Murder in the Paperback Parlor (4 page)

Jane walked her sons to the back terrace and kissed them good night before hurrying home to tidy the kitchen and living room.

She'd barely wiped an unidentifiable dried puddle of sticky stuff off the coffee table when the doorbell rang.

“Come in!' Jane called.

Three Cover Girls spilled into her house, trying to escape the bite of the February air. Because all the ladies lived in Storyton Village, they carpooled to their book club meetings. This way, most of them could enjoy whatever themed cocktail Anna Shaw had concocted.

Anna, who worked as an assistant pharmacist, was the first to come inside. She hung her parka on the coat rack by the front door and scooted out of the way to make room for Violet Osborne, the proprietor of Tresses Hair Salon.

“I washed my hair thirty minutes ago and I swear the damp parts froze on the car ride here,” Violet said, carrying a covered dish into the kitchen.

Phoebe Doyle, who ran the Canvas Creamery, an art gallery combined with a frozen custard shop, touched the knit cap covering most of her head. “Our mothers always warned us not to go out in wintertime with wet hair.”

“I'll just sit by the fire until the rest of our party gets here,” Anna said after giving Jane a hug. “It won't take long to mix up our Devilish Duke cocktail.”

“Did someone mention tonight's drink?” asked Betty Carmichael as she stepped into the house and beckoned for Eloise and Mrs. Pratt to hurry up and shut the door. “I could do with something to warm my bones.”

Mrs. Pratt snorted and began unwinding a very long scarf from around her neck. “Why didn't you toss one back at the Cheshire Cat before we picked you up? After all, you own a pub.”

Betty looked appalled. “Bob and I never imbibe during our shifts. It would be unseemly.”

Phoebe shrugged. “I eat my own frozen custard all the time. And I have at least two espresso drinks a day.”

“That's different,” Betty said. “If I made a habit of sampling our wares, I'd end up serving Cosmos to Rufus Hogg and pints of dark ale to Pippa Pendleton.”

Everyone laughed at the thought of the oldest Hogg brother sipping Cosmos.

“Let me near that oven, ladies!” cried Mabel Wimberly, who owned La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique and sewed all of Aunt Octavia's dresses. Though she specialized in clothing for plus-sized woman, she could create garments for people of any size or shape.

Jane followed Mabel to the oven. “What's in the casserole dish?”

“Beef and vegetable ragout,” Mabel said. “It was the duke's favorite meal.”

“We can sop up the extra gravy with my Bath buns.” Phoebe touched the basket she'd set on the counter. “I made them with lots of butter and caraway seeds.”

Mrs. Pratt leaned over, sniffed the basket, and moaned. “Smells delicious. I brought mashed turnips.”

Violet, who wasn't overly fond of vegetables, grimaced. “I made a spiced pear compote.”

“Becky and I thought a cheese board would go nicely with our cocktails,” Eloise said, turning to Anna. “But that might depend on what mysterious concoction we're having. So far, all I know is that it's a lovely shade of pinkish red.”

By this time, Anna had abandoned her seat by the fire to mix and pour drinks into the martini glasses Jane had purchased specifically for the book club meetings. “Fruit, cheese, and crackers will complement my Devilish Duke very nicely. This drink is two ounces of champagne, two ounces of Stoli Strasberi vodka, a few splashes of pineapple juice, and a thimbleful of daiquiri mix. I tried to create a cocktail that represented both the duke and the heroine, Venus Dares.”

“This looks divine!” Mrs. Pratt exclaimed. “Do tonight's toast, Jane, so we can have a sip without further delay.”

Jane raised her glass. “Mark Twain said, ‘There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.'” She picked up her copy of
The Devilish Duke
and smiled. “To forbidden love and rebellious women.”

“Hear, hear!” her friends shouted and drank.

“And to saying farewell to the letter
D
,” Phoebe added.

The Cover Girls, who'd been moving backward through the alphabet for the past two years, spent six to eight weeks on each letter. Voracious readers all, they'd already plowed through Bram Stoker's
Dracula
, Charles Dickens's
David Copperfield,
Veronica Roth's
Divergent
, Anne McCaffrey's
Dragonsinger
, and
Don Quixote
by Miguel de Cervantes. Rosamund York's
The Devilish Duke
was the last novel they'd discuss before setting their sights on books beginning with the letter
C
.

Unsurprisingly, the racy Regency romance had been Mrs. Pratt's pick.

“I adored
The Devilish Duke
,” Mrs. Pratt said. “The duke was such a loveable scoundrel. And while it's hardly unusual to find a dark, brooding, and alluring man in a Regency romance, it
is
rare to encounter a female protagonist with as much pluck as Venus Dares.”

