Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery)

P
RAISE FOR THE
B
OOKS BY THE
B
AY
M
YSTERIES

“Not only a great read, but a visceral experience. Olivia Limoges’s investigation into a friend’s murder will have you hearing the waves crash on the North Carolina shore. You might even feel the ocean winds stinging your cheeks. Visit Oyster Bay and you’ll long to return again and again.”

—Lorna Barrett,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Booktown Mysteries

“Adams’s plot is indeed killer, her writing would make her the star of any support group, and her characters . . . are a diverse, intelligent bunch.”

—
Richmond Times Dispatch

“I could actually feel the wind on my face, taste the salt of the ocean on my lips, and hear the waves crash upon the beach.
The Last Word
made me laugh, made me think, made me smile, and made me cry.
The Last Word—
in one word—AMAZING!”

—
The Best Reviews

“A very well-written mystery with interesting and surprising characters and a great setting. Readers will feel as if they are in Oyster Bay.”

—
The Mystery Reader

“This series is one I hope to follow for a long time, full of fast-paced mysteries, budding romances, and good friends. An excellent combination!”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

P
RAISE FOR THE
C
HARMED
P
IE
S
HOPPE
M
YSTERIES

“[A] delicious, delightful, and deadly new series . . . Enchanting characters in a small-town setting . . . Will leave readers longing for seconds.”

—Jenn McKinlay,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Library Lover’s Mysteries, the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries, and the Hat Shop Mysteries

“Enchanting! . . . Ellery Adams brings the South to life with the LeFaye women of Havenwood. This new series is as sweet and tangy as a warm Georgia peach pie.”

—Krista Davis, national bestsellingauthor of the Domestic Diva Mysteries

“[A] savory blend of suspense, pies, and engaging characters. Foodie mystery fans will enjoy this.”

—
Booklist

“A little play on Jane Austen with a nod to Arthurian legend gets this new series from veteran author Adams . . . off to an enchanted start. A sensory delight for those who like a little magic with their culinary cozies.”

—
Library Journal

“An original, intriguing story line that celebrates women, family, friendship, and loyalty within an enchanted world, with a hint of romance, an engaging cast of characters, and the promise of a continued saga of magical good confronting evil.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Adams permeates this unusual novel—and Ella Mae’s pies—with a generous helping of appeal.”

—
Richmond Times Dispatch

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Ellery Adams

Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries

PIES AND PREJUDICE

PEACH PIES AND ALIBIS

PECAN PIES AND HOMICIDES

Books by the Bay Mysteries

A KILLER PLOT

A DEADLY CLICHÉ

THE LAST WORD

WRITTEN IN STONE

POISONED PROSE

Book Retreat Mysteries

MURDER IN THE MYSTERY SUITE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

MURDER IN THE MYSTERY SUITE

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Ellery Adams.

Excerpt from
Lethal Letters
by Ellery Adams copyright © 2014 by Ellery Adams.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61287-3

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2014

Cover illustration by Shane Rebenshied.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Three Graces of Greek Mythology, goddesses of beauty, mirth, and good cheer, endeavored to spread joy wherever they went. My Three Graces are three Loris. This book is for you, ladies:

Lori Caswell
Lori Cimino
Lori Gondelman

A room without books is like a body without a soul.

—MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

Our staff is here to serve you

Resort Manager—Jane Steward

Butler—Mr. Butterworth

Head Librarian—Mr. Sinclair

Head Chauffeur—Mr. Sterling

Head of Recreation—Mr. Gavin

Head of Housekeeping—Mrs. Pimpernel

Head Chef—Mrs. Hubbard

Select Merchants of Storyton Village

Run for Cover Bookshop—Eloise Alcott

Cheshire Cat Pub—Bob and Betty Carmichael

The Canvas Creamery—Phoebe Doyle

La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique—Mabel Wimberly

Tresses Hair Salon—Violet Osborne

The Pickled Pig Market—the Hogg brothers

Geppetto’s Toy Shop—Barnaby Nicholas

The Potter’s Shed—Tom Green

There were books everywhere. Hundreds of books. Thousands of books. There were books of every size, shape, and color. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, standing straight and rigid as soldiers on the polished mahogany shelves, the gilt lettering on their worn spines glinting in the soft light, the scent of supple leather and aging paper filling the air.

