e-mail a proposal to Heartfire. Nigel and I wrote one that afternoon, and Rosamund's editor loved it.”

Jane was repulsed by how quickly Georgia had taken advantage of Rosamund's demise. “How could you trust a man who poisoned his current partner?”

“Because I had the upper hand. He needed me,” Georgia explained reasonably. “Nigel was going to end up facing consequences for what he'd done to Rosamund eventually. And while he could continue to write from the comfort of his jail cell, he was going to need me to handle everything else for us when it came to the Eros series. So I agreed to help him in the short term in order to reap the benefits in the long run. It was worth the risk. If Rosamund's editor hadn't fallen in love with our proposal, I would have simply called the sheriff and told him Nigel was in my room. But she did love it, so I decided to keep him hidden.”

“Nigel obviously needed his tuxedo so he could blend in
with the other men at the ball, but what were his plans after that? Was he going to flee Storyton?”

“He said that he'd arranged for transportation,” Georgia said. “I didn't want to hear the details, so I didn't ask. Hiding him in my room was enough of a risk.”

“Did you know that Nigel danced with Lily Jamison, the assistant editor from Heartfire?” Jane asked casually. “I saw them toward the end of the song and, from what I could see, he had a great deal to say to her.”

Georgia's eyes darkened with anger. “He was
dancing
? He was supposed to sneak out of my room once the ball was underway and meet me in the parlor with his computer. That's what we agreed on.”

“I think Nigel Poindexter deceived you from the get-go.” Jane opened the Tupperware lid and inhaled the perfume of ripe strawberries. “Maybe killing Rosamund wasn't an accident. Maybe that was just one of the many lies he told you.”

When Georgia didn't answer, Jane popped one of the strawberries in her mouth and chewed. “Hm,” she moaned softly.

Georgia made a “give me” gesture and Jane slid the strawberries across the table. “Rosamund wasn't poisoned during the truffle workshop,” Georgia said after eating three strawberries. “Nigel gave her a small box of truffles when they met for lunch. He bought them at the village market that morning. Nigel knew Rosamund tended to eat sweets when she was upset, so he made sure she was plenty upset during their meal. By the time she got to the truffle workshop, she'd already ingested all four truffles.”

“How many castor seeds did he use?”

“Two. He chopped them up in his bathroom and pushed the pieces inside using a pair of tweezers. Then, he dipped his finger in hot water, smoothed over the chocolate layer, and put them back in the box. It was a clever plan.”

Jane couldn't contain her surprise. “Two seeds? That's all it took?”

“Don't you get it? He only wanted to make her suffer. Why else would he tell me exactly what he did? He never set out to
kill her.” Georgia licked strawberry juice from the tip of her thumb.

Jane suppressed a grimace. She was almost done with Georgia Dupree, but she had one more question to ask before she left. “Who else would want Nigel's computer?”

Georgia was about to shrug again. She lifted her shoulders halfway, her mouth set in an obstinate line, but then her eyes flew open wide. “Rosamund's publicist! What's her name?
She
must have discovered that Rosamund was a fake too. Boy, I bet that made her really mad. There she is, taking care of Rosamund's e-mails and social media sites, as well as fetching lattes and polishing shoes, only to discover that her boss is nothing but a pretty face.” She barked out a laugh. “Oh, that must have stung! All these publicists want the same thing, you know—to
be
the woman they're working for. So how could what's-her-name
be
Rosamund? By getting her hands on Nigel's computer. Just because Rosamund was dead didn't mean her writing had to die with her. If the publicist claimed that she had access to unpublished Venus Dares manuscripts, she could pass them off to Heartfire as the work of Rosamund York. She'd gain the attention of all the right people.”

“But Taylor could only succeed if she silenced Nigel,” Jane said under her breath.

“You need to find that girl!” Georgia shouted imperiously. “I want that computer!”

Jane got to her feet and picked up the hamper. “Why weren't you this forthright last night? You could have saved us a heap of trouble.”

“I didn't think you could help me, but I've since changed my mind. You and your staff are my best shot at getting copies of the material Nigel and I created together. Find that girl so I can get out of here.”

At that moment, Sheriff Evans entered the room. “That won't be happening anytime soon, Ms. Dupree. You harbored a fugitive.”

