Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (18 page)

Aunt Octavia had given voice to Jane’s own fears. “Can the boys sleep here tonight?” she asked.

“Of course.” Her uncle arched a brow. “Do you have a lead to follow?”

“I plan to shadow Professor Desmond Price. He’s the only person with a motive who isn’t behind bars or—”

“In the morgue,” Aunt Octavia finished for her. And then she crossed her arms and added, “Give him time, dear. He may end up there yet.”

Jane spent Monday morning in a state of agonized anticipation. She tried to work, but the feeling that her world was unraveling made it very difficult to concentrate. All she was really doing, in between reviewing next month’s budget, bookings, and special events, was waiting. Waiting for the local newspaper to be delivered with its headline about the murders at Storyton Hall, waiting for panicked guests to rush the front desk, and waiting for reports from the Fins on Desmond Price’s movements.

When she picked up a copy of the paper, she was infinitely relieved to see that it had gone to press before word of the shocking goings-on at Storyton Hall could reach the editor’s ears.

“A stay of execution,” Jane murmured, her gaze flitting over articles on football games and harvest festivals. She wasn’t fooled into believing Tuesday morning’s edition would feature such innocuous stories, however, and her supposition was proved right shortly after nine, when a reporter called to question Jane about Kevin Collins.

“I heard one of your guests is being held at the station,” the woman said. “What did he do?”

“You’d better talk with Sheriff Evans. I don’t want to divulge any information that might compromise his investigation.”

“What investigation?” The reporter immediately perked up.

Gripping the phone, Jane wondered if she should have chosen her words more carefully, but she didn’t want to act like she was concealing anything. Once the scandal broke, she planned to face it head-on, and to be as transparent as possible while still protecting Storyton Hall’s greatest secret.

“I have no comment,” Jane said and wished the woman a pleasant day. And though she expected the lady reporter to show up after she’d spoken with someone at the sheriff’s department, that didn’t happen. To Jane’s relief, the guests remained clueless about the murders. They enjoyed Mrs. Hubbard’s breakfast spread and then headed to their next activity in a state of blessed ignorance.

As for Desmond Price, he’d attended the dinner theater performance the night before and had gone to bed immediately afterward. And once the trash had been examined and neither the syringe nor the missing book found, Butterworth, Sterling, and Sinclair took shifts monitoring the corridor outside Price’s guest room. There was nothing to see because Price didn’t appear again until morning. Jane passed by him as he sat drinking coffee on the terrace, and she thought that his face looked pinched and haggard. However, there was an air of satisfaction about him too. Jane observed him for only a moment, but the impression she formed was of a man who’d been through a trial but now felt confident about his future.

“We can’t lose track of him. Not for a second,” Jane told Butterworth over a pot of strong tea and a midmorning snack of toast with jam. “He’s like a cat waiting to be served a dish of cream.”

“There’s a restlessness to him as well,” Butterworth said. “He keeps glancing at his watch. I’m a fan of punctuality, but the professor seems to be acutely aware of the passage of time.”

Jane’s eyes involuntarily darted to the clock on her office wall. “Where is he now?”

“Participating in the Mystery Loves Company trivia contest. There are so many contestants involved that they should be tied up until lunch.”

Jane frowned. “We’re not giving books as prizes, are we?”

“No, Miss Jane,” Butterworth assured her. Folding his napkin into a neat square and placing it on his empty plate, he got to his feet “We have some lovely items from the gift shop. Lap desks. Woven throws. Notecards. That sort of thing.”

“All right. Keep me informed about Professor Price. I’m off to speak with Ned. I can’t imagine that he’d behave inappropriately in exchange for money, but I need to be certain.”

Butterworth, who’d been on the verge of leaving, turned to face Jane again. “Money is a powerful motive. With such a large staff, it’s difficult to know the financial state of each employee, but if anyone had been especially vocal about their troubles, Mrs. Hubbard would surely know.”

“Of course!” Jane exclaimed. “Why didn’t we ask her sooner?”

“The answer to that is quite simple. Unlike Mrs. Pimpernel, who sees and hears every manner of impropriety and says nothing, Mrs. Hubbard is incapable of discretion. Grant you, she limits her gossip to staff members, but that is only because her role as head chef limits her exposure to the guests.” Butterworth sniffed in disapproval. “Had anyone from
upstairs
questioned her about which staff members were strapped for cash, her finely tuned radar would have been set off and her tongue would start wagging double-time.”