Betty headed into the living room and took a seat on the sofa. “Out of curiosity, I did a little research on Ms. York's books.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “In addition to
The Devilish Duke
, she's also written
The Bold Baron
,
The Cunning Count
,
The Naughty Knight
,
The Enticing Earl
,
The Mischievous Marques
s,
The Rakish Royal
, and
The Lusty Lord
. Miss Dares appears in every novel and, according
to the reviews I perused, readers genuinely love Venus. There are over twenty fan websites devoted to her.”

“I don't think many ‘well bred' women in the Regency era spoke their minds as freely as Venus,” Violet said. “They were supposed to be demure—to sit with their ankles crossed, work on their embroidery, and keep their opinions to themselves.”

Mabel rolled her eyes. “How boring. I'm with the rest of Ms. York's fans. I loved Venus. She has her own money, her own sizeable household, expresses radical ideas, and was given an education similar to a nobleman's.”

“Even her name defies convention,” Anna said.

Eloise nodded. “Miss Venus Dares. A surname that doubles as a verb. Venus
dares
to read subversive books, she
dares
to pursue equality for women, and she
dares
to speak her mind to any member of the nobility. And who could forget when she
dared
to enter the duke's bedroom unannounced and caught him in a rather compromising position with a lady from a nearby estate?”

“That was my favorite scene,” Mrs. Pratt whispered, her eyes shining over the memory. “I felt like a voyeur. It was deliciously scandalous. I read that part just before turning in for the night and when I woke up at one in the morning, I couldn't tell if I was having hot flashes or had been dreaming of that scene.”

“You're incorrigible.” Mabel nudged Mrs. Pratt in the side. “Don't ever change.”

Since her friends had drifted into the living room, Jane carried in the cheese board and set it on the coffee table. “I know we're meant to admire Venus, but I sensed a hollowness in her. I read an interesting article in
Romantic Times
about York's famous and much beloved heroine. According to the backstory provided in the first book in the series,
The Bold Baron
, Miss Dares is a specialized matchmaker. She's an upper-class spinster who once suffered a terrible heartbreak and vowed to never marry. Instead, she makes matches among the nobility. Her forte is “taming” the self-proclaimed bachelors. Often these men are gamblers, layabouts, and womanizers. But she finds the right woman—a strong, loving, good woman—to
change their wicked and hedonistic ways. And by the end of each novel, the man has fallen in love with the woman Miss Dares has put in his path. There's a huge wedding, Miss Dares collects a big fee, and the story ends with Miss Dares setting out on an exotic vacation or returning to her estate. She never gets involved with anyone herself, and fiercely guards her independence.”

“She's a romance heroine who doesn't yearn for romance,” Eloise said, looking pensive. “I know we're discussing a work of fiction, but I can't help wonder about Rosamund York's love life.”

“It has to be more exciting than mine!” Anna declared and all the women laughed.

Tantalizing aromas drifted in from the kitchen. Phoebe sniffed, checked her watch, and went to the other room. She placed her rolls on a cookie sheet, and slid the tray into the oven. The scent of buttery bread mingled with that of garlic and roasted meat.

Eloise turned to Mrs. Pratt. “You're our romance aficionado. I bet you know more about Rosamund York than the average reader.”

Mrs. Pratt preened. “It so happens that I do. About five years ago, I attended a fan conference. Ms. York's third book had just been released to rave reviews and soared to the top of
every
bestseller list. She was in attendance at this particular conference to accept an award and disappeared well before the banquet was over. You see, Ms. York is an enigma. Very few details about her personal life are in circulation. Believe me, I've searched the farthest corners of cyberspace.”

Jane could sense Mrs. Pratt's frustration. To a woman who lived for gossip, it must have been terribly irksome to not have access to scintillating rumors about one of her favorite authors. “Maybe her reclusive nature actually helps sell books.”

Mrs. Pratt considered this possibility. “I think she's reclusive for a reason, and though I don't know what that reason is, I bet Georgia Dupree does.”

Violet arched her brows, revealing the sparkly lilac shadow on her eyelids. She always wore a shade of purple somewhere
on her person. Tonight, she was bundled up in a cozy lavender cardigan and had a scarf the color of amethysts wrapped around her neck. “Georgia Dupree's famous too. I see her books all over. Are she and Ms. York friends?”

“I should say not!” Mrs. Pratt nearly shouted. “I happened to share an elevator cab with those two. They didn't even look at each other until everyone else got out. It was only the three of us left, but I was way in the back and I don't think either lady knew I was there.” She paused for dramatic effect.