“A minor crime compared to murder,” Georgia scoffed. “I should be given a stern warning and released.”

Sheriff Evan sat down at the table and waved at Deputy Emory to take the chair in the corner of the room. “Now that you've breakfasted, you can provide me with a complete statement.”

Seeing that her visit was over, Jane thanked the sheriff and left the station.

Outside, her steps faltered. At the end of the path, a man was leaning against the garden gate. He had his arms crossed over his chest and seemed to be waiting for someone.

It was Edwin Alcott.

And Jane knew that he was waiting for her.

“I was heading to the Pickled Pig when I saw you go into the station,” Edwin said when Jane reached the end of the path. “Has Mr. Poindexter been found?”

Jane was assaulted by such a tumult of emotions that she could barely speak. Outrage battled with humiliation and she found that she was unable to look Edwin in the face. She experienced another sensation as well—a knife-twist ache deep in her chest. She was familiar with the pain and recognized it for what it was. Grief. She was mourning the loss of something that wasn't even real. The thought of Edwin's deception allowed her simmering anger to take control, but she masked her feelings and met his gaze straight on.

Looking into his dark eyes, she tightened her grip on the hampers and said, “Mr. Poindexter is no longer missing. I discovered his body late last night. The news will sweep through the village by lunchtime, so there's no harm in telling you.” Glancing down Main Street, which was just starting to show signs of activity, she started forward. “I'd better go. Storyton Hall is probably in a state of chaos.”

Edwin grabbed her arm. “Let me help you.”

Jane wanted to slap his hand away. Instead, she shook her
head. “You can't. My plan to entrap the murderer will only succeed if the killer feels safe. Any unusual component, such as your presence, could jeopardize my chance of bringing an end to a week tainted by violence and deceit.”

Jane wondered if the latter word would elicit a reaction from Edwin, but he merely stared at her with a worried expression. Brushing a strand of hair off her cheek, he let his fingertips linger on her cold skin. And then, he dropped his hand and something in his expression shifted. “Just know that I'd do anything for you,” he said. “Call, and I'll come running.”

So you can poke around Storyton Hall when I'm too busy dealing with a murderer to notice
? Jane thought, her ire rising.

“I have to go,” she repeated and twisted free of his grasp. As she hurried to the Rolls, she could feel his gaze on her back. Once, the thought of him watching her would have flooded her body with warmth. But no longer. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms and neck.

“Tell me one thing,” Edwin called after her. “The card that came with your Valentine's Day flowers. Did you open it?”

Jane thought of the bouquet of red poppies she'd left at the reception desk. She'd never bothered to read the card.

After opening the car door, she turned to face him. “Not yet. I've been too preoccupied with murder to concentrate on romance.” And with that, she slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

As she drove off, Jane glanced at her rearview mirror. Edwin stood alone on the sidewalk, staring at the Rolls. Even when he was no longer visible, Jane could feel him thinking about her.

Approaching Broken Arm Bend, she recalled a line from a German poet named Heinrich Heine. “‘Oh, what lies lurk in kisses,'” she quoted angrily and then sighed. “I'll miss Edwin Alcott's kiss. We only shared one, but it was unforgettable.”

Back at Storyton Hall, Sterling was waiting for her in the garage. His face was drawn with fatigue.

“Did you get any sleep?” Jane asked him.

He shrugged. “I'm fine. More importantly, I know where Ms. Birch spent the night. Seeing as the man is one of my drivers, I thought I should tell you myself.”

“Ms. Birch was with a
staff member
?” Jane couldn't hide her astonishment. She assumed that Taylor, an attractive young woman in a hotel filled with older matrons, would try to seduce one of the male cover models. Not only that, but Storyton Hall employees knew that fraternizing with a guest would lead to immediate dismissal. With the exception of the housekeepers or members of the waitstaff delivering room service, employees were not permitted to enter a guest's room. And they were strictly forbidden to invite guests back to one of the tiny staff cottages spread across Storyton's grounds.

“Who is this person and where is he now?” Jane demanded.

“Glenn. He's our newest driver and has been an excellent addition to our team. Until now.” Sterling frowned. “He's in the staff kitchen. It's best that you speak with him there. If you make an appearance in any of our public areas, you'll be swarmed by hysterical guests.”

Jane shut her eyes for a moment. “Is it that bad?”

“Your aunt and uncle are managing the situation, but a number of guests have expressed their desire to check out.”

The sense of urgency Jane felt last night returned full force. “While I'm speaking with Glenn, please find Lily Jamison and bring her to the kitchens.”

As they walked from the garage to the main house, Jane shared her plan. It was met with Sterling's approval and he promised to pass along the details to the rest of the Fins.

In the staff kitchen, Jane found Glenn sitting at the scrubbed wood table. His shoulders were slumped and his gaze was fixed on his folded hands.

When Jane entered, he bolted to his feet. “Ma'am, I'm so sorry! I had no idea—”

“Sit,” Jane commanded tersely. “When did Ms. Birch first make overtures toward you?”

Glenn blinked. “Overtures?” And then, comprehension dawned on his face. “No, no, it wasn't like that. I drove her into the village yesterday. On the way, she told me she was scared of being alone in Storyton Hall. She believed that the man who'd gone missing, Mr. Poindexter, would come after her the first chance he could. She was headed to the
hardware store to buy a can of pepper spray. We'd just crossed the bridge when I explained that none of our shops sold pepper spray. That's when she started to cry.”

Jane studied Glenn. He was reed-thin with a kind, homely face and couldn't be a day over twenty-five.

No wonder he was moved by Taylor's performance,
Jane thought with a touch of sympathy.

“What happened next?” she asked.

“I didn't know what to do, so I pulled into the Cheshire Cat lot to see if Ms. Birch needed some fresh air. When she tried to get out of the car, she fainted. Luckily, I was able to catch her.” Glenn's eyes went glassy as he was swept up by the memory.

Jane nodded. “Lucky indeed. Go on.”

“When she came to, she begged me to sit with her until she felt better. I would never have done that except I was worried she might faint again. She didn't look right, ma'am. She was awfully pale.” He raised his hands in a show of helplessness. “She talked for a long time and I listened. She said she was desperate for a place to sleep that night—a place where Mr. Poindexter couldn't find her. I told her to speak with the sheriff, but she said she had to stay silent to protect an innocent person.”

What a load of crap
, Jane thought, but made an encouraging noise.

“I told her she could stay at my place,” Glenn said and then hurriedly added, “alone. I'd bunk with another staff member.” He looked at Jane with a plaintive expression. “I didn't think I was doing anything bad, so I promised to show Ms. Birch to my cottage before the ball ended. I'd let her in, and she'd leave the key under the mat the next morning.”

Jane's gears were turning swiftly. “What time did you escort her to your cottage?”

“Ten thirty or so. We used a staff corridor so no one would see us together.” Glenn's cheeks reddened. “I thought I was doing the right thing, even though I was breaking the rules.”

Jane made a noncommittal noise. “Do you remember what she was wearing?”

“Her dress was dark blue. And she wore long gloves.”

“Did she have a cloak?”

“Yes, ma'am. She wore a dark cloak with a hood. I thought she'd freeze to death walking to my place. I unlocked my door and she went inside. She put one of our plastic laundry bags on the sofa—I guess she brought a change of clothes—and said good night. When I went back this morning, she was gone. No note or anything.” Jane heard the disappointment in Glenn's voice. He'd rescued the damsel in distress and had nothing to show for it. In fact, he expected to lose his job as a result.

Jane put a hand on Glenn's shoulder. “You made several poor decisions, but you did so out of kindness. I'd like to give you another chance to prove that you're worthy of wearing Storyton's blue and gold.”

“I'll do anything, ma'am!”

“Good,” Jane said. “Listen closely.”

*   *   *

After making sure
that Glenn was primed for his minor role in her plan, Jane invited Lily Jamison into the staff kitchen. Over cups of rooibos tea, she told Lily why they needed to take Taylor Birch down. And then she explained how this could be accomplished. As Jane spoke, Lily's expression went from shock to horror to indignation.

Jane finished by saying, “Her fate is in your hands, Ms. Jamison. Are you willing to sit next to a murderer, lie to her, and trick her into incriminating herself?”

Lily was silent for a long moment. “Yes. I want her to be punished for what she did. Not only did she commit murder to get ahead, but she also robbed the world of a talented storyteller. Even if Rosamund York was a partnership between Nigel and a woman named Rosie Yates, the books they created gave people hours and hours of reading pleasure. The sudden end of those stories is a great loss.” She raised her cup. “Count me in.”

She and Jane clinked rims, finished their tea, and then parted ways.

Jane took the staff passageway to the Isak Dinesen Safari Room, where she found Sinclair and Lachlan rearranging furniture.

“I believe this will work,” Sinclair told Jane with a twinkle of pride.

He and Lachlan unfolded a black lacquered screen painted to resemble a scene from an Ancient Egyptian tomb. A pharaoh stood in the bow of a skiff, ready to spear one of the fish or waterfowl clustered around his boat. The screen, which was nine feet tall, completely obscured a side table and two chairs when unfolded.

To complete the tableau, Lachlan moved a large potted fern from the other corner of the room and placed it in front of the screen. Sinclair positioned a tilt-top table next to the plant and stacked a pile of Egyptian-themed books on its surface. Both men were satisfied with the results.

“Sheriff Evans has arrived,” Sinclair said after glancing at his phone. “Mr. Butterworth is bringing him in through the staff entrance. He'll be in the public hallway for a few minutes, but Glenn has already pulled Ms. Birch aside. He's playing his part by promising to get her out of Storyton Hall after lunch.”

“Mr. Sterling is searching Glenn's cottage for traces of Ms. Birch's cloak and gloves, and I thought I'd offer my assistance,” Lachlan said to Jane. “Unless you need me here.”

Jane shook her head. “Sinclair and Butterworth will be more than happy to intercede should Ms. Birch made a run for it. The sheriff's deputies will also be in cruisers out back, waiting on the sheriff's orders. Finding that cloak is crucial, so search as quickly and meticulously as you can.”

Lachlan made to leave, but Jane stepped in front of him. “Later, after Ms. Birch is safely in the sheriff's custody, I'd like to know why you're receiving shipments of frozen chicks.”

Though Lachlan's composure never faltered, a shadow flitted across his handsome face. “Fair enough, Miss Jane,” he murmured deferentially and left.

At that moment, Sheriff Evans entered the Safari Room. He glanced at the African tribal masks, Aboriginal shields,
mounted animal heads, and primitive weaponry decorating the walls. His gaze traveled over the zebra-print chairs and leather sofas to the massive fireplace.

“Now,
this
is my kind of room,” he declared appreciatively. “A place where a man might read the sports page in peace.”

Despite her nervousness, Jane smiled. The room certainly had a masculine appeal. It smelled pleasantly of aftershave and wood smoke as countless men had visited the space to play cards or savor glasses of brandy after dinner. Few women chose to read in the Safari Room. Like Jane, most of them felt uncomfortable around hunting trophies.

“Our stakeout location.” Jane gestured at the lacquer screen.

Sheriff Evans peered behind the screen and nodded in approval. “Clever.”

He and Jane took their seats. The sheriff sat closest to the gap between the screen and the bookcase, ready to spring into action should Taylor threaten Lily's person. Sinclair closed the gap by repositioning the screen and left the room.

Sheriff Evans placed a recording device on the table. He pressed the record button and gave Jane a thumbs-up sign.

Jane managed a nervous nod and laced her clammy hands together. In a few minutes, Lily and Taylor would enter the room. If all went well, Sheriff Evans would leave Storyton Hall with a murderer in custody. But theirs was a game of chance. Anything could go wrong.

The room filled with the steady ticking of the grandfather clock on the opposite wall and, much more faintly, the noise of guests moving up and down the hallway. Amid these soft sounds, Jane wouldn't be surprised if Sheriff Evans could hear the pounding of her anxious heart.

Someone entered the room and sat in one of the zebra-print chairs on the other side of the screen. Lily Jamison cleared her throat and whispered, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Jane whispered back.

There was a distinct rustle of a newspaper and Jane imagined Lily doing her best to appear captivated by an article on the skyrocketing costs of snow removal or highlights of the week's basketball games.

“Ms. Jamison?” Taylor's voice floated across the room from the threshold.

Lily's chair creaked softly as she shifted her weight. “Yes. Come join me.”

Jane held her breath as Taylor crossed the hemp rug.

“It's
such
a pleasure to meet you,” Taylor said. “Ms. York spoke so highly of everyone at Heartfire, and since I handled a great deal of her communication, I feel like I already know you.”