Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (19 page)

“The professor might be the real villain,” her uncle pointed out. “He could have masterminded the entire plot. Just because he didn’t carry out the murders doesn’t mean he isn’t involved. This situation is fraught with peril, Jane.”

“How would you handle it?” Jane asked. “I don’t have your knife-throwing skills, and I can’t hang around the gazebo with a shotgun slung over my shoulder. I don’t want to do anything that might endanger or alarm our guests.”

“Quite right,” her uncle said. “Have Butterworth retrieve the blowgun from the safari room. Mr. Sterling has special darts stored in his arsenal that will knock out the diabolical pair without causing permanent damage.”

“I like the irony in your choice of weapon,” Jane said. “That’s how the poison dart frog got its name, you know. The natives used to dip their blowgun darts in the toxins secreted by the frogs. Their enemies stood no chance.”

Uncle Aloysius made a low, guttural sound. “Neither will ours, my dear. Neither will ours.”

•   •   •

According to Sterling,
Desmond Price returned to his room shortly after two and immediately rushed to the front desk to collect his note. After reading it, he slid the envelope into his coat pocket, glanced at his watch, and hurried toward the gift shop. Sterling followed him at a safe distance.

Jane waited until both men were gone and then told Butterworth that she planned to hide behind a tree within earshot of the gazebo. “But I’m calling the sheriff first,” she said. “I refuse to behave like a character in a horror novel—one of those ditzy women who race headlong into danger without considering the consequences. I have my boys to think about, and they’ll be home from school by half past three.”

Butterworth looked pensive. “I’d better have Ned take them straight to the kitchens. I’m certain Mrs. Hubbard can keep them occupied. Perhaps they can wash dishes in exchange for a cookie or two.”

Jane laughed. “Knowing Mrs. Hubbard, she’ll pinch their cheeks and then ply them with lemonade and ice cream.” Seeing Butterworth peek at his pocket watch, she instantly sobered and shared her uncle’s idea about using the blowgun.

Butterworth took out his phone and started texting as fast as a teenage girl. After receiving a reply, he gave a satisfied nod. “We’re all set. I’m coming with you. Let me give Ned his instructions and hand my post over to Billy. Sinclair will join us as soon as he’s able.”

“I’ll meet you on the terrace. I want to get in touch with the sheriff without delay so he can get here as soon as possible.”

Butterworth agreed and Jane proceeded to the terrace to make the call. When Sheriff Evans got on the line, she hurriedly told him that she suspected the criminal activities at Storyton Hall had yet to come to an end.

“Your note writer could be Mr. Collins,” Evans said when she was done.

Jane was stunned to hear this. “How?”

“He asked for legal representation, and due to our lack of evidence, we were forced to release him late this morning. When was the note delivered?”

“Just past noon.” Jane glanced around, half expecting to see Kevin Collins skulking near the shrubbery at the edge of the lawn.

The sheriff’s voice turned stern. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do not approach Professor Price. Keep your distance.”

“I will,” Jane promised. She planned to have a dozen trees between herself and the gazebo, but nothing would stop her from learning the identity of the letter writer. She was immensely relieved when Butterworth appeared, the outline of the blowgun visible beneath his uniform coat. Sinclair was close on his heels.

“I’ll hide within range after I’ve collected what I need from the garage,” Butterworth said. He put a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “Be vigilant and be careful.”

Wordlessly, Jane and Sinclair struck out for the gazebo. Sinclair had a satchel in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other. Jane noticed that the sleek viewing device doubled as a digital camera.

“Brilliant,” she said. “Can it record voices too?”

“On the movie setting, yes.”

The pair maneuvered around the gazebo and took up a position between a maple tree with a wide trunk and the dense needles of a spruce. Sinclair opened his satchel and pulled out two thin jackets with a camouflage pattern. “Put this on,” he said.

Jane complied, feeling ridiculous and excited and more than a little scared. Her body was producing so much adrenaline that she could barely force her trembling fingers to zip the jacket closed. After a few minutes of tormenting silence, Sinclair’s phone buzzed. He examined the screen. “Mr. Butterworth is nearby and Professor Price is en route.”

Tensing, Jane focused her gaze on the path leading to the gazebo. Sure enough, Price was heading their way, a plastic bag from the gift shop dangling from his right hand. However, he found his way blocked by a tall man with dark hair.

