Pecan Pies and Homicides (29 page)

Jane could. Her aunt wore voluminous housedresses fashioned from the most exotic prints and the boldest colors available. She ordered bolts of cloth from an assortment of catalogues and had Mabel Wimberly, a talented seamstress who lived in Storyton Village, sew the fabric into a garment she could slip over her head. Each dress had to come complete with several pockets as Aunt Octavia walked with the aid of a rhinestone studded cane and liked to load her pockets with gum, hard candy, pens, a notepad, bookmarks, and nail clippers. Today, she wore a black and lime zebra-striped dress and a black sunhat decorated with ostrich feathers.

And while Aunt Octavia's attire was flamboyant, Uncle Aloysius dressed like the country gentleman he was. His slacks and shirt were perfectly pressed and he always had a handkerchief peeking from the pocket of his suit. The only deviation from this conservative ensemble was his hat. Aloysius wore his fishing hat, complete with hooks, baits, and flies, all day long. He even wore it to church and Aunt Octavia had to remind him to remove it once the service got under way. Some of the staff whispered that he wore it to bed as well, but Jane didn't believe it. After all, several of the hooks looked rather sharp.

“What sandwiches did Mrs. Hubbard make today?” she asked her great uncle.

He patted his flat stomach. Uncle Aloysius was as tall and slender as his wife was squat and round. He was all points and angles to her curves and rolls. Despite their contrasting physical appearances and the passage of multiple decades, the two were still very much in love. Jane's great uncle liked to tell people that he was on a fifty-five-year honeymoon. “My darling wife will tell you that the egg salad and chive is the best,” he said. “I started with the brie, watercress, and walnut.” He handed Jane the plate of sandwiches and a pair of silver tongs. “That was lovely, but not as good as the fig and goat cheese.”

“In that case, I'll have one of each.” Jane helped herself to the diminutive sandwiches. “And a raisin scone.” Her gaze alighted on the jar of preserves near Aunt Octavia's elbow. “Is that Mrs. Hubbard's blackberry jam?”

“Yes and it's magnificent. But don't go looking for the Devonshire cream. The boys and I ate every last dollop.” Her great aunt sat back in her chair, rested her tiny hands on her great belly, and studied Jane's face. “You've got a spark about you, my girl. Care to enlighten us as to why you have a skip in your step and a twinkle in your eye?”

Jane told her great aunt and uncle about her Murder and Mayhem Week idea.

Uncle Aloysius leaned forward and listened without interruption, nodding from time to time. Instantly bored by the topic, Fitz and Hem scooted their chairs back and resumed their knight and dragon personas by skirmishing a few feet from the table until Aunt Octavia shooed them off.

“Go paint some seashells green,” she told Hem. “You can't be a decent dragon without scales. We have an entire bucket of shells in the craft closet.”

“What about me?” Fitz asked. “What else do I need to be a knight?”

Aunt Octavia examined him closely. “A proper knight needs a horse. Get a mop and paint a pair of eyes on the handle.”

Without another word, the twins sprinted for the basement stairs. Jane saw their sandy heads disappear and grinned. Her aunt had encouraged her to play similar games when she was a child and it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to see her sons doing the same.

“‘Imagination is more important than knowledge,'” was Aunt Octavia's favorite quote and she repeated it often. She said it again now and then waved for Jane to continue.

Throughout the interruption, Uncle Aloysius hadn't taken his eyes off Jane once. When she finished outlining her plan, he rubbed the white whiskers on his chin and gazed out across the wide lawn. “I like your idea, my dear. I like it very much. We can charge our guests a special weekly rate. And by special, I mean higher. We'd have to ask a pretty penny for the additional events. I expect we'll need to hire extra help.”

“But you think it will work?”

“I do indeed. It's splendid,” he said, smiling at her. “It could be the start of a new tradition. Mystery buffs in October, Western readers in July, fantasy fans for May Day.”

“A celebration of romance novels for Valentine's!” Aunt Octavia finished with a sweep of her arm.

Uncle Aloysius grabbed hold of his wife's hand and planted a kiss on her palm. “It's Valentine's Day all year long with you, my love.”

Jane felt a familiar stab of pain. It was during moments like these that she missed her husband the most. She'd been a widow for six years and had never been able to think of William Elliot without a pang of sorrow and agony. Watching her great uncle and aunt murmur endearments to each other, she wondered if ten years would be enough time to completely heal the hole in her heart left by her husband's passing.

“Jane? Are you gathering wool?” Aunt Octavia asked.

Shaking off her melancholy, Jane reached for the teapot and poured herself a nice cup of Earl Grey. “I'm afraid I was. Sorry.”

“No time for drifting off,” Uncle Aloysius said. “There's much to be done to prepare for this Murder and Mayhem Week of yours. And might I say.” He paused to collect himself and Jane knew that he was about to pay her a compliment. Her uncle was always very deliberate when it came to words of praise or criticism. “Your dedication to Storyton Hall does the Steward name proud. I couldn't have asked for a more devoted heir.”

Jane thanked him, drank the rest of her tea, and went into the manor house through the kitchen. She tarried for a moment to tell the staff how delicious the tea service was and then walked down the former servants' passage to her small, windowless office.

Sitting behind her desk, Jane flexed her fingers over her computer keyboard and began to type a list of possible events, meals, and decorating ideas for the Murder and Mayhem Week. Satisfied that Storyton Hall's future guests would have a wide range of activities and dining choices during the mystery week, she set about composing a newsletter announcing the dates and room rates. She made the special events appear even more enticing by inserting colorful stock photos of bubbling champagne glasses, people laughing, and couples dancing at a costume ball. She also included the book covers of some of Christie's best known works as well as tantalizing photographs of Storyton's most impressive dinner and dessert buffets.

“They'll come in droves,” she said to herself, absurdly pleased by the end result of the newsletter. “Uncle Aloysius is right. If this event is a resounding success, we can add on more and more over the course of the year. Then, we'll be able to fix this old pile of stones until it's just like it was when crazy Walter Egerton Steward had it dismantled, brick by brick, and shipped across the Atlantic. We'll restore the folly and the hedge maze and the orchards.” Her eyes grew glassy and she gazed off into the middle distance. “It'll be as he dreamed it would be. An English estate hidden away in the wilds of the Virginia mountains. An oasis for book lovers. A reader's paradise amid the pines.”

She reread the newsletter once more, searching for typos or grammatical errors, and, finding none, saved the document. She then opened a new email message and typed
newsletter recipients
in the address line. It gave her a little thrill to know that thousands of people would soon read about Storyton Hall's first annual Murder and Mayhem Week.

After composing a short email, Jane hit send, releasing her invitation into the world. Within seconds, former guests, future guests, and her newspaper and magazine contacts would catch a glimpse of what promised to be an unforgettable seven days. Tomorrow, she'd order print brochures to be mailed to the people on her contact list who preferred a more old-fashioned communication.

I'll have contacted thousands of people by the end of the week
, Jane thought happily.
Thousands of potential guests. Thousands of lovely readers.

But the lovely readers weren't the only ones who'd be receiving Jane Steward's invitation.

A murderer would get one too.