Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (21 page)

She clicked on a link listing the classes Desmond had taught over the course of his career and was astounded by the breadth of his expertise. “Nineteenth Century Literature,” “Twentieth Century Literature,” “Literary Theory,” “British Literature,” “Romanticism,” “Victorian Poetry,” “Drama.” Jane tapped her lips and stared at the word “Drama.”

“Eloise might have been on to something when she said ‘The play’s the thing’,” Jane said, feeling a tingle of exhilaration. “Cambridge isn’t far from Boston. Desmond and Felix Hampden could have met at Hampden Theater.”

Jane put Desmond’s name and the words ‘Hampden Theater,’ in Google’s search box. She was rewarded with a
Boston Magazine
article covering the annual Hampden Theater Benefit. The article was mainly a pictorial piece highlighting the power couples who’d come to support the theater. There were a dozen photographs of silver-haired men in tuxedos and middle-aged women in sparkling gowns. Jane studied a few of the captions and was surprised to find that most of the benefactors were from Cambridge. The article was redolent with quotes from these high-society patrons praising the quality of the theater company’s performances.

“You should have stuck to what you did best, Mr. Hampden.” Jane wagged a finger at an image of the man who had become the perfect embodiment of Umberto Ferrari. She scrolled to the bottom of the page in order to view the rest of the photographs and when her gaze fell on the second-to-last image, she inhaled sharply. There was Felix Hampden, wearing a top hat and a wide grin, shaking hands with a tall man with an arrogant stare. Desmond Price. The caption clearly identified both men as well as the woman standing at Hampden’s elbow. Janet Ingle. “Also known as Lizzie,” Jane said and picked up the phone. “Sheriff?” she said when a male voice came on the line. “It’s Jane Steward. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but there’s something I think you should know.”

•   •   •

By the time
Jane left her office, it was quite late. Whispering good night to the front desk clerk, Jane walked through the silent lobby to the back door. When she stepped out onto the terrace, the chill in the air was a shock. But its briskness felt good to Jane. The cold sting against her cheeks and the quickening of her blood reminded her of her own vitality. Drawing in a deep breath, she looked up at the night sky. Thousands of stars throbbed in the velvety blackness, and a high moon shone down on Milton’s gardens.

“How beautiful,” said a man’s voice from behind Jane.

Starting, she swiveled to find Edwin Alcott sitting in a wicker chair. Before she could speak, he got to his feet and held out his hands as if he were approaching a cornered animal. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“What are you doing here?” Jane asked sharply. The scare had made her angry.

Coming to stand beside her, he placed his coat over her shoulders. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. Eloise was here earlier and was told you were unavailable. I promised her that I’d wait on this porch until you appeared. All night if need be.” He quickly averted his gaze and gestured at the wide swath of grass separating the manor house from the cottages and outbuildings. “May I walk you home?”

Touched by his consideration, Jane nodded.

They moved down the stone path in silence. There was a pleasant stillness to the grounds, as if all the trees and plants were slumbering. The insect drone was muted and an owl hooted twice and fell quiet. The somnolent atmosphere should have increased Jane’s weariness, but she found Edwin’s closeness was both alarming and invigorating.

“I saw you earlier,” she whispered. “With Desmond Price.”

“Then you saw me showing restraint,” Edwin said. “If I’d known what a cad that man was at the ball, I’d have dealt with him then and there. Eloise only told me today.”

Jane laughed softly. “And you came rushing to Storyton Hall to defend her honor? Remind me never to make you angry.”

“Or me, you. After all, the last time we met, you were filling a straw target with arrows.”

Recalling how she’d suspected Edwin of being somehow involved in the murders, Jane felt a rush of shame. When they reached her stoop, she put a hand on his arm. “I haven’t been especially welcoming to you since your return to Storyton. I’m sorry.”

Edwin took her keys and unlocked the front door. He then stepped back, making it clear that he didn’t expect to be asked inside. “I’ll accept your apology on one condition.”

Jane’s heart raced. Was he going to kiss her? Without moving, she studied the planes of his handsome face, noting how the soft moonlight turned his hair a bluish black. She decided that she wouldn’t mind being kissed by Edwin Alcott. In fact, she believed she would enjoy it immensely. “What’s your condition?” she asked, slightly embarrassed by the huskiness in her voice.

“When things calm down, I’d like to meet you in the ballroom while the band is rehearsing. I’d like you to wear that silver dress. And I’d like to dance with you. Alone.”