To Jane Steward, there was no sweeter perfume on earth. Of all the libraries in Storyton Hall, this was her favorite. Unlike the other libraries, which were open to the hotel’s paying guests, this was the personal reading room of her great-uncle Aloysius and great-aunt Octavia.

“Are you ready, Sinclair?” Jane mounted the rolling book ladder and looked back over her shoulder.

A small, portly man with a cloud of white hair and ruddy cheeks wrung his hands in agitation. “Oh, Miss Jane. I wish you wouldn’t ask me to do this. It doesn’t seem prudent.”

Jane shrugged. “You heard what Gavin said at our last staff meeting. The greenhouse is in disrepair, the orchard needs pruning, the hedge maze is overgrown, the folly is hidden in brambles, and the roof above the staff quarters is rotting away. I have to come up with funds somehow. Lots of funds. What I need, Sinclair, is inspiration.” She held out her arms as if she could embrace every book in the room. “What better place to find it than here?”

“Can’t you just shut your eyes, reach out your hand, and choose a volume from the closest shelf?” Sinclair stuck a finger under his collar, loosening his bow tie. Unlike Storyton’s other staff members, he didn’t wear the hotel’s royal blue and gold livery. As the resort’s head librarian, he distinguished himself by dressing in tweed suits every day of the year. The only spot of color that appeared on his person came in the form of a striped, spotted, floral, or checkered bow tie. Today’s was canary yellow with prim little brown dots.

Jane shook her head at the older gentleman she’d known since childhood. “You know that doesn’t work, Sinclair. I have to lose all sense of where I am in the room. The book must choose me, not me, it.” She smiled down at him. “Mrs. Pimpernel tells me that the rails have recently been oiled, so you should be able to push me around in circles with ease.”

“In squares, you mean.” Sinclair sighed in defeat. “Very well, Miss Jane. Kindly hold on.”

Grinning like a little girl, Jane gripped the sides of the ladder and closed her eyes. Sinclair pushed on the ladder, hesitantly at first, until Jane encouraged him to go faster, faster.

“Are you quite muddled yet?” he asked after a minute or so.

Jane descended by two rungs but didn’t open her eyes. “I think I’m still in the Twentieth-Century American Authors section. If I’m right, we need to keep going.”

Sinclair grunted. “It’s getting harder and harder to confuse you, Miss Jane. You know where every book in this library is shelved.”

“Just a few more spins around the room. Please?”

The ladder began to move again. This time, however, Sinclair stopped and started without warning and changed direction more than once. Eventually, he succeeded in disorientating her.

“Excellent!” Jane exclaimed and reached out her right hand. Her fingertips touched cloth and leather. They traced the embossed letters marching up and down the spines for a few brief seconds before traveling to the next book. “Inspire me,” she whispered.

But nothing spoke to her, so she shifted to the left side of the ladder, stretching her arm overhead until her hand brushed against a book that was smaller and shorter than its neighbors. “I believe you have something to tell me,” she said and pulled it from the shelf.

Sinclair craned his neck as if he might be able to read the title from his vantage point on the ground. “Which one chose you, Miss Jane?”

“A British mystery,” she said, frowning. “But I don’t see how—”

At that moment, two boys burst into the room, infusing the air with screams, scuffles, and shouts. The first, who had transformed himself into a knight using a stainless steel salad bowl as a helm and a gray T-shirt covered with silver duct tape as armor, brandished a wooden yardstick. The second boy, who was identical to the first in every way except for his costume, wore a green raincoat. He had the hood pulled up and tied under his chin and he carried two hand rakes. His lips were closed around a New Year’s Eve party favor, and every time he exhaled, its multicolored paper tongue would uncurl with a shrill squeak.

“Boys!” Jane called out to no effect. Her sons dashed around chairs and side tables, nearly overturning the coffee table and its collection of paperweights and framed family photos.

Sinclair tried to get between the knight and the dragon. “Saint George,” he said in a voice that rang with authority, though it was no more than a whisper. “Might I suggest that you conquer this terrifying serpent outdoors? Things are likely to get broken in the fierce struggle between man and beast.”

The first boy bowed gallantly and pointed his sword at Jane. “Fair maid, I’ve come to rescue you from your tower.”

