Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (14 page)

Though Jane believed him, she couldn’t let compassion cloud her judgment. Instead of speaking, she poured more coffee into his cup and warmed her own. As Kevin sipped his coffee, the whiskey Sinclair had added to his cup seemed to bring him a measure of calm. Sinclair asked if he knew Desmond Price or Felix Hampden, and Kevin insisted that he didn’t. However, he’d met Moira McKee many times and suspected that she knew the identity of the note writer.

“Maybe Moira wrote the note,” Jane suggested.

Kevin shook his head. “No way was she in Storyton that weekend. She was hosting a fund-raiser when Alice died. There are pictures of her with a bunch of alumni on Facebook.”

At least we can eliminate Moira McKee as the archer
, Jane thought.

At that moment, Jane heard a buzzing noise and Sinclair glanced at his cell phone screen. “Your aunt has returned,” he said to Jane. “You should go. I believe we’re finished here. I’ll be sure to caution Mr. Collins not to leave the resort until the Murder and Mayhem Week reaches its conclusion and to be available for further questions if necessary.”

Nodding, Jane tried to keep her hand steady as she set down her cup. The thought of having to tell her aunt about Felix’s death and her failure to recover Storyton’s copy of
Lost Letters
filled her with dread. She found herself hesitating for another reason as well. She wanted to ease Kevin’s anguish before she left, but there wasn’t much she could say without revealing what she and the Fins knew. “I can’t get into specifics, but I believe Alice came to Storyton because of Adela Dundee. She then died from a rare heart abnormality. You couldn’t have changed her fate. I know it’s hard,” she said. “But try to look ahead. When the week is over, go back to Oxford. Throw yourself into your work. Let time dull the pain.”

“Do you know what this feels like? How much it hurts?” Kevin balled his hands into fists.

“Yes,” Jane said very softly. “I do.”

Kevin gave her a pleading look. “Will it ever go away?”

“No.” She saw no reason to lie to him. “But it’ll fade. Eventually, you’ll laugh again. You’ll feel joy again.”

“It’d be easier to let go if I knew exactly what had happened.”

“I know,” Jane said. “But we don’t always get to choose. Now, Sinclair will take you to Lizzie so you can apologize. As for Ms. McKee and the rest of our guests, keep your distance. I’d hate to see you back in this room.”

Kevin swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

•   •   •

Jane hurried back
upstairs and wound her way through the knot of people heading outside to watch the pickleball tournament. She reached the front doors just in time to see Butterworth perform a low bow and to hear Aunt Octavia bellow, “I’m famished!”

Butterworth said something in a low voice, causing Aunt Octavia to slap the arms of her wheelchair. “This contraption? I won’t be its prisoner for long. Mark my words, Butterworth.”

Uncle Aloysius, who’d entered the lobby ahead of his wife, caught sight of Jane and waved. She rushed over to give him a hug. “How is she?” Jane whispered into her uncle’s ear.

“Worried,” he whispered back.

There was no sense delaying the inevitable, so she drew alongside Aunt Octavia’s wheelchair, wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders, and kissed her warm cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home. Let’s get you to your rooms so we can talk.”

“Only if you promise to order me some food! Pigs would turn away that hospital fare. Repulsive gelatins, oily soups, and bread rolls that would make excellent catapult missiles.” She glanced around the lobby. “Speaking of catapults, where are my two young knights?”

As if summoned from thin air, Fitz and Hem appeared on the first-floor landing. Fitz was just about to slide down the polished banister—an act that would cause him to lose dessert for an entire week—when he spotted his family.

“Aunt Octavia!” Hem shouted, and the twins barreled down the stairs and into their great-great-aunt’s arms.

“My darlings!” she cried, kissing their faces.

The boys withstood the display of affection for several seconds before squirming free. “Cool wheelchair!” Fitz said, his eyes shining. “Can I try it?”

“Certainly. In fact, you can push me into the elevator and I’ll tell you all about the ogre assigned to handle my rehabilitation.”

“What’s that?” Hem asked.

Aunt Octavia harrumphed. “It’s when people refuse to let you eat sweets and force you to do all sorts of uncomfortable things with your body.”

Hem frowned. “We won’t let the ogre touch you. Fitz and I will shoot him with arrows.”

“Yeah, we’ll make him look like a hedgehog!” Fitz cried in solidarity.

Aunt Octavia beamed. “Excellent. Come along, Jane. We have much to discuss and I’m longing to see Muffet Cat.” She grabbed Butterworth’s arm. “Please send word to the kitchens immediately. I’m faint with hunger.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Butterworth gave Jane a conspiratorial wink over Aunt Octavia’s head.