Mabel nudged her again. “Don't leave us hanging! Get to the point before the meat in the oven turns into leather.”

That was all the encouragement Mrs. Pratt required. “Ms. Dupree turned to Ms. York and said, ‘I am going to show the world what a charlatan you are. And when I'm done, no one will ever buy a novel bearing the name Rosamund York again.'”

“How did Ms. York respond?” Betty asked breathlessly.

“She laughed. Quite derisively, I might add. It made Georgia Dupree furious,” Mrs. Pratt said. “At that moment, we reached Ms. York's floor. The doors opened. And before Ms. Dupree disembarked, she got very close to Ms. York and, in a voice that sounded like an angry hiss, said, ‘So help me, I will take my
rightful
place at the top—even if I have to kill you to do it.' And then, she got out and the doors closed.”

Mrs. Pratt blinked, as though coming out of a daze.

Anna whistled softly. “Both of those writers are coming to Storyton for Romancing the Reader. They'll be under one roof for an entire week.”

“It sounds like things could turn ugly. I hope you placed those two on separate floors,” Phoebe said as Eloise gave Jane's arm a comforting squeeze.

“I gave Rosamund York the best room in the resort.” Jane groaned unhappily. She put her face in her hands and mumbled, “The last thing I need is to stumble upon the dead body of a bestselling author in the Romance and Roses Suite.”

Mrs. Pratt rubbed her hands together in undisguised glee. “This promises to be an exciting seven days. Oh, whoever thinks life in Storyton is uneventful has never attended one of your theme weeks,
Jane!”

The snow began falling soon after the Cover Girls left.

When Jane woke the next morning to the sound of the boys squabbling over which cartoon to watch, the world outside her window was covered with a veil of shimmering white. The pristine snow, lit by the waking sunbeams, winked like polished glass, and since Storyton's guests had yet to venture outside, the lawns and curving paths were undisturbed. All was hushed, save for a few birds flitting among the tree branches. Jane took a long moment to savor the stillness and then went downstairs to restore peace between her sons.

Afterward, she made breakfast and then lounged around in her pajamas, drinking coffee and reading. Just before noon, she called Eloise and told her to wish Edwin luck with his official grand opening.

“Tell him yourself. He's pacing the floor like a caged panther. He looks like one too. His hair's wild and his eyes are dark and ferocious. Don't glare at me, Edwin. It's true.”

There was a scuffling noise on the other end and then Edwin came on the line. “Hello, Jane.”

The way he spoke her name gave Jane a little thrill. “I
just wanted to say break a leg or whatever is said to convey best wishes in the restaurant industry.”

“I'm grateful for the support,” he replied and then paused. “It's good to hear your voice . . . You have the ability to calm people, Jane.”

There it was again. The sound of her name was like a breath of summer wind. Her cheeks growing warm, Jane smiled into the phone. “The café is already a success. I plan on being a regular.”

“I hope so,” Edwin said. “We didn't get the chance to talk much yesterday. I'd like to make that up to you by cooking you a meal after hours one night.”

Jane's heart tripped. “That would be lovely.”

Jane replayed her brief conversation with Edwin many times that day. Fitz and Hem, who caught her staring into space on several occasions, exchanged befuddled glances. Deciding their mother was coming down with something, the boys kept their distance. After a supper of beef stew and cornbread followed by several rounds of Chutes and Ladders—all of which Jane lost—Jane told the twins to get ready for bed and popped her beloved
Pride and Prejudice
DVD out of its case. Catching sight of the cover, which featured Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, the boys groaned and hurried upstairs to read comic books.

When Sunday dawned, the snow was already reduced to semi-translucent patches tucked under bushes or shadowy eaves. The Stewards went to church and shared a large midday meal at Jane's house. That afternoon, Jane and the twins waited for Lachlan to take them to their archery lesson.

During the fall, Sterling had overseen their lessons, but with the onset of the cold weather, his chauffeur duties had kept him too busy. Jane missed chatting with him on the drive to the Robin Hood Range. Lachlan wasn't much on small talk.

“When spring comes and the guests start renting bicycles again, I'll take over for Mr. Lachlan,” Sterling had told her in November. “That'll free Lachlan to focus on your survivalist training.”

Recalling this conversation, Jane frowned. “I can't begin to imagine what that means. Will we have to eat bugs? I don't want to eat bugs. I don't want to practice archery today either. It's freezing. I'd much rather build a nice fire, curl up on the sofa, and read.” Muttering crossly to herself, she pulled on her heaviest wool sweater.