Jane giggled. “Thank you, Sir Fitz, but I am quite happy up here.”

Refusing to be upstaged by his twin brother, the other boy growled and circled around a leather chair and ottoman, a writing desk, and a globe on a stand in order to position himself directly under the ladder. “If you don’t give me all of your gold, then I’ll eat you!” he snarled and held out his hand rakes.

Doing her best to appear frightened, Jane clutched at her chest. “Please, oh fearsome and powerful dragon. I have no gold. In fact, my castle is falling apart around me. I was just wishing for a fairy godmother to float down and—”

“There aren’t any fairies in this story!” the dragon interrupted crossly. “Fairies are for
girls
.”

“Yeah,” the knight echoed indignantly.

Jane knew she had offended her six-year-old sons, but before she could make amends, her eye fell on the ruler in Fitz’s hands and an idea struck her.

“Fitz, Hem, you are my heroes!” she cried, hurrying down the ladder.

The boys exchanged befuddled glances. “We are?” They spoke in unison, as they so often did.

“But I’m supposed to be a monster,” Hem objected.

Jane touched his cheek. “And you’ve both been so convincing that you can go straight to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Hubbard that I’ve given my permission for you both to have an extra piece of chocolate-dipped shortbread at tea this afternoon.”

Their gray eyes grew round with delight, but then Fitz whispered something in Hem’s ear. Pushing back his salad bowl helm, he gave his mother a mournful look. “Mrs. Hubbard won’t believe us. She’ll tell us that story about the boy who cried wolf again.”

“I’ll write a note,” Jane said. The boys exchanged highfives as she scribbled a few lines on an index card.

“Shall I tuck this under one of your scales, Mr. Dragon?” She shoved the note into the pocket of Hem’s raincoat. “Now run along. Sinclair and I have a party to plan.”

Sinclair waited for the boys to leave before seating himself at his desk chair. He uncapped a fountain pen and held it over a clean notepad. “A party, Miss Jane?”

Jane flounced in the chair across from him and rubbed her palm over the cover of the small book in her hands. “This is Agatha Christie’s
Death on the Nile
.”

“Are we having a Halloween party then?” Sinclair asked. “With pharaohs and mummies and such?” He furrowed his shaggy brows. “Did the boys’ getups influence your decision?”

“Not just a costume party. Think bigger.” Jane hugged the book to her chest with one hand and gestured theatrically with the other. “An entire week of murder and mayhem. We’ll have a fancy dress ball and award prizes to those who most closely emulate their favorite fictional detective. Just think,” she continued, warming to her idea. “We’ll have Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, Lord Peter Wimsey, Nick and Nora Charles, Brother Cadfael, Miss Marple, and so on. We’ll have readings and skits and teas and banquets. We’ll have mystery scavenger hunts and trivia games! Imagine it, Sinclair.”

He grimaced. “I’m trying, Miss Jane, but it sounds like an awful lot of hubbub and work. And for what purpose?”

“Money,” Jane said simply. “Storyton Hall will be bursting at the seams with paying guests. They’ll have the time of their lives and will go home and tell all of their friends how wonderful it was to stay at the nation’s only resort catering specifically to readers. We need to let the world know that while we’re a place of peace and tranquility, we also offer excitement and adventure.”

Sinclair fidgeted with his bow tie again. “Miss Jane, forgive me for saying so, but I believe our guests are interested in three things: comfort, quiet, and good food. I’m not certain they’re interested in adventure.”

“Our readers aren’t sedentary,” Jane argued. “I’ve seen them playing croquet and lawn tennis. I’ve met them on the hiking and horseback riding trails. I’ve watched them row across the lake in our little skiffs and walk into Storyton Village. Why wouldn’t they enjoy a weekend filled with mystery, glamor, and entertainment?”

The carriage clock on Sinclair’s desk chimed three times. “Perhaps you should mention the proposal to your great-aunt and -uncle over tea?”

Jane nodded in agreement. “Brilliant idea. Aunt Octavia is most malleable when she has a plate piled high with scones and lemon cakes. Thank you, Sinclair!” She stood up, walked around the desk, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

He touched the spot where his skin had turned a rosy shade of pink. “You’re welcome, Miss Jane, though I don’t think I was of much help.”