Jane stared into his eyes, glittering like shards of onyx, and yearned to touch him. She wanted to run her fingers through his wavy hair, trace the line of his jaw, and slide her hands over his shoulders.

You are the guardian of Storyton Hall
, she reminded herself sternly.
A murderer in your employ was arrested today, and tomorrow, every guest will wake to find your letter slid under his or her door. This is not the time for romance. Or lust. Or whatever it is.

Swallowing her desire, Jane handed Edwin his coat. “A dance. With the room to ourselves.” She smiled. “I look forward to it. Thank you for coming to check on me, and please tell Eloise that I’ll call her in the morning. Tell her not to worry. I can handle whatever tomorrow brings.”

“I believe you can, Jane Steward,” Edwin said. With his gaze never leaving Jane’s face, he grinned and performed a rakish bow. And then he was gone.

The next morning, Jane filled a thermos with dark roast coffee and stood at the reception desk, her spine pole-straight and her shoulders thrown back, awaiting the onslaught of irate guests. As Aunt Octavia predicted, several people came forward in hopes of a discount. They all cited “the shocking events that occurred during our stay” as cause for tearing up their bill, but Jane produced a regretful smile and told them that while there would be no refunds, the guests were welcome to check out early without penalty.

No one accepted her offer. A wily couple threatened to speak with the media about her lack of contrition, but when the first of the television trucks pulled up behind a line of Storyton Hall Rolls-Royces, the disgruntled guests experienced an immediate change of heart. Like everyone else, they wanted to see what would happen next.

“It’s such a thrill!” one woman said to another as they served themselves coffee. “We came here to be immersed in murder and mayhem and here we are! Right smack in the middle of a
real
mystery!”

“They’re too interested in the story to leave,” Jane said to Butterworth after he’d issued a statement and then barred the door to yet another reporter.

Butterworth nodded. “I believe Miss Alcott was correct in her prediction.” His expression turned grave. “Our guests don’t realize that a murder investigation can cast a very long shadow. Lives are ruined. Secrets are laid bare. There is no privacy. No shelter. Not when justice is at stake.” He glanced at the people milling around the lobby. “They didn’t see what murder did to Mr. Hampden or to Ms. McKee. If they had, they wouldn’t be buzzing about like bees. They’d be in their rooms drinking cup after cup of strong tea and trying to read a well-loved book. They’d be looking for comfort.”

“Instead, they’re asking to reserve rooms for next year’s Murder and Mayhem Week,” Jane said. “Honestly, I don’t know what to feel other than a deep sense of shame. Two people died under this roof. We failed to keep them safe. And yet I can’t help but be relieved. For Storyton Hall. For my staff. I was hoping to merely survive this travesty, but now it seems we’ll end up profiting from it. That feels wrong to me.”

Butterworth regarded her with affection. “I wouldn’t have chosen to trade two lives—three, if you include Miss Hart’s—for a new roof either, but we must make the best of a tragic situation. That’s what you’ve done since you took over as resort manager. It’s why you’ll be an excellent guardian. Maybe the best we’ve ever had.”

Jane wished she shared Butterworth’s conviction. Though she handled the guests and the members of the media with sincerity, courtesy, and grace, she knew she’d be unable to devote her complete attention to any task until Lizzie and Desmond Price confessed their crimes or were sent to jail to await trial.

That afternoon, after Butterworth had forced the journalists to retreat to the other side of the main gates, Jane drove Sterling’s favorite Rolls to the sheriff’s station. The majority of her guests were either settled in a reading room, taking an archery class with Sterling, or sampling foods from famous mystery novels with Mrs. Hubbard, so Jane felt she could escape for an hour. She wanted reassurance from the sheriff that the two villains in his holding cells had no chance of obtaining their freedom. After speaking with Evans, she planned to drive the twins home from school. She didn’t want anyone from the press talking to her sons about the murders. That was her job.

Jane parked at the Pickled Pig and walked the three blocks to the station. The squat stone building looked more like an English cottage than the village’s hub of law enforcement, but Jane strode by the wrought iron garden benches, yellow climbing roses, and wheelbarrow filled with pumpkins and gourds without paying them any mind.

Inside, she found Sheriff Evans speaking to a deputy in low tones. As soon as he saw Jane, he waved for her to follow him back to his office.

“How are you, Ms. Steward?” he asked in a gentle voice, gesturing at a pair of side chairs near the window.

“I’m relieved to know that the killer and her accessory are in custody,” she said. “And our guests are taking things in stride. However, I still feel very anxious. I guess I’m looking for confirmation that this nightmare is truly over.”