Downstairs, Fitz and Hem were raring to go. The boys, who were never troubled by the cold, had turned their archery lessons into a competition. Hem carried a little notebook in his coat and was secretly keeping score of their shots. At this point, Fitz was more accurate at short distances while Hem had been able to hit a target at sixty meters. Jane was better than both of them, but felt that it was unnecessary to devote much time practicing seeing as she was unlikely to take down an intruder with a bow and arrow.

She'd just zipped up her parka when Lachlan knocked on the door. “Ready?” He smiled the shy smile that enchanted the majority of Storyton's female staff.

“I hope this activity is the stress reliever you promised it to be,” Jane said while gesturing at the twins to hop into the cargo bed of the ATV. “With hundreds of guests descending on the resort tomorrow, my mind is all over the place.”

“You'll have to focus so intently that everything else will fade away,” Lachlan said. He waited for Jane to climb into the passenger seat and then handed her a thermos. “Very hot, very strong coffee. I wouldn't drink it now. You could burn yourself if we hit a bump.”

Jane had no doubt of that. Unlike Sterling, who drove the Gator at a steady pace, Lachlan pushed the vehicle to its maximum speed. He seemed to revel in the bouncy ride. The twins did too. Channeling King Kong or Tarzan, they clung to the Gator's metal frame and howled wildly.

Lachlan rarely spoke during the trip to the range. His sea blue eyes stared straight ahead and a lock of his brown hair flapped over his knit cap like a sparrow's wing. Jane shot him a sidelong glance just as a ray of sun lit the lock, burnishing it reddish gold.

“Were you a redhead when you were little?” she asked, holding on for dear life as he accelerated around a bend in the path.

Lachlan nodded. “I was.”

“Do you have brothers?” Fitz asked. “Did they have red hair too?”

Lachlan braked in front of the archery shed and turned to Fitz. “It's just me and my parents now. But when I was in the army, I had dozens of brothers.” A shadow of pain appeared in his eyes and he quickly glanced away. “Let's get our gear. Today's lesson is going to be challenging.”

For the first thirty minutes of the lesson, Lachlan had them each remove an arrow from their quiver, nock it as quickly as possible, and pull back their bowstrings as though they meant to fire. However, they weren't allowed to loose their missiles.

Using a stopwatch to monitor their progress, Lachlan made them repeat the loading maneuver over and over. Just when Jane felt like her left arm was about to snap in two from the strain of keeping the nocked arrow perfectly aligned with the center of the target, he told them to lower their weapons and rest for a moment.

“At this point, you're probably tired and sore,” he said, and his pupils moaned in assent. “Good. Because danger rarely comes along when you're fully prepared to meet it—when you've had eight hours of sleep, a balanced meal, and are dressed in warm, comfortable clothes.” A hard glint appeared in his eyes. “Take off your coats.”

Jane, who could barely feel her fingertips, glared at Lachlan. “Excuse me?”

“Miss Jane,” Lachlan said, addressing her as the other Fins did. “This drill is necessary.”

Scowling at him, she unzipped her parka and dropped it on the brittle grass. The twins did the same.

“Your muscles hurt,” Lachlan began. “You're cold. You're probably hungry. Soon, you'll start shivering. You'll begin to think of the things you'd rather be doing at this moment.”

“Like drinking hot cocoa!” Hem yelled through chattering teeth.

Ignoring the outburst, Lachlan pointed across the range at their targets. “You're miserable, but that doesn't matter now. The bad guys are there! Look! They're coming for you. They're standing right in front of your targets. Load and fire!
Now!
Use every arrow in your quiver. Load again! Fire!” He ran behind them, shouting, “
Come on!
They're getting closer!
Fire! Fire!
”

Jane immediately responded to the urgency in Lachlan's voice. She no longer saw the hay-stuffed target, but a man in dark clothes. She pretended that the man wanted to hurt her family. He was a dangerous criminal bent on stealing treasures from Storyton's secret library.

I'll stop you,
Jane thought. Reaching over her right shoulder, she loaded an arrow, whipped the bowstring backward until it grazed her cheek, and then released. Without waiting to see if the missile had struck its mark, she reached behind her and nocked another arrow. She repeated the movement until she was out of arrows. Only then did she lower her weapon. She stood, panting in exertion, and reminded herself that this was just an exercise. Her boys were safe. The library was safe.

She glanced over at Lachlan. Their eyes met and held. And then he nodded, as though he understood that she needed a few seconds to let go of the dark fantasy she'd conjured.

“I guess we'd be dead,” Fitz murmured unhappily.

“Yeah,” Hem agreed and directed an accusatory glare at Lachlan. “We can't hit anything when we're shooting that fast.”

Lachlan strode over and placed a hand on Hem's shoulder. “This was your first try, Master Steward. You and your brother did very well.”

“But we totally missed the target,” Fitz argued.

“That's not as important as the fact that you both kept your cool. You stayed calm and kept loading and firing. You never lost focus.” Still holding Hem's shoulder, he moved closer to Fitz and gave the frowning boy a pat on the back. “The accuracy will come with time and practice. You passed a hard test today and proved that you're made of tough stuff.”

“What about Mom?” Hem asked. “Is she tough too?”

Lachlan pointed at Jane's target. “What do you think?”

Noticing the three arrows embedded in the hay, the boys gasped. “She got him!” they cried. “She got the bad guy!”

“I think she deserves some coffee, don't you, gentlemen?” Lachlan smiled at Jane, and she smiled back. It was the first time she felt a real connection to him.

Perhaps one can only get to know him bit by bit. A few words here. A smile there. I'll have to be patien
t
,
she thought.

The three archers were simultaneously weary and exhilarated. After they'd donned their coats again, Lachlan told Jane to sit in the Gator while he and the boys put the equipment away. By the time they were done, Jane was ready to go home and spend an hour reading in front of the fire.

When Lachlan pulled in front of their cottage, Jane thanked him for the lesson and asked if he'd like to come in for a cup of tea.

“Thanks, but I can't,” he said. “I have things to see to before tomorrow.”

He waited for the boys to leap out of the cargo area and then drove off without another word.

*   *   *

The next morning,
Jane dressed in a blush-colored skirt suit, swept her strawberry blond hair into a loose chignon, and practically shoved the twins out the door and around the house to the garage where Sterling was waiting.

“Are you sure you have time to drop them at school?” she asked the head chauffeur.

“I can get them there before the bell rings and be at the train station with five minutes to spare,” Sterling assured her. “I'll be making the forty-five minute drive over the mountain many times today.” He tipped his cap. “We have a full house, Miss Jane.”

“Music to my ears,” she said.

As Jane walked up the path in the weak February sunshine, she pictured the steady stream of Rolls-Royce sedans carrying world-worn visitors to the resort. She could easily
imagine the moment when the guests caught their first glimpse of Storyton Hall. She could almost hear them gasp as they took in the sprawling stone manor house. They'd stare, wide-eyed with wonder, at the mammoth clock tower rising into the sky against a backdrop of blue hills. They'd see how the manor's two wings stretched out like open arms—how the whole structure, from its large windows to the sweeping front staircase, appeared to be welcoming them.

Humming in contentment, Jane entered the hall and strode down the main corridor. She inhaled the scent of lavender beeswax and noted that the silver vases on every hall table were bursting with multicolored blooms. Jane paused outside the Agatha Christie Tea Room to examine a stunning arrangement of red French tulips, holly, and winterberry.

“Tom Green has been here,” she said, looking around for the owner of the Potter's Shed. She found him in the lobby putting the finishing touches on the biggest arrangement in the entire resort. Butterworth stood nearby, a tray of crystal champagne flutes at the ready awaiting the arrival of the first guests.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Jane called merrily.

Butterworth returned the greeting with a stiff bow. Tom, on the other hand, looped his thumbs under his suspenders and gave them a satisfied snap. “I can't thank you enough for suggesting that your lady guests order romantic bouquets for their rooms. I thought I'd be lucky to get ten orders of my Smoldering Rose or Cupid's Carnation arrangements, but I received dozens.” His smile widened and dimples appeared in his round cheeks. “Dozens!”

“That's splendid, Tom.” She gestured at the rolling cart of florist tools. “But how are you managing all the extra work?”

Tom adjusted a white lily before answering. “Valentine's week is my busiest time of the year, so I hire a few retirees to help run the shop and handle residential deliveries.”

“Everything must be working out or you wouldn't look so jolly.” Jane stepped back and admired the centerpiece.
Tom had filled a porcelain jardinière with roses, lady slipper orchids, parrot tulips, nerine lilies, and greenery. The effect was breathtaking.

“I poached a floral designer from a grocery store over the mountain. She's been such an asset that I might offer her a full-time job.”

Jane smiled inwardly. People from Storyton referred to outsiders as being from “over the mountain.” It was usually not meant as a compliment. Even though the locals frequented businesses and medical facilities in other towns, they only did so when absolutely necessary. They'd chosen to live and work in Storyton because it had no strip malls, neon signs, or cookie-cutter neighborhoods. In their little village, things moved slowly. For the most part, people walked or rode bicycles. They waved to one another. They had leisurely chats over garden gates and made chicken soup when a neighbor came down with a cold. Jane couldn't imagine living anywhere else.