“Edwin,” Jane said. She was confused. “Does he know Desmond?”

“It certainly appears that way,” Sinclair said.

Because they were too far away, Jane couldn’t hear the exchange between the two men but she could see that Desmond Price felt threatened. He held out his hands in supplication and shrank away from Edwin. Edwin loomed over the professor, his every movement channeling menace.

“Desmond still has the plastic bag,” Jane said. “Is Edwin the letter writer?”

She didn’t want him to be. Could her best friend’s brother have plotted against Jane and everyone in Storyton Hall just to get his hands on their copy of
Lost Letters
? Recalling how the illuminated manuscript had disappeared from the Italian museum where Edwin had been working, Jane wondered if she’d been a fool for not trying to find out what he knew about rare books. She remembered the face staring out at her from behind the dirty glass of the café window. Assessing her. Watching her. Was Eloise’s brother a killer?

She saw Edwin jab Desmond once in the chest, and then he strode off toward the path leading to the main road.

“He’s not our man,” Sinclair said, tapping his phone screen. “He was threatening Desmond—telling him to stay away from Eloise. He also made Desmond promise to send her a note of apology.” Sinclair raised his brows. “I guess Mr. Alcott heard about the professor’s behavior at the costume ball and didn’t care for it at all.”

Jane sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. I really didn’t want him to be involved.”

Desmond was heading their way again. He’d barely stepped onto the gazebo’s wooden platform when Jane spotted Ned running across the lawn. He was carrying something in his right hand. From a distance, it looked very much like a book.

“No,” Jane whispered. “Not Ned.”

Drawing closer to Desmond Price, Ned called out, “Sir! Sir!”

Desmond swung around. His legs were bent slightly at the knees, and his hands came up by his sides. He was coiled and ready to spring.

Not Ned
, Jane thought miserably. She repeated the mantra over and over again in her mind as if she could change the scene unfolding before her. Ned had been one of her favorites since he started working at Storyton Hall. His fellow staff members liked him, guests found him charming, and the twins adored him. Would he really betray everyone who cared for him just to buy a motorcycle and impress a pretty girl?

“What do you want?” she heard Desmond say in a guarded tone.

“You left this in the gift shop,” Ned said, breathing hard. He handed Desmond the book. Jane couldn’t read the title, but she knew from the rose pink cover that it was one of three Storyton Hall cookbooks available in the resort’s shop. The book with the pink cover was filled with dessert recipes. It was the store’s most popular item next to the twelve-pack of souvenir postcards.

“So I did. Thank you.” Desmond accepted the book with a forced smile. Digging in his pocket, he came up with a crumpled bill, which he pressed into Ned’s hand. The moment Ned departed, Desmond lowered himself on the gazebo’s built-in bench and stared toward the entrance with a look of desperate anticipation.

Jane’s shoulders sagged in relief. Ned wasn’t involved. He was merely doing a guest a service. He’d probably been flirting with Sarah and because they were both distracted, neither of them had noticed that Desmond failed to collect all of his purchases. When they finally realized he’d left the cookbook behind, Ned had sprinted after him.

Checking her watch, Jane saw that it was three o’clock on the nose. Beside her, Sinclair raised his binoculars and did a sweep of the area. He then stopped and froze.

Putting his index finger to his lips to signal for quiet, he passed the binoculars to Jane. Taking a moment to absorb the magnified images, Jane looked toward the manor house and nearly shouted in dismay. The twins were home from school early and were pushing Aunt Octavia’s wheelchair in their direction. With Ned chasing after the professor, there’d been no one to send the boys to Mrs. Hubbard. And unless they turned right where the path came to a T, they’d either scare off the letter writer or block his or her escape route.

Why are you coming this way?
Jane wanted to yell at her aunt, but she clenched her fists and kept still. Sinclair reclaimed the binoculars, pressed the red record button, and stiffened.

Without the slightest noise, not even the merest scuff of a rubber sole against the stone path or the crack of a dry leaf underfoot, a woman dressed in a housekeeper’s uniform suddenly appeared at the gazebo’s entrance.

Jane’s hand flew over her mouth as she tried to force a gasp back down her throat.

“Do you have my book?” Desmond asked.

“Do you have my money?” was the woman’s retort.

He touched the bag at his right hip. “Let me see it first.”