Jane took the stairs in an attempt to reach her aunt and uncle’s apartments ahead of them. She was able to unlock the door and push a few pieces of furniture aside to make room for her aunt’s wheelchair before she heard her twins’ chatter in the hallway.

“Dorothy was so right. There is no place like home.” Aunt Octavia told Hem to push her into the library and then told the twins where to find the model train set she’d been saving for their birthday.

“Awesome!” they shouted in delight and pulled the unwrapped gift out of the coat closet.

“You can assemble it in the office while we talk,” Aunt Octavia said. The moment the boys were out of earshot, she looked at Jane. “Tell me everything.”

Taking a seat, Jane said, “It all begins with Alice Hart.”

She had just finished describing Felix Hampden’s death when there was a knock at the door.

Aunt Octavia sighed. “Thank heaven! My food.”

It was Mrs. Hubbard herself who wheeled the room service cart into the library, with Muffet Cat trotting along on her heels. The portly tuxedo made a beeline for Aunt Octavia and jumped onto her lap. The cat rubbed his chin against Aunt Octavia’s cheeks and received a dozen kisses, coos, and scratches in return. Mrs. Hubbard waited for Muffet Cat to lie down before taking hold of Aunt Octavia’s hand and giving it a fond squeeze. She then gestured to the silver dome on the cart.

“You’re not going to be pleased, Ms. Octavia, but Doc Lydgate and I are in complete agreement as to what you can and cannot eat. Your dietary needs are my responsibility now. Any employee caught sneaking you contraband sweets will answer to me.” She smiled warmly. “This is for your own good. And for mine. I want you to live to be a hundred.”

Aunt Octavia scowled. “Whatever for? If I can’t enjoy myself, why not die tomorrow?”

Mrs. Hubbard clicked her tongue. “There, there. It isn’t all that bad. Look.” She whipped off the dome with a flourish. “I’ve made a tasty tuna sandwich mixed with apples, walnuts, onions, celery, and a little pickle relish. To wash it down, you have a refreshing glass of sun tea sweetened with a few drops of agave nectar. And for dessert? Fresh peaches with honey vanilla yogurt.”

Jane was impressed. “That’s healthy?”

“Straight out of a diabetic cookbook.” Mrs. Hubbard puffed up with pride. “I won’t have it be said that I can’t cook delicious, well-balanced meals. If she sticks to the plan, your aunt will drop two dress sizes and will be racing around the resort by Christmastime.”

“Anything to escape the clutches of the PT ogre,” Aunt Octavia mumbled disagreeably. She took a bite of her tuna sandwich and chewed. Slowly, a glimmer of pleasure appeared in her eyes.

Mrs. Hubbard was watching her closely. “See? You won’t suffer a bit.”

Uncle Aloysius thanked the head cook profusely and ushered her to the door. When he opened it, he found Sinclair and Sterling waiting in the hallway.

“Come in, gentlemen.”

The librarian and chauffeur inquired after Aunt Octavia’s health, but Uncle Aloysius waved off their questions. “No time for pleasantries. Sinclair, we need the board.”

Sinclair nodded. He and Sterling removed a large landscape painting from the wall and turned it over. The reverse was covered by a piece of slate. Sterling took a tea caddy off the bookshelf and removed a piece of chalk from within.

“Jane’s given us the background on Alice Hart and Felix Hampden,” Uncle Aloysius told the two Fins. “Who else do we need to discuss?”

Sinclair wrote the names “Moira McKee,” “Desmond Price,” and “Kevin Collins” on the slate. He had Jane share what she knew about Moira and Desmond and then let Sterling summarize the morning’s interview with Kevin Collins. While Jane and Sterling talked, Sinclair jotted notes next to the names. He also drew lines and added labels such as “ex-fiancé” or “employer/employee” between individuals to show how they were connected.

“So we have the president of a college, a faculty member of the same college, a Harvard professor, the owner of a small theater troupe, and—” Uncle Aloysius glanced at Sterling. “What does Mr. Collins do?”

“We don’t know yet, sir,” Sterling said. “But we will as soon as I get back to my lab.”

The word “lab” triggered something Jane’s in memory. “Kevin studied biology in college, so he might be some kind of scientist.”

“What about the arrow?” Aunt Octavia asked, stroking Muffet Cat while he kneaded her poppy-colored sweater with his front paws. “Were you able to capture any prints?”

Sterling grimaced. “There’s a fresh set, but those probably belong to Edwin Alcott. I’ll check them against the automated fingerprint identification databases, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t on file. After all, isn’t he a food writer?”

Jane was about to respond when there was a knock on the apartment door. Sinclair moved through the living room and put his eye up to the peephole. He then opened the door to Butterworth.

“Pardon the interruption,” Butterworth said, addressing Jane’s aunt and uncle. “Could I borrow Miss Jane? She has a visitor.”

“Can’t it wait? We’re not quite done here,” Aunt Octavia said. Sensing her displeasure, Muffet Cat gave Butterworth his most scathing, yellow-eyed glare.

“I’m afraid she must go, ma’am.” The butler turned to Jane. “The individual waiting in your office is very anxious to speak with you.”

Jane didn’t like the sound of that. “Who is it?”

Butterworth’s jaw twitched, but his voice betrayed no emotion when he answered, “Sheriff Evans.”

Though Butterworth had installed Sheriff Evans in Jane’s office, the lawman had clearly not come to Storyton Hall for a casual chat. He stood in the threshold in the wide-legged stance of a cowboy, one hand clutching a file folder while the other drummed impatiently on the doorframe.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Jane said and invited him inside. “My aunt just got home from the hospital, and things are a bit topsy-turvy now that she’s wheelchair-bound.”

For a moment, the intensity in the sheriff’s face softened. “Your aunt’s a fine woman. Please give her my regards and hopes for a speedy recovery.”

“Thank you. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

Evans shook his head. He shut the door and asked Jane to make herself comfortable. “Ms. Steward, there’s been an update in Felix Hampden’s case.”

Instead of sitting behind her desk, Jane took the vacant chair next to the sheriff’s. “The word ‘case’ has my attention. Does this mean that Mr. Hampden’s death wasn’t accidental?”

“Not unless Hampden accidentally poisoned himself.” The sheriff opened the folder and slid on a pair of reading glasses. “The ME hasn’t been able to identify the poison, but it’s not a run-of-the-mill variety. He was able to explain that it’s actually a toxin, and he believes this toxin has a biological origin. In other words, it came from a living organism.”

Jane took a moment to process the information. “So we’re not talking household cleaners here? Mr. Hampden was given . . .” She searched for an example. “Snake venom, for example?”

“It wasn’t snake venom, but that’s the idea. Something found in nature. A plant or animal toxin. The ME sent a sample to a colleague for a more complete analysis, and because he went to grad school with the guy, we can expect results in the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime, I’ll need to interview your staff.”

“Of course.” Jane felt a churning in her belly. “Is this now an official murder investigation?”

“I am treating it as a suspicious death at the moment,” Evans said. “I’d like to conduct my interviews discreetly. There’s no need for your employees to come to the station, but I’d like to speak with anyone who came into contact with Hampden.”

Jane laced her fingers together to keep them from trembling. “May I ask how he was poisoned? I remember that broken glass on the floor. Was the toxin in his water?”

“That’s the other request I have to make. I need to collect evidence from Hampden’s room. I trust you haven’t allowed anyone to disturb it?”

“No, it’s exactly as it was when you were last here.”

The sheriff turned to a blank page of notebook paper. “It’s now a crime scene. My deputies are parked near the loading dock because I assume you’d prefer that we use the service elevator.”

“That would be best,” Jane said and then frowned. “But what should I tell inquisitive guests?”

“I don’t want to alarm your guests or tip off any possible suspects, so I’ve instructed my men to say nothing.”

Jane sighed. “That won’t help my front desk clerks. People are likely to ask them what’s going on, and if I don’t give them some information, they’ll jump to conclusions. I don’t want anyone to check out because they feel unsafe.” An idea came to her. “What if I make it sound like it’s Hampden who’s under investigation? No one knows that he’s dead—except for the poisoner and a few staff members—and it’ll be less troubling for my guests to hear that he and his belongings have been removed from the premises because of petty theft or something of that nature.”

The sheriff considered her suggestion. “In general, I try not to besmirch a man’s character, but in doing background checks on Hampden, I discovered that he was quite a swindler. Therefore, it wouldn’t be stretching the truth to call him a thief. We’ll do it your way, Ms. Steward.” He uncapped a pen and held it over the blank notebook paper. “Can you tell me the names of any guests Mr. Hampden interacted with? And it doesn’t matter how briefly. If you saw him exchange a few words in the elevator or the buffet line, I’d like to know about it.” He pointed his pen at Jane. “You mentioned two people trying to buy a book from Hampden the night he died. Can you identify them?”

Jane wondered how much she dared tell Sheriff Evans. She didn’t want to hinder his investigation, but she couldn’t let him know why the missing book was so important or that it had come from Storyton Hall’s secret library. Still, it was his duty to uphold the law, and because she believed both Moira McKee and Desmond Price were after Felix’s prize, she gave the sheriff their names.

Evans wrote notes on his paper and then looked at Jane again. “What do you know about these folks?”

Fibbing a little, Jane said that she’d had a chance encounter with Moira during last night’s ball. She explained how surprised she’d been to learn that Moira was the president of the college where Alice Hart taught.

The sheriff’s brows rose high on his forehead. “Interesting. Anything else?”

“Ms. McKee wanted Felix’s book, but I don’t think she has it or knows what happened to him. In fact, she came to the ball to find him. She was going to make him an offer on the book.”

Evan grunted encouragingly and made another note. “And Desmond Price?”

Jane shrugged. “Since I haven’t spoken with him, I can’t be of much help. All I know is that he’s a professor at Harvard.”

Evans wrote this down. “And what about Hampden’s book? Have you recovered it?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Jane wanted to steer the conversation away from the missing book, so she leaned forward and said, “But I did find Alice Hart’s fiancé. He also attended last night’s ball.”

That got the sheriff’s attention. “He’s here?”

“Yes.” Jane hated to draw attention to Kevin Collins, but she had no choice. After all, she couldn’t be sure if anything he’d told them had been the truth. Her instinct said that he’d been sincere when he claimed that he only came to Storyton Hall to find out why Alice had broken their engagement, but she couldn’t risk the safety of her guests based on a gut feeling. And because she’d made a promise to Lizzie, Jane didn’t explain how she first met the young man. She simply said, “Mr. Collins didn’t return the voice mail you left him in Oxford after Alice passed away because he didn’t hear it. He was in Storyton when she died and he hasn’t been back to England since.”

The sheriff barely moved. “He was here when she died?”

“Mr. Collins believed his fiancée was meeting her lover at the resort. He wanted to learn the man’s identity.” As Jane thought back on everything Kevin had told her, she suddenly felt chilled. “Oh, my,” she whispered, rubbing her arms.

“Ms. Steward?” The sheriff’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Are you all right?”

“Kevin Collins was a bio major in college, and if I remember correctly, his work at Oxford University involved toxins.”

The sheriff got to his feet. “I think I’ll begin my inquiries with Mr. Collins. What’s his room number?”

Jane told him and then gave him the key for the smallest conference room. She also unlocked her topmost desk drawer and handed him the key for room 316, the Mystery Suite. “Please keep me informed,” she said.

Evans dipped his head in acknowledgment and strode off, tapping the folder against his gun holster.

“This is turning out to be a long day,” Jane murmured and ran her hands through her hair. “There are way too many hours between now and cocktail time.”

•   •   •

Thirty minutes later,
Jane was at the pickleball courts. Gavin and the rest of the rec staff were in charge of the tournament, and from what Jane could see, things were proceeding splendidly. Despite the chill in the air, the chairs surrounding the tennis courts (which doubled as pickleball courts) were all occupied and the guests were enjoying themselves immensely. Waiters maneuvered in between the seats, serving hot chocolate, coffee, tea, and spiced cider, while the spectators waved tissue paper pom-poms that matched the T-shirt hue of their favorite team.

The teams had been divided into heats, and each had been assigned the name of a famous mystery novel. Now the tournament had come down to the final game: a match between The Maltese Falcons and The Ten Little Indians. The Falcons were in blue, and the Indians were in orange. Fans shouted, “Go Hammett!” or “Hurray for Christie!” as the team members shook hands with their opponents.

Gavin limped to center court and, using a handheld microphone, reminded the spectators that not only would the winning team be treated to a complimentary fly-fishing excursion and receive gift certificates to Run for Cover and the Canvas Creamery, but it would also earn a remarkably unique trophy donated by the Hogg brothers, owners of the Pickled Pig Market.

When Gavin first showed the audience the trophy, they burst out in unified laughter. Jane caught a glimpse of the shiny object and joined in. The Hogg brothers had the trophy engraved with a net, Wiffle ball, a set of crossed paddles, and a plaque reading,
PICKLEBALL CHAMPIONS, STORYTON HALL
. But what had everyone in stitches was the trophy’s shape. Instead of resembling a cup or an urn, the trophy was shaped like a giant pickle.

“I ran away,” Jane told Sterling after the laughter had died down. “I needed a break and I knew they’d be having a grand time over here.” She gazed around at the happy guests, wishing she could be as carefree, if only for a little while. “Felix Hampden was poisoned, and Sheriff Evans is collecting evidence from his room. I suppose you know that already.”

“Yes. Butterworth sent me a text.” Sterling waited until the Falcons had served before leaning closer to Jane. “I had no luck getting fingerprints off the arrow. There’s only one set and those belong to Edwin Alcott.”

“Are you sure?”

Sterling nodded. “Absolutely. Mr. Alcott’s prints are on file.”

Jane searched the head chauffeur’s face. “Oh? Why?”

“He has a police record,” Sterling said flatly.

The crowd roared as the Indians scored a point. Jane clapped her hands absently, but didn’t take her eyes off Sterling. “Please don’t tell me that he’s some kind of book burglar.”

Sterling shook his head. “His was an assault and battery arrest, and he was only eighteen at the time.”

Relieved that she wouldn’t have to add Edwin to her suspect list, Jane allowed herself a small smile. “I’m not surprised. Eloise always said that her brother was hotheaded.”

Another cheer exploded around them as the Falcons scored. “We should turn the arrow over to the sheriff now,” Sterling said, speaking into Jane’s ear. “He’ll be interviewing the staff anyway, and he might be able to use the arrow to elicit a reaction from the guilty party.”

Jane stared out over the tennis courts to the dense woods and the blue hills beyond. She envisioned someone crouching in wait for the group of riders to make their way down the sloping forest trail. And then she pictured a man notching an arrow and taking aim the moment he spotted Alice Hart on her bay mare.

Jane turned back to Sterling. “Alice didn’t wear her fake glasses or wig on that ride. She wanted to meet someone who was as influenced by Adela Dundee as she was. I bet she romanticized the whole thing, hoping to find that the note writer was a handsome young academic. Her ideal partner. A man who could share her obsession in a way Kevin never would.”

Sterling grunted. “Little did Alice know that her Romeo only wanted to ambush her—to make sure that she would never get her hands on a certain book.”

“I bet both the bow and the arrow came from Storyton Hall.” Jane pulled a face. “I need to review that staff list with Uncle Aloysius ASAP.” She glanced at the pickleball players once more. “It was nice to wear my resort manager hat for a few moments. I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed my day-to-day work until I was given my new position.”

Taking in the merry crowd, Sterling nodded in understanding. “It won’t always be like this, Miss Jane. More often than not, I’m a chauffeur. At times, I prefer that role. No car can hold a candle to a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow and I get to drive it around some of the most beautiful vistas in the world.”

“Don’t you ever want more than this?” Jane asked as she and Sterling headed back to the main house. “You, Sinclair, Butterworth, Gavin? You never married or had families of your own. Does being a Fin mean always having to be alone?”

“A Fin must be devoted to his task and to his brotherhood above all else. There aren’t any rules requiring us to be bachelors, but most Fins step down if they want to start a family. Once Gavin’s replacement arrives, I imagine our head of recreation will finally ask Mrs. Pratt to dinner.”

Jane’s mouth fell open. “Mrs. Pratt?”

Sterling grinned. “Cupid has a sense of humor, eh?”

Jane tried to imagine Gavin and Mrs. Pratt as a couple. “But he’s so quiet.”

“I only heard him talk about her once,” Sterling said. “It was right after his surgery, and I think he was still under the influence of painkillers, but he waxed on about Eugenia’s passionate nature and how he wanted to be loved by a woman like her. He then said that he planned to woo her just as soon as his successor takes the reins.”

“I look forward to watching their courtship.” Thinking of all the romance novels Mrs. Pratt devoured on a weekly basis, Jane smiled. “I just remembered that Gavin wears kilts on formal occasions.”

“He’s very proud of his Scottish heritage,” Sterling said, opening the terrace door for Jane. “But what does that have to do with his courting Mrs. Pratt?”

Jane saw Uncle Aloysius at the other end of the hall and quickened her pace. “Because Eugenia Pratt thinks that a man in a kilt is undeniably sexy.”

Sterling grimaced and, muttering something about turning over evidence to Sheriff Evans without delay, veered off for the staff staircase.

By this time, Uncle Aloysius had reached the front entrance and was shaking hands with a man dressed in maroon scrubs.

“Jane!” Her uncle beamed as if he hadn’t seen her in days. “Good, good. I’d like you to meet Gordie Lowe. Mr. Lowe is your aunt’s new physical therapist.”

She took the man’s proffered hand, which was as limp and slithery as an eel.

Gordie reclaimed his hand and tapped his watch face. “Okay, people. I’m a busy man. Can we get started?”