“You’re a librarian,” she said on her way out. “To me, that makes you a bigger hero than Saint George, Sir William Wallace, and all of the Knights of the Round Table put together.”

“I love my job,” Jane heard Sinclair say before she closed the door.

•   •   •

Jane turned in
the opposite direction of the main elevator and headed for the staircase at the other end of a long corridor carpeted in a lush crimson. She was accustomed to traveling a different route than the paying guests of Storyton Hall. Like the rest of the staff, Jane moved noiselessly through a maze of narrow passageways, underground tunnels, dim stairways, attic accesses, and hidden doors in order to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Storyton had fifty bedrooms, eleven of which were on the main floor. And even though Jane’s great-aunt and -uncle were in their late seventies, they preferred to remain in their third-story suite of apartments, which included their private library and cozy sitting room, where her aunt liked to spend her evenings reading.

Trotting down a flight of stairs, Jane paused to straighten her skirt before entering the main hallway. Along the wood-paneled walls hung gilt-framed mirrors, brass sconces, and valuable oil paintings in ornate frames. Massive oak doors stood open, inviting guests to while away the hours reading in the Jane Austen Parlor, the Ian Fleming Lounge, the Isak Dinesen Safari Room, the Daphne du Maurier Morning Room, and so on. There was also a Beatrix Potter Playroom for children, but that was located on the basement level as most of the guests preferred not to hear the shrieks and squeals of children when they were trying to lose themselves in a riveting story.

Jane greeted every guest with a hello and a smile though her mind was focused on other things. She made a mental checklist as she walked.
The door handles need polishing. A lightbulb’s gone out by the entrance to Shakespeare’s Theater. Eliza needs to stop putting goldenrod in the flower vases. There’s pollen on all the tables and half the guests are sneezing.

She’d almost reached the sunporch when the tiny speakers mounted along the crown molding in the main hallway began to play a recording of bells chiming. Jane glanced at her watch. It was exactly three o’clock.

“Oh, it’s teatime!” a woman examining an attractive still life of cherry blossoms exclaimed. Taking the book from a man sitting in one of the dozens of wing chairs lining the hall, she gestured for him to get to his feet. “Come on, Bernard! I want to be the first one in today.”

Jane knew there was slim chance of that happening. Guests began congregating at the door of the Agatha Christie Tearoom at half past two. Bobbing her head at the eager pair, she walked past the chattering men, women, and children heading to tea and arrived at the back terrace to find her great-aunt and -uncle seated at a round table with the twins. The table was covered with a snowy white cloth, a vase stuffed with pink peonies, and her aunt’s Wedgwood tea set.

“There you are, dear!” Aunt Octavia lifted one of her massive arms and waved regally. Octavia was a very large, very formidable woman. She adored food and loathed exercise. As a result, she’d steadily grown in circumference over the decades and showed no predisposition toward changing her habits, much to her doctor’s consternation.

As Jane drew closer, she noticed a rotund tuxedo cat nestled on Aunt Octavia’s expansive lap. The feline, who often took tea with the family, had arrived at Storyton Hall during a thunderstorm the previous spring. The twins had discovered the tiny, shivering, half-starved kitten in a corner of the garage, and assuming it was female because of its long eyelashes and stunning gold eyes, named the pathetic creature Miss Muffet. The local veterinarian later informed them that not only was Miss Muffet a male, but judging from the size of his paws, was likely to grow into a very large cat. By this time, everyone had gotten used to calling the cat Miss Muffet. The twins insisted the name be altered to preserve the cat’s dignity and so Miss Muffet became Muffet Cat.

Muffet Cat had the run of the resort. He came and went as he pleased, darting through doorways between the feet of startled guests and indulgent staff members. During the day, he vacillated between hunting, napping on the sunporch, and begging for treats, but he spent every night with Aunt Octavia. For half a year, the twins complained that Muffet Cat was a traitor. They claimed they’d rescued him from certain death and he owed them his allegiance, but Muffet Cat merely tolerated them. Aunt Octavia was the center of his feline universe.

“You can’t command a cat’s affections,” Aunt Octavia had explained to the boys. “Muffet Cat prefers the gentler sex. He’s a very intelligent animal and knows that he only has to gaze up at a lady with those big yellow eyes and she feels compelled to feed him a tasty morsel or two.”