“I do have good news to impart.” The sheriff sat opposite Jane and tucked his thumbs into his utility belt. “In the hopes of getting a more lenient sentence, Desmond Price has provided us with a full confession.”

Jane felt the air rush out of her lungs. “Thank heavens! Was the article I found on the Hampden Theater benefit helpful?”

“It most certainly was.” The sheriff beamed at her. “It tipped the scales in our favor, as a matter of fact. During our previous interviews, Mr. Price denied knowing Mr. Hampden. Repeatedly. This morning, he had a change of tune. When I placed a copy of the photograph from the benefit on the table, he crumpled. Shortly afterward, he told us all we needed to know.”

“What happened that night?” Jane was on tenterhooks.

“Mr. Price asked Mr. Hampden if he’d be interested in applying his unique skill set in exchange for fifty thousand dollars.” The sheriff shook his head. “According to the professor, everyone in Cambridge viewed Hampden as a crook, but none of them cared because he produced such excellent plays.”

Jane raised her brows. “Desmond had that much money to offer as payment? I was under the impression he wasn’t exactly flush with cash.”

“He raised it by taking a second mortgage and selling anything of value. He gave Mr. Hampden ten thousand up front and Janet Ingle was immediately dispatched to Storyton Hall to apply for a job. I believe she planned to cut out Mr. Hampden from the onset. If she’d found the manuscript the professor was after, I think she would have collected the balance from him and left Mr. Hampden in the lurch.” Sherriff Evans smirked. “Ms. Ingle hasn’t said much, but she did admit that her lifelong dream has been to open her own theater.”

“What manuscript were they looking for?” Jane asked innocently.

“One written by a lady mystery author named Adela Dundee.” The sheriff shrugged. “I only read nonfiction, so I don’t know her work, but I take it she’s quite famous. Mr. Price was under the impression that an undiscovered manuscript was hidden somewhere in Storyton Hall and that if he found it, he’d be compensated by Adela Dundee’s descendants. Apparently, he’s been trying to win their favor for years.”

Jane thought of the small boy on the cover of Desmond Price’s much-criticized
Tea with Adela Dundee
. “How sad. But where did he get the notion that this manuscript could be found at Storyton Hall?”

“He cites two sources,” Evans said. “The first being a letter in the book edited by Miss Hart, and the second, Miss Hart herself. Mr. Price and Miss Hart had a long conversation at an academic conference they both attended when Miss Hart was still teaching. That same evening, the professor invited Miss Hart to join him at the hotel bar. He bought her several drinks and pumped the rather inebriated young lady for information. Her replies, though cryptic, confirmed his theory that the manuscript existed and had been mailed to Storyton decades ago.”

“I wish I knew where it was.” Jane managed a dry laugh. “I’m a huge Adela Dundee fan.”

Sheriff Evans shrugged. “There’s no conclusive proof that it’s real, Ms. Steward. Even if it made it to Storyton Hall, who can say what’s become of it? It could have been in some attic room being nibbled by mice for the past fifty years.”

“We do not have vermin in our resort,” Jane chastised the sheriff and then smiled to show that she wasn’t truly offended. “I can understand Desmond Price’s interest in the manuscript. But what of Moira McKee? How did she fit into this grim picture?”

“According to the professor, Miss McKee was after the same thing. She wanted to auction the manuscript to the highest bidder and use the money to save her school. Janet—”

“Can you please call her Lizzie?” Jane interrupted. “I’ve come to know her by that name.”

“Certainly. To continue, Lizzie decided to eliminate any and all competition. She’d already used the syringe taken from Mr. Collins’s medicine kit to kill Mr. Hampden, so she felt confident she could pull off another murder and have it appear as an accidental death. Both Mr. Hampden and Ms. McKee suffered from seasonal allergies, and Lizzie was able to inject the frog toxin into their nasal spray.”

Jane instinctively covered her own nose with her hand. “That’s awful! And horribly cruel.”

“Very cruel,” Evans agreed. “And most effective. The toxin shot straight into their nasal cavities. The victims would have experienced its effects almost immediately and been unable to call for help.”

Jane fell silent. She tried to block the memory of Moira McKee lying on the bathroom floor, but she remembered the smear of bright red on the toilet as if she were gazing down at it right now. Images of Felix Hampden’s twisted limbs and clawlike hands followed and she shuddered. Willing herself back to the present, she said, “Lizzie killed two people for forty thousand dollars?”

