Murder in the Paperback Parlor (13 page)

Jane stiffened. Georgia could only be referring to one feline, but Jane couldn't imagine what would possess Muffet Cat to enter the conference room. At this time of the day, he was usually searching for a sunny place to take a long nap.

Muffet Cat released a low growl—a clear sign that he disliked someone.

“He's gone under the table,” Deputy Emory said with a hint of a smile in her voice.

“Never mind about the cat,” the sheriff said. “Ms. Dupree, please have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Jane could see Georgia's leopard-print heels pause in front of the air vent. “I'd prefer an explanation. I'm at this event to be seen, not to be called away from an important activity to attend a clandestine meeting with members of local law enforcement.” She sucked in a quick breath and continued. “I assume that a crime's been committed. A robbery, perhaps? I'm not missing anything if that's what you want to know.”

“We're not investigating a theft, Ms. Dupree,” the sheriff said and launched into his questions.

For that point on, Georgia behaved just like Maria Stone. She refused to account for her whereabouts until the sheriff told her that Rosamund was dead.

“Really?” Georgia failed to conceal her excitement. “How?”

The sheriff ignored her questions and repeated his own until Georgia reluctantly cooperated. In the midst of her recitation, Georgia seemed to suddenly realize that she was being asked to provide an alibi. Her smug demeanor vanished and she began to whine. “Wait a minute. Is some maniac targeting famous authors? Should I be worried? Could I be
next
?”

From somewhere under the table, Muffet Cat growled.

I'm with you, Muffet Cat,
Jane thought.
Does Georgia really think the sheriff is going to buy her frightened female act? The woman is an egomaniac. Even now, she has to lump herself in with Rosamund
.

Jane suddenly realized that Sheriff Evans had asked Georgia another question.

“Naturally, there was a certain amount of competition between us, but we were both professionals,” Georgia said. She'd dropped all pretense of fear and had adopted a haughty tone instead. “We didn't go around pulling each other's hair or exchanging insults in public.”

Deputy Emory murmured something to the sheriff and then said, “I don't know much about romance novels—I'm a diehard mystery reader—but I did some research on your genre's most notable authors earlier this morning. Judging by the number of weeks Ms. York's novels remain on the major bestseller lists, she was not only a successful writer and a wealthy woman, but also a household name. Could the same be said of you?”

Jane smiled. She was growing fonder of Deputy Emory by the minute.

“We were nearly on par,” Georgia muttered sourly. “I have no doubt that my next release would have been more successful than Rosamund's. Her fans were
very
disappointed by the advanced reader copies Rosamund gave away at the charity auction, so I was confident that I'd soon be outranking her on those bestseller lists.”

“Perhaps you decided not to leave that up to chance,” Sheriff Evans said.

“Are you implying that
I
killed Rosamund York?” Georgia's ire was rising. “That's absolutely preposterous. You
heard my itinerary from yesterday. You must realize I hardly had time to sit down, let alone bump off my riv—” She halted abruptly and took a deep, steadying breath. “My novels might be filled with intrigue and violence, but I don't act out my plots. I'm not the sort of person who confuses fact with fiction, and I hope you aren't either, Sheriff. I hope you're not reenacting
The Crucible
or
The Witch of Blackbird Pond
just to make a name for yourself
.
”

When the sheriff didn't reply, Georgia went on. “I can see that my literary references are lost on you. What I'm saying is that you'd better not be conducting a witch hunt.”

“Actually, I am quite familiar with both Arthur Miller's play and the young adult novel by Elizabeth George Speare, and I can assure you that this is no witch hunt,” the sheriff said. “This is a murder investigation. It's also your only chance to come clean, Ms. Dupree. Do you have anything else to share with us?”

One of the things Jane had told Sheriff Evans when they were back in her office was the threat Mrs. Pratt had overheard Georgia whisper to Rosamund in the elevator of another hotel. Georgia had called Rosamund a charlatan and vowed to take her rightful place “at the top.” She'd repeated this notion shortly after arriving at Storyton Hall. Jane had recited her exact words to the sheriff. “The time has finally come for you to disappear,” Georgia had said, “And I promise you this, Rosamund. Yours will
not
be a happy ending.”

Making no mention of either of these occurrences, Georgia insisted she had nothing else to say. Jane heard the whoosh of wheels on the carpet as she pushed her chair away from the table.

“Before you go, Ms. Dupree, I was wondering if you could tell me why someone would call Ms. York a charlatan.” The sheriff's tone was that of mild curiosity, but Jane wasn't fooled.

“I have no idea.” Georgia sounded bored. “Maybe you should ask one of her fans.”

“I believe
you
used the term to describe her,” the sheriff continued in a low and dangerous voice. “I believe you also vowed to take Ms. York's place. How could you be so sure
that hers would be an unhappy ending unless you had a hand it that ending?”