The woman reached into her apron pocket and pulled out
a copy of
Lost Letters.
With blinding swiftness, Desmond grabbed it from her and savagely tore off the dust jacket. A small envelope fluttered onto the floorboards. He scooped it up and gave a little yelp of triumph.

“My money?” the woman persisted.

Ignoring her, Desmond opened the envelope, unfolded a single sheaf of beige paper, and began to read. His mouth curved into a smile and he pumped his fist in the air. “It’s true!” he cried. “It does exist! And it’s here, in Storyton Hall!”

“Give me my money.” The woman’s mouth twisted in an ugly snarl.

Desmond was instantly contrite. “My apologies. I am overcome. This discovery will change everything.” He offered her the plastic bag. “It’s exactly what we agreed upon.”

The woman snatched the bag and peered inside. She then sat on the other end of the bench and laid out stacks of twenty-dollar bills. Fanning each stack, she grunted in satisfaction and tossed the money into the bag. “It was nice doing business with you, Professor. Next time you’re in the mood for a play, drop by Felix’s theater. It’ll be coming under new management soon.” A wicked grin spread over her face.

“Hi, Lizzie!” a boy shouted from the path. The greeting was echoed by a second boy.

Jane was about to leap forward when Sinclair clamped a hand over her arm. Shaking his head, he mimed someone blowing into a tube. Jane realized that he was trying to warn her that Butterworth had Lizzie in his sights and that she needed to remain still. But the presence of her sons had multiplied the level of the danger and all Jane could think about was putting herself between them and Lizzie.

The boys pushed Aunt Octavia’s wheelchair right up to the gazebo’s steps and then stopped. With no means of getting her into the structure, they moved to the side of her chair and stood at attention like two soldiers. Throwing their shoulders back and clicking their heels together, they put their hands to their foreheads in salute. “Permission to break for snack, General Octavia?” Hem asked.

“Permission granted.” Aunt Octavia returned the salute.

In a flash, a syringe materialized in Lizzie’s hand. Though she kept it by her side, her thumb was on the plunger. Jane could see it clearly, but she doubted either her aunt or sons could.

“We’re in search of a private spot,” Aunt Octavia told Lizzie breezily. On her lap, she had a book and a Tupperware container. She patted the plastic lid and, smiling at Desmond as if including him in her secret, said, “To divvy up the contraband.”

“What?” Lizzie asked, her suspicious gaze fixed on Aunt Octavia and the boys.

“Cakes and cookies,” Fitz said in a stage whisper and pointed at the food container. “She’s not allowed to have them anymore but—”

“We’re going to share the ones Mrs. Hubbard gave us,” Hem finished his brother’s thought. “We got out of school early because our teacher stapled her own leg. It was awesome!”

Jane was in agony. She wished Butterworth would shoot Lizzie already. If that toxin got on either of the twins’ skin, there’d be no saving them. Reaching into Sinclair’s pocket, she grabbed his phone and texted,
Take her down!

“The gazebo is yours. I was just leaving,” Desmond said and tried to scoot past Lizzie.

Jane had a clear view of Lizzie’s face. A moment ago, she’d been composed and calm, but now she had the look of a cornered animal. Her eyes had gone so wide that Jane could see the whites from where she stood. She couldn’t keep from lurching forward, instinctively sensing that Lizzie was about to lash out.

Proving Jane right, Lizzie turned to Desmond and raised the syringe. In the same instant, there was a whistling sound and then Lizzie faltered. Dumbfounded, she glanced down to see a dart protruding from the gift shop bag pressed against her hip. Her face wrinkled in fury and her lips pulled back in a terrifying sneer.

“No!”
Jane screamed as she saw Lizzie lunge for the twins and Aunt Octavia.

There was another whistle. This time, the dart struck Lizzie in the arm. She shrieked and batted the dart to the ground. As Jane ran toward her sons, she saw Desmond climb over the side of gazebo and break into a run. Sterling jumped out of the woods and leapt onto the professor’s back. Jane didn’t stop to watch them fall. She was too focused on reaching her boys.

Lizzie was staggering, but if she took another two steps forward, she’d be close enough to fire a stream of toxin onto the twins or Aunt Octavia. Butterworth must have also recognized that the tranquilizer wasn’t working fast enough because he vaulted over a fallen log and raced toward the gazebo.