“The number may be closer to a hundred grand,” the sheriff said. “She admitted knowing the combination to Mr. Hampden’s safe. She was confident that he had over fifty thousand in cash, treasury bonds, and stolen jewelry squirreled away.”

Jane gave him a baffled look. “How did she know that Kevin’s syringe was filled with poison dart frog toxin? How did she even come to find it in the first place?”

Evans sighed. “Astonishing, isn’t it? To think that Mr. Collins traveled with something so lethal. Mind you, this is all coming secondhand from Desmond Price, but the story he tells is that Lizzie learned quite a bit about Mr. Collins and his research from Alice Hart. The two ladies became friendly during Miss Hart’s visit. The only thing Miss Hart refused to divulge was her real reason for visiting Storyton. Fearing that the girl would leave without sharing what she knew about the Adela Dundee manuscript, Lizzie shot an arrow near the horse Miss Hart was riding. Her intent was to injure the girl—for her to suffer a broken limb or another type of injury that would have her laid up for a few days. Sadly, that was not Miss Hart’s fate.”

“So it was all happenstance. If Kevin hadn’t packed the syringe. If he’d stayed in another hotel. If Lizzie—”

“She would have found another method, Ms. Steward. She was determined to have that money, no matter what the cost.”

Jane groaned. “If only we’d never given her a job, but she seemed desperate to support her ailing mother. I am such a fool!”

“No,” Evans said. “Kindness isn’t foolishness.” He got up and walked to the bulletin board hanging above a bank of file cabinets. “This is a poster of the FBI’s most-wanted fugitives. These men are here because they made devastatingly terrible choices. They destroyed lives. Including their own. Janet Ingle was motivated by greed. She repaid your generosity by murdering two of your guests. She and Desmond Price are to blame. Not you. In fact, Mr. Butterworth gave me a copy of her employment application and I called the people she listed as references. They were all actors in Janet’s company. You wouldn’t have known that they lived in Massachusetts because the numbers belonged to disposable cell phones.”

“She was clever.” Jane felt despondent again. “Clever and devious. I’m going to have to be more careful from now on.”

Evan frowned. “Oh, I don’t know about that. After all, her plan was foiled by you, a butler, a chauffeur, a librarian, and an octogenarian in a wheelchair. I’d say you’ve got things well in hand.”

The warmth in the sheriff’s tone coaxed a smile from Jane. “I need to pick up my boys now, but thank you for filling me in. I hope Lizzie confesses and we can avoid a courtroom trial.”

“I have a feeling she just might.” The sheriff lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You see, I told her that my brother runs the women’s prison and that I’d make sure she was given a lifetime of latrine duty should she choose to remain uncooperative. That woman loathed being a housekeeper at Storyton Hall.”

Evans escorted Jane to the door and wished her a good afternoon.

Feeling more hopeful than she’d thought possible, Jane stopped in the Pickled Pig to buy the boys old-fashioned candy sticks. She’d barely made it to the bulk candy display before the Hogg brothers and several other locals crowded around her. Jane expected them to ply her for details about the murders, but they didn’t. Every last one of them touched her in some way—a pat on the hand or the shoulder—asked if she was all right, and offered to help her in any way. Their thoughtfulness brought tears to her eyes and she could have hugged them all in gratitude, but she had to hurry to reach the twins’ school before the final bell.

She arrived just as the children were spilling from the building in a cacophonous burst of shouts and squeals. Fitz and Hem spotted her immediately and ran into her open arms.

“We’re famous!” Hem cried. “Everyone was talking about Lizzie today!”

“How she
killed
people!” Fitz added. “And how Aunt Octavia stopped her!”

The twins bounced up and down with every exclamation, and Jane knew that even though they were very young, she had to impress upon them the seriousness of what had happened over the past few days.

Leading them to a nearby bench, she handed them the butterscotch candy sticks and told them that sometimes people could be twisted by their own desires. She explained that Lizzie’s greed had grown out of control, making her willing to do horrible things in exchange for money. Jane went on to say that even though TV vans had showed up at Storyton Hall and that the resort was all anyone could talk about, murder was never cause for celebration. It was, she said in a solemn voice, the worst crime one human could commit against another. When the twins’ faces lost their animated glow, Jane felt that she’d made her point.

The boys sucked their candy sticks and frowned, trying to process what they’d heard.

“It won’t change, will it?” Fitz asked after a long silence.

Jane saw the trepidation in his eyes and picked up his small hand. “What won’t change?”

“Home,” Hem answered for his brother. “Everything.”