Jane pursed her lips. “And yet she’s been uncharacteristically quiet about Aunt Octavia’s illness.”

“Mrs. Hubbard is fiercely loyal to your family,” Butterworth conceded.

“That settles it. I’ll drop by the kitchens when I’m done with Ned,” Jane said, and Butterworth left to take up his customary position by the front door.

Jane found Ned polishing the brass handrails outside the main entrance. The young man whistled as he worked and seemed the picture of contentment.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” she asked him.

Ned sprung to attention. “Yes, ma’am. It sure is.”

“You’re in excellent spirits this morning.”

He blushed. “Was I whistling again?”

Jane smiled knowingly. “What’s her name?”

Ned’s eyes widened and his blush deepened. “Sarah. From the gift shop.”

Picturing the pretty girl who was hired over the summer, Jane said, “She’s lovely. And very funny. I remember how she made me laugh the first time we met.”

“She’s the only girl who likes this place as much as I do. She’s already planning to work up to a manager’s position.” Ned resumed his task. “We’re going to the Canvas Creamery after our shifts are over.” He shot Jane a worried glance. “Is that okay? I mean, we’re just friends right now, but I know there are rules . . .” He trailed off, rubbing at the brass until it glowed in the October sunlight.

“Against staff members dating each other, you mean?” Jane said. “We tend to discourage it, but I trust your judgment, Ned.”

Ned looked absurdly pleased. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Jane chatted about the Murder and Mayhem Week and then came to the point of her visit. When she asked if any of the guests had sought special favors or made unusual requests, Ned’s expression turned blank. Convinced that the young man had nothing to do with the disappearance of
Lost Letters
or the deaths of Felix Hampden or Moira McKee, Jane headed to the kitchens.

It wasn’t the best time to have a word with Mrs. Hubbard as she was busy preparing for the lunch service, but Jane offered to keep an eye on the soups while they talked. Using wooden spoons, Jane stirred simmering pots of turkey noodle, pureed sweet potato, and creamy tomato and asked Mrs. Hubbard if any staff members had complained about financial woes.

“Well, none of us are rich,” Mrs. Hubbard said, adding fresh parley to the turkey noodle. “I hear the usual complaints of ‘I wish I could buy that flat-screen TV or that new car,’ but most folks are satisfied with their lot. There are a few people who’ve been fretting about money lately.”

Jane watched the parsley sprigs disappear as the spoon created eddies in the broth. “Such as?”

“The one who comes to mind first is Gavin. He wasn’t planning on retiring this soon, you see, nor was he expecting to have a knee replacement. He doesn’t know that he’s put enough by.”

Jane instantly crossed Gavin off her mental list. Following his recent surgery, he was still relying on crutches, and he could hardly sneak in and out of guest rooms without the rest of the staff noticing. Not only that, but he was a Fin. His entire life had been devoted to keeping the Stewards safe. “I’ll have to talk with Gavin about his future,” Jane said. “Such devoted service should be rewarded. Who else?”

“There’s Ned, the bellhop.”

Jane’s heart was in her throat. “He talks about needing money?”

Mrs. Hubbard called for soup tureens. “Oh, sure,” she said as she lifted one of the heavy stockpots and filled a tureen with tomato soup. “He’s keen on Sarah Walter from the gift shop. And
she’s
keen on men who ride motorcycles. He’s been going on and on about saving up for a Harley. What’s the boy thinking?” She snorted. “On these mountain roads? What with the ice and snow we get in the wintertime? He’d be better off buying an old Jeep and setting his cap on a different girl.”

Jane thought Ned and Sarah would make a charming couple, but since she wanted Mrs. Hubbard to keep talking, she didn’t argue. “Is there anyone else?”

“Lizzie from housekeeping is always going on about her mom’s medical bills, and the cost of her monthly prescriptions.” Mrs. Hubbard clicked her tongue. “It’s a shame really. The way old folks are treated these days. You have to mortgage your life away just for the privilege of spending a few more years on this earth. I thank the good Lord each day that I’m hail and hearty. I come from a long line of women who stayed able of body and mind right up to their hundredth birthdays.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jane said. “I can’t imagine Storyton Hall without you. The heart of the whole house is in this kitchen. And you are its heartbeat.”

“Oh, stop it.” Mrs. Hubbard wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron, gave Jane a fierce hug, and then called for a second tureen. “I need to whip up the hollandaise sauce. Eat a bowl of soup before you go since you helped make it.” She winked at Jane and then pulled something out of the nearest oven with her bare hands and set it on a salad plate. “Here’s a warm and toasty grilled Gouda sandwich to go with it. I added a few slices of Granny Smith apples to give it a little crunch. The twins came up with the idea. The darling imps.”

The meal was so delicious and comforting that Jane experienced a fresh injection of hope. “She might be overly fond of gossip, but Mrs. Hubbard is an angel in disguise,” Jane said to herself as she finished her last bite of soup.

She was on her way back to her office when Sterling intercepted her in the stairwell. “A note was left for Professor Price at the front desk. No one saw who dropped it off and we couldn’t spot the individual on the video feed. In any case, we know that Price will be meeting this person at approximately three o’clock.”

“You read the note?”

Sinclair seemed surprised by the question. “Naturally. Mr. Sinclair opened the envelope and sealed it in a plastic bag in case it needs to be dusted for prints. After sharing the contents with Mr. Butterworth and myself, he placed it in a fresh envelope and wrote the professor’s name exactly as it appeared on the original envelope.”

“What did the note say?”

“It contained instructions for Professor Price to make his way to where Mrs. Chater was caught with her lover by the start of the afternoon tea service. He was to bring the payment in a Storyton Hall gift shop bag. A postscript warned that if he did not come alone, he would meet the same fate as Laertes, Hamlet, and Claudius.”

Jane drew in a sharp breath. “They all died from poison. Laertes and Hamlet received wounds from a sword with a poisoned blade, and King Claudius drank from a cup of poisoned wine. The letter writer must be the killer. The sheriff
does
have the wrong man!”

“Unless the person who wrote the note is strictly a blackmailer,” Sinclair countered. “Perhaps he or she possesses both the syringe and the book and is merely looking to profit from the demise of Mr. Hampden and Ms. McKee.”

“We should call Sheriff Evans,” Jane said.

Sinclair shook his head. “We don’t know the location yet. Mr. Sinclair believes that Mrs. Chater is a literary reference, but as he’s now in the Jane Austen Parlor hosting a roundtable discussion on the origin of the female detective character, he’s asked that you research the clue in his stead.”

“Of course. Right away.” Jane was about to dash off when she paused. “Keep trailing Desmond Price. I don’t care if we’re short on drivers today. The guests can hitchhike into the village if necessary. Has the professor been told that there’s a letter waiting for him at the front desk?”

Sterling shook his head. “No, he hasn’t been to his room since this morning. He won’t know about the note unless he listens to his voice mail.”

“At least that gives me a chance to puzzle out the meeting place. I’ll send word as soon as I know where he’s supposed to be come teatime.”

“Got it.” Sterling walked off at a brisk clip and Jane did the same.

Back in her office, she typed “Mrs. Chater” into Google’s search box and was rewarded with several hits. The first was a link to a website containing act-by-act summaries of a play called
Arcadia
by a British playwright named Tom Stoppard. Scanning the characters list, Jane read that Mrs. Chater was an unfaithful wife mentioned in Act One as having been caught in the carnal embrace of another man in the gazebo. “The gazebo.” Jane’s pulse quickened. “That must be it.”

She pictured the white wooden structure with the green roof and railing at the end of one of the resort’s secluded paths. Named the Green Gables Gazebo after the farmhouse in the books by Lucy Maud Montgomery, the gazebo faced the lake on one side and a copse of trees on two others. With most of the guests lining up for tea and treats, it was the perfect spot for a clandestine three o’ clock meeting.

Just to be sure, Jane checked other references to Mrs. Chater, but nothing else stood out like the detail about the gazebo. After sending a text to the Fins explaining what she’d discovered, Jane looked at the clock on her computer screen and sighed. There were another two hours to go before Desmond Price was supposed to show up at the gazebo.

Jane decided to pass some time by seeing how Aunt Octavia was faring. She rang the apartment, only to be told that her aunt was attending Sinclair’s roundtable. “She was quite eager to show the other mystery fans her edition of
The Adventures of Susan Hopley
by
Catherine Crews,” Uncle Aloysius said. “My darling wife has long been of the persuasion that Susan Hopley was one of the first female sleuths and—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Uncle Aloysius, but I need your advice on how to capture a murderer.” She told her uncle about the note.