“How dare you!” Georgia shouted, shoving her chair backward until it struck the wall. Jane flinched and Muffet Cat meowed in alarm and raced over to the air vent. He pressed his face against the brass vent cover, his black nose quivering as he detected Jane's familiar scent. He meowed again. This time, it was a short, quick noise of inquiry, as though he were saying,
What are
you
doing back there?

Luckily, Georgia was too incensed to pay attention to Muffet Cat. “Are you accusing me of killing Rosamund? Because if you are, I want a lawyer. If you're not, then I demand to be released. I will
not
be treated like a criminal. Not
everyone
in the world was a fan of the great and wonderful Rosamund York, you know. She angered dozens of people with that new book of hers. You have a hotel filled with potential suspects.” She spoke so quickly and heatedly that she was nearly panting. “Well? Are you arresting me or not?”

Sheriff Evans sighed and explained that while he wasn't placing anyone under arrest, he would be sequestering certain individuals in the Henry James library. Hearing this, Georgia let loose a shriek of protest, claiming that it was her duty to interact with her fans. Her complaints fell on deaf ears.

At long last, Deputy Emory led Georgia from the room.

“What a piece of work,” the sheriff mumbled and used his radio to send for his final suspect: Nigel Poindexter.

Jane prayed Nigel's interview would be brief. The three cups of coffee she'd consumed earlier had passed through her system and her bladder was uncomfortably full. Not only that, but her legs were cramped from being in the same position for nearly two hours on the cold, hard floor.

Muffet Cat peered between the octagons of the air intake cover again and when he mewled in frustration, Sheriff Evans snapped his fingers and make clicking noises with this tongue. “Would kitty like some cream?”

Muffet Cat vanished and Jane smiled as the sheriff fussed over the coddled feline.

“Sir?” The voice emitting from the sheriff's radio sounded
anxious. “The staff has been unable to locate Mr. Poindexter. They've searched the entire house and grounds, but there's no sign of him.”

“Stay where you are, Phelps,” the sheriff said. “I'll track down Ms. Steward. Deputy Emory and I had better look inside Mr. Poindexter's room.”

I hope Lachlan already had the chance to search it
,
Jane thought. She was filled with a powerful sense of unease. Where could Nigel be? And how could he have disappeared without the Fins knowing?

Jane waited for the sheriff to leave the William Faulkner and then scrambled to her feet, grabbed the recorder, and, after peeking out through a crack in the broom cupboard door to be sure she was alone, hurried down the hall.

In the employee restroom, she glanced in the mirror and was startled by her appearance. Her skirt suit was covered with dust, her hair was unkempt, and her face was pale.

“You look like a ghost,” she told her reflection, which frowned back at her.

Jane wiped the dust off her clothes with a damp paper towel, washed her hands, and then pinched her cheeks until two red spots bloomed on her skin.

“There. That's how the Guardian of Storyton Hall should look.” She smoothed her jacket and squared her shoulders. “Like someone prepared to hunt down a killer.”

Jane unlocked the door to one of Storyton's smaller guest rooms. Located in the front of the manor house, it had a view of the long driveway, the mist-covered blue hills, and the low, gray sky.

Out of habit, Jane knocked on the door before pushing it open, and then she, Sheriff Evans, and Deputy Emory entered.

Jane quickly scanned the room. Despite signs that Nigel had made himself at home—yesterday's paper was scattered over the desk, several paperbacks and a pair of reading glasses were on the bedside table, and half a dozen whiskey bottles were clustered on the dresser—the space felt curiously unoccupied.

“He didn't sleep here,” Jane said. “The housekeeper performed her turndown service last night and this bed hasn't been touched since then. There isn't so much as a wrinkle in the coverlet.”

“The treats on the pillows? What's inside the gold foil?” Deputy Emory asked.

Jane walked over to the bed. “Chocolate truffles. Homemade in Storyton's kitchens. The staff makes a different flavor each day. I believe yesterday's was caramelized white chocolate.”

“I wouldn't leave those little gems behind, but it looks like Mr. Poindexter did,” the deputy said.

Sheriff Evans wriggled his hands into a pair of blue latex gloves and looked at Jane. “With your permission?” he asked, and then opened the top dresser drawer. He rifled through a row of socks and folded undershirts before investigating the next drawer, which held a pair of pajama pants and a Florida Gators T-shirt.

“Deputy, would you check the bathroom?” the sheriff asked. Having finished with the dresser, he flipped on the closet light and examined the contents. Peering over his shoulder, Jane saw dress shirts, slacks, and a navy sports coat. Nigel's suitcase was propped on the luggage rack.

Without turning away from the clothes, Sheriff Evans said, “Nothing unusual here. If Mr. Poindexter left the premises, he didn't take much with him.”

Jane edged past him and moved to the back of the walk-in closet. “His coat is gone. Was his wallet in the dresser?”

“No.” The sheriff crossed the room, heading for the desk. “He's a writer, so—”

“Where's his computer?” Jane completed his thought. “Or his notes. Memo pads. Anything to show that he came to Romancing the Reader to write articles.”

Sheriff Evans pointed at the phone. “It's time to mobilize the troops. If your people have already combed the house and grounds, we'll need to widen the search. I'll send men into the woods and have others canvas the village.”

While the sheriff placed his call, Jane joined Deputy Emory in the bathroom.

“All the towels are folded,” she said, looking from the sink to the shower and tub unit. “Have you found anything?”

The young deputy, who'd also donned a pair of latex gloves, was prodding the contents of a plastic bag with her fingertip. She didn't open the bag, but held it to the light and frowned.

“The bag was in the garbage can, buried under schedules from the recreation desk. These look like beans,” Deputy Emory said. “Do you know what they are?”

The deputy laid the bag flat on her palm and Jane peered
down at the glossy brown beans. Each one was mottled by splotches of black and was about the size of a coffee bean. Very few of them were whole. Most had been split open and hollowed out. “They could be beans or a type of plant seed. I'm not sure.”

Deputy Emory pulled an X-Acto knife from Nigel's medicine kit. “Unless he was scrapbooking in his spare time, he probably used this knife to cut open the beans.”

“Tom Green should be arriving any minute now to deliver today's flower arrangements. I bet he can identify these for us,” Jane said. “His knowledge of plants is boundless.”

“We should definitely talk to him. Let me just show the sheriff first.” The deputy left the bathroom and Jane seized the opportunity to look inside Nigel's medicine kit.

Staring at his comb, toothbrush, and bottle of aftershave without touching them, she thought,
Everything he left can be easily replaced.

Jane glanced at her watch and, when she saw that it was nearly noon, the knot that had formed hours ago in the pit of her stomach tightened. Emerging from the bathroom, she caught the sheriff's eye. “I'll have to make an announcement to the guests. Most of them will be gathering in the lobby for the first lunch seating, but I can have them go into the theater where the trivia contest is still in progress and address them en masse. If they don't hear about Ms. York's death from me, I could be facing an angry mob by tea time.”

Sheriff Evans nodded. “I'll stand with you. My presence will reinforce the directive that no one may leave the resort without permission. Shall we return to your office and draft a statement while Deputy Emory speaks with Mr. Green?”

As it turned out, Tom Green was waiting for Jane at the reception desk. He held a tall bouquet of red flowers in his arms as though he were cradling a newborn. “These are for you,” he said, his face shining with impish delight. “From a
secret
admirer. He placed the order with my assistant, so I was unable to identify his voice, but he wanted to make sure that you were told the meaning behind the gladiolus flower.”

“Which is?” Jane asked, feeling the curious gazes of both Sheriff Evans and Deputy Emory on her.

“Moral integrity and strength,” Tom said and then shrugged. “It's not the most romantic sentiment, but maybe your suitor is saving that message for tomorrow, seeing as it's Valentine's Day.”

Edwin
, Jane thought, reaching for the flowers.

Though she wanted to rush into her office and bury her face in the fragrant blooms, Jane had no time to lose herself in girlish fantasies of a late-night dance or the hope of a moonlit kiss. “Tom, would you mind taking a look at the objects in Deputy Emory's bag? We're hoping you can identify them for us.”

Deputy Emory placed the bag on the registration desk. “Please don't touch the bag, sir.”

Tom raised his brows in surprise, but was too intrigued to question the deputy. Hands clasped obediently behind his back, he bent over the bag. “What do we have here?” Chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he murmured, “An excellent deer repellant. Fast growing. Lovely foliage. But dangerous.” He straightened and looked from Jane to the sheriff. “I refuse to carry these at the Potter's Shed. Not in any form. Seeds, seedlings, or fully matured plant. They're too toxic and plenty of other plants can deter deer. Any plant or shrub with thorns, aromatic or sharp foliage, or fuzzy leaves. Deer are not fond of fuzzy leaves or—”

“Mr. Green.” The sheriff cut him off. “Do these objects have a name?”

Tom looked at the bag again. “They're seeds from the castor plant. The entire plant is poisonous, but these seeds are where the real trouble lies. Inside these mottled casings are hulls so lethal that they make cyanide seem mild in comparison.” He turned to Jane. “I don't sell the plant because a child or family pet, not knowing any better, might ingest one of the seeds. The plants produce beautiful, star-shaped leaves and are really quite lovely, but they're not worth the risk.”

The sheriff exchanged a knowing glance with Deputy Emory and she scooped up the bag and dropped it in her pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Green,” she said with a smile. “You were a big help.”

“Glad to be of service,” he replied and then touched Jane
on the arm. “I have to get moving. The van is loaded with arrangements for the guest rooms. Perhaps I'll be knocking on your office door tomorrow with another bouquet from your mystery man.”

He bustled off while Jane led the sheriff and Deputy Emory through to her office. They drafted a quick announcement and then the sheriff asked to commandeