Murder in the Paperback Parlor (25 page)

“This looks like . . . No, it couldn't be.” But the more Jane stared at the page in its Plexiglas coffin, the more she believed she knew what was sitting on her desk.

Doing her best to keep calm, Jane called Sinclair and asked him to come to her office.

At the sound of his knock, she ushered him in, locked the door, and pointed at her desk. Sinclair's eyes went right to the manuscript page.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say that was a page from a Gutenberg Bible,” he said.

Jane nodded. “Edwin sent it.”

Sinclair couldn't conceal his surprise. Tugging his bow tie, he read Edwin's note. His gaze then returned to the manuscript.

Jane told Sinclair why Edwin had supposedly left Storyton. “If Edwin set off on this so-called mission, then he must have realized I'd discovered that he was a book thief. I
was
rather cold to him when we last met . . .” Jane looked at Sinclair. “I wonder he if went abroad to retrieve this page. Do we even have a Gutenberg Bible? And if so, is ours incomplete?”

“Many of them are,” Sinclair said. “Throughout history, pages have been cut from the bound books and sold for over a hundred thousand dollars apiece on the black market. The more illumination, the greater the value. There are twenty-two known copies of this forty-two line Bible. It was printed using movable type by Johannes Gutenberg in the 1450s. It marked the true birth of books. Books for the masses, not just the few. Knowledge could be shared. Stories that had been purely word-of-mouth would be captured for posterity. It was a golden moment in time. And yes, we have a copy.”

“Is ours missing pages?”

Sinclair nodded. “Several.”

“Shall we go up and see if this is one of them?” Jane touched the corner of the Plexiglas. “Because if this came from our Bible, then Edwin Alcott knows more about our holdings than I do. It also means that we may have misjudged him.”

Sinclair put the Plexiglas back in the wood box. “Let's find out.”

Minutes later, after providing Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia with a brief explanation, Jane and Sinclair ascended the narrow spiral staircase to the tower room. They both pulled on white gloves and then Jane impatiently waited for Sinclair to retrieve the Bible from a deep drawer.

The book was kept in a custom cradle, and Sinclair placed it on the table and began to gingerly turn the ancient pages. After what felt like eons to Jane, he said, “The sheaf Edwin sent is from Song of Solomon. It's one of my favorite books of Scripture.”

Jane didn't reply. Her mind was a whirlwind of questions. How had Edwin known about their Bible? How had he retrieved this page? What story would he tell her when he returned to Storyton?

Sinclair closed his eyes and sighed. The sound brought Jane back to the present. “‘Arise, my love, my fair one, and come thy way,'” Sinclair quoted, his voice melodious and serene. “‘For behold, winter is past: the rain is changed, and is gone away.'”

“Does the page belong to this Bible?” Jane whispered.

Sinclair opened his eyes and smiled. “Yes, Miss Jane. To
paraphrase Mr. Alcott, what was damaged can be restored. We're still missing pages, but the Song of Solomon is now complete. I don't know how he came to be in possession of this page, but he has done us a great service.”

Jane glanced at all the airtight drawers and decided that it was high time for her to review the conditions accompanying each acquisition. Surely, some of these priceless treasures could be shared. There had to be a statue of limitations to the promises made by previous Guardians.

“Their stories are our stories,” she quietly spoke the motto branded on every guest room key fob and carved into both sides of the massive gates at the end of Storyton Hall's driveway.

Sinclair nodded. “Mr. Gutenberg would agree.” Touching the Bible with reverence, he added, “I'm going to share this unexpected windfall with your aunt and uncle. I believe it might improve their opinion of Mr. Alcott. At the very least, it might raise doubts about this particular book thief's reasons for doing what he does.”

Jane left Sinclair with her aunt and uncle. She wanted to be alone to process what had just happened, so she grabbed her coat from her office and headed outside to Milton's gardens. She was so absorbed in thoughts, images, and memories of Edwin, which swirled around in her mind like glitter in a snow globe, that she didn't pay attention to where her feet were taking her.

Rounding a bend in the path, she came to the arbor where Rosamund York's life had ebbed away. Jane sat on the far end of the bench. Her eyes scanned the colorless garden until they settled on a cluster of snowdrops growing at the base of the arbor.

The bell-shaped flowers filled Jane with a sudden rush of joy. The afternoon was mild and the late-winter sun felt glorious on her skin. She sat quietly and dreamed of spring. Of cerulean skies, of guests strolling down garden paths, of the whoosh of falcon wings.

After several peaceful minutes, Jane plucked one of the tiny snowdrops and placed it on the bench where Rosamund's
head had rested. Jane remembered standing in the rain on that early morning. She remembered watching the paramedics wheel Rosamund's body away. She remembered feeling that all was lost.

“‘Winter is past,'” she whispered, repeating the Song of Solomon verse Sinclair had spoken earlier. “‘The rain is changed, and is gone away.'”

As if responding to the words, more sunlight washed over the garden, brightening the darkest of shadows. The white snowdrops glowed like brides.

Jane smiled. She knew the warmth seeping into the nooks and crevices of her heart didn't come from the sun alone. It was the warmth of hope. Hope for the future of Storyton Hall. And the hope, as lovely and fragile as the fragile blossoms at her feet, that she would dance again.

Next time, Jane decided, there would be no music. There would be no candlelight. There would be no witnesses. There would be an exchange of truths. The secrets that she and Edwin kept must be shared. Only then could Jane step into Edwin's embrace and trust him to lead her in a slow waltz beneath the stars.

Jane took one last look at the snowdrops and thought of a line of poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke. “Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.”

Glancing up at Storyton Hall, Jane saw poetry in every brick, in every winking window. She raised her eyes to the attic turret and silently recited their motto—
Their Stories Are Our Stories
—as though she were making a solemn oath. Which, of course, she was. She would share the stories that had been secreted away for far too long.

Finally, she turned and headed for home. She planned to fix herself a cup of lemon-ginger tea and pick a book from the stack on her coffee table. It didn't matter which title she chose, every book had something unique to offer. They were memories she'd yet to make. Worlds she'd yet to discover. Friends she'd yet to meet. And she was looking forward to making their
acquaintance.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for spending time with Jane Steward, her family, the quirky merchants of Storyton Village, and the devoted staff of Storyton Hall. Jane and company will return in the summer of 2016 with the next installment in the Book Retreat Mysteries.

Until you're able to visit Storyton Hall again, I'd like to recommend another book-loving, mystery-solving ensemble. Olivia Limoges and her friends, the Bayside Book Writers, live in the quaint coastal town of Oyster Bay, North Carolina, and are deeply devoted to the written word.

In the next installment of the Books by the Bay Mysteries,
Writing All Wrongs
, Olivia Limoges and Sawyer Rawlings head to Palmetto Island to enjoy a brief honeymoon. The rest of the Bayside Book Writers, who arrive on the mysterious island to attend the Coastal Crime Festival, soon join them. The five friends expect to engage in crime-related events but when someone starts bringing famous local ghost stories to life, the writers soon realize that someone on the island is bent on murder, and if they don't catch the killer, they could be writing their last words.

For a taste of what's in store for Olivia and the Bayside Book Writers in
Writing All Wrongs
, coming November 2015 from Berkley Prime Crime, please turn the page for a special preview.

As always, thank you for supporting traditional mysteries.

Yours,

Ellery
Adams

Marriage—a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters in prose.

—
BEVERLEY NICHOLS

“No one ever told me that marriage was murder,” Olivia Limoges complained while pouring cream into her coffee.

Dixie Weaver, Olivia's longtime friend and proprietor of Grumpy's Diner, put her hand on her hip and smirked. “You haven't been married long enough to be comparin' the holy state of matrimony to a capital offense.” She pursed her lips, which glistened with frosted pink gloss. “It's only been three months. What could be wrong?”

“Me. I'm what's wrong.” Olivia stirred her spoon around and around, creating little whirlpools in the mug. “I've lived by myself all my life, Dixie. And though the chief and I spent a great deal of time together before we were married, he often slept at his house so he'd be close to the station. He kept things at my house—clothes and toiletries—but now his stuff is
everywhere
. It multiplies when I'm not watching, I swear.”

Dixie shot a quick glance around the dining room. Her customers were either eating or chatting amiably over cups of coffee and no one appeared to need her. “What did you think would happen? That he'd go on livin' out of a drawer? The man's your husband now, 'Livia.”

Olivia shook her head in exasperation. “That's not the problem. It's not about his things or the way he leaves globs of toothpaste in the sink. It's not about how he snores like a freight train when he sleeps on his back or how he'll finish the milk, but won't add it to the shopping list. I can handle that stuff. It's having him around all the time that's hard. I'm not used to having someone around
all
the time. Only Haviland.” She looked down at her standard poodle with affection and he gazed up at her, his caramel brown eyes smiling.

Dixie gave the poodle's neck a fond pat. “You can't hold the chief up to Captain Haviland's standards. The poor guy is only human. And a damned fine human at that.”

“I know.” Olivia's voice crackled with anger. “He's a far better person than I am. He has no idea why I've been so moody. I'd just love to have my house to myself for a few days. Is that so strange?”

Dixie frowned. “Do you want your house to yourself? Or your life to yourself? 'Cause that's how this works. You're either together or you're not. You need to figure this out, hon. Aren't you headin' out on your delayed honeymoon in two days?”

Olivia nodded.

Dixie pointed at the television set mounted high behind the counter. Permanently tuned to The Weather Channel, the television's volume was muted, but the screen was visible from most of the Andrew Lloyd Webber–themed booths. The locals were always interested in the forecast. This was especially true for the fishermen, dockhands, and day laborers who filled the diner before the sun had risen. They'd order Grumpy's early-bird special—a hearty breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and hash browns—and drink cups of black coffee while watching the forecast. The tourists liked to keep tabs on the weather too. They'd plan their days based on what they saw while savoring Grumpy's maple pecan pancakes or three-cheese omelets.

“You're still leavin' on Tuesday?” Dixie asked. “Even though the tropical storm will hit Palmetto Island tonight?”

Olivia shrugged. “Rose is a category-two storm. I'm not
discounting its potential for making a mess, but even if Palmetto Island loses power, which is quite likely, we'll be fine. We'll do jigsaw puzzles, read by lantern light, and sit out on the deck with glasses of wine. If we want to have a honeymoon before the rest of the Bayside Book Writers join us, then we need to check into our rental house as scheduled.”

A customer in the
Evita
booth signaled Dixie. She nodded in acknowledgment and then wagged her finger in warning at Olivia. “If there's trouble in paradise before the honeymoon, then this trip could make things worse. You'd best not pack your problems in your suitcase.”

Having delivered her advice, Dixie skated across the linoleum floor. When she reached the
Evita
booth, she executed a graceful one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, causing her diaphanous tutu to float around her legs like a surfacing jellyfish, and handed her bemused customer the check.

After that, Dixie cruised around the dining room refilling coffee cups, clearing dirty plates, and collecting credit cards. Olivia watched her pensively. Even with the extra height lent by her roller skates and her blond hair, which had been sprayed into place until it resembled a shellacked soft-serve cone, Dixie was barely five feet tall. For someone with diminutive stature, her personality was large and loud. She spoke her mind without fear of consequence, and Olivia had always found that to be one of Dixie's most admirable qualities.

“She's right, Haviland. I need to deal with my issues before we leave. If not, our honeymoon will feel like a prison sentence.”

*   *   *

“Have you seen
the storm footage?” Rawlings asked Olivia later that night. “Rose is raging up the Cape Fear River. How do you think our rental house weathered the high winds?”

Olivia speared a piece of flounder and swirled it around the puddle of butter, lemon juice, and fresh dill on her plate. “It's probably seen worse. Hurricanes Floyd and Isabel, for example. Still, I can get by without electricity for a day or two.”

Rawlings laughed. “I can't picture you eating pork and beans out of a can.”

“As long as we can heat up grits in the morning and soup or pasta for lunch and supper, we won't suffer.” She examined the food on her plate. “I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask one of the sous chefs at the Boot Top Bistro to pack us a hamper.”

“There you go again.” Rawlings made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Abusing your power.”

“Me?” Olivia poked Rawlings with her fork. “What about you? Taking a vacation week before the season's officially over.”

Rawlings studied the back of his hand with exaggerated concern. “It's September. Things are calm now that the season's over. Sure, they'll be a few more drunk and disorderlies and a scattering of reckless driving citations, but in another two weeks, things will be quiet, verging on dull.”

Maybe that's my problem
, Olivia thought.
I've been involved in so many of Rawlings's cases—the serious and scary ones. Maybe I don't know how to be with him when things are peaceful.

“Where did you go just now?” Rawlings asked, calling Olivia back to the moment.

“I'm afraid I've been analyzing us,” Olivia confessed. “I've been wondering why I've been restless since we exchanged vows. After all, you're the anchor I was looking for—the person I needed to save me from drifting. So why do I feel like cutting the mooring line? Just for a day or two?”

Such candor would have rankled other men, but not Rawlings. He gave Olivia a warm smile and covered her hand with his. “You're not the only one having trouble adjusting. I haven't put my house on the market, have I? I like to go over there and putter around. I only like to paint in that garage. The lighting's crap, the floors are hard, and it's cold as a meat locker. But it's my space. I've used every tool on the pegboard, built furniture on that workbench, and spent endless hours trying to turn a blank canvas into art. I can block out the world there.”

“I guess this whole house has been my garage,” Olivia said.

Rawlings nodded. “And now, I'm here. Every night. Every morning. You've lost your garage moments—that
time when no one's watching. That's when you spill coffee all over your shirt and don't bother changing. Or sing along to some cheesy rock ballad at the top of your lungs. Or eat junk food like a varsity football player. Garage time.”

Olivia grinned. “You haven't had much of that lately either.”

“I know. I felt like I was supposed to be here. With you.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “But we're both accustomed to time to ourselves, so let's take it when we need it. When we get back from our trip, we'll figure out how to do that.”

“Okay,” Olivia said, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. “Have you thought about what you want to pack?”

“A little. The whole station thinks we're nuts to combine a honeymoon with the Coastal Crime Fest, but what do they know? Stories, the seaside, and crime? They're the constants of my life.” After pouring more white wine into Olivia's glass, he added a splash to his own. “The guys hassled me most about our spending part of the week with the Bayside Book Writers.”

Olivia arched a brow. “What's wrong with that?”

“They think it's weird that we're not planning on spending the week in bed.”

“That's because most of them are twenty years younger than us.” Olivia scoffed. “Did you mention that we're bringing a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle along?”

Rawlings wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I omitted that detail. In order to maintain my manly man status, I focused on pirate reenactments and the fact that Silas Black would be on the island scouting locations for his hit TV series. When they heard Mr. Black was the headliner at the crime festival, they stopped giving me grief and begged me to get paraphernalia from his show—preferably autographed.”

“Harris is ecstatic over the idea of rubbing shoulders with Silas Black. He's read all of his novels and is a huge fan of his show. What's it called again?”

“
No Quarter
,” Rawlings said. “You and I might be the only people in Oyster Bay who aren't parked in front of the television from nine to ten every Sunday night. It's all anyone talks about at the station on Monday mornings.”

Olivia cleared their dishes and began to rinse them in the sink. “I'm not surprised. After all, the series was partially filmed in New Bern and Ocracoke. Personally, I'm for it because the film industry stimulates the local economy.” She paused in the act of loading a plate into the dishwasher. “However, I read something in the
Gazette
several months ago about the liberties Mr. Black has taken with our region's history.” She tried to remember the details. “Something about how vicious he made the pirates. And there was criticism about his use of violence—that he crossed a line with his graphic rape and torture scenes.”

“Sounds like the majority of the programs on the premium cable channels.”

“That's why I stick to
Masterpiece Theatre
,” Olivia said.

Rawlings took Olivia's place at the sink. This was a nightly ritual. Olivia handled the dishes while Rawlings cleaned the pots and pans. “According to water-cooler gossip, Mr. Black is attempting to ingratiate himself with the inhabitants of Palmetto Island by financing the recovery of a shipwreck near Frying Pan Shoals. Apparently, the tropical storm preceding Rose carried the ship into shallower waters. Mr. Black hoped it would be a schooner from North Carolina's golden years of piracy, but it's a Civil War blockade-runner.”

Olivia passed the dishtowel to Rawlings. “So let me get this straight. Not only are we attending the Coastal Crime Fest, but we're also going to be sharing an island with television people, underwater archaeologists, pirate reenactors, novelists, fans of the crime genre, and our friends?”

“Don't forget the conservationists. The Society for the Protection of the Loggerhead Turtle has been protesting a land development proposal for weeks. To raise money for their cause, they're hosting a moonlight march around the island. I think the walk takes place the same night the crime festival starts. The pirates sail in the following day.”

Olivia picked up both wineglasses and pointed her chin toward the back deck. Rawlings opened the door and Haviland shot outside, barking in anticipation. He raced down the stairs
and over the rise of dunes, the sea oats parting as he ran. Olivia drew in a deep breath of salt-laced air, and a breeze tinged with a metallic scent lifted her hair off her forehead.

“I can smell the storm,” she said.

Rawlings stared out over the water, his gaze fixed to the south, where they'd soon be traveling. Eventually, he turned to look at the lighthouse, standing proudly on its bluff. “Not too long from now, we'll be seeing another lighthouse. The oldest in North Carolina.” He smiled wistfully. “I climbed to the top dozens of times when I was a boy. It's what I remember most about the island. That, and the spit of land called Cape Fear. I always thought it was a strange name for a place of such incredible beauty. A place, for those not navigating the dangerous waters surrounding it, that was anything but fearful.”

“Leona showed me some old maps of the island when I stopped by the library last week,” Olivia said. Overhead, a scattering of stars tried unsuccessfully to burn through the cloud cover. Their soft, gauzy light made them look more like pearls than stars.

Not a helpful light. No good for a sailor navigating at night
, Olivia thought. Aloud, she said, “Cape Fear used to be a sharper point. It jutted out into the ocean like a stingray tail. If you stood on its tip, you could see a virtual highway of ships in motion. Leona also showed me the area's shipwreck map. There are tons of wrecks around the island, Sawyer. Schooners, steamers, blockade-runners, fishing trawlers, pleasure boats. The Graveyard of the Atlantic, indeed.”

Olivia watched the waves, which curled onto the shore with a languid murmur, but she knew that within the next twenty-four hours, they would change. The water would surge forward in jagged peaks; sand roiling under its surface; white froth, like the mouths of a thousand rabid animals, crashing against the beach.

“With all those wrecks, it's no wonder our coast has been the source of so many ghost stories,” Rawlings said. “I'm sure we'll hear some choice tales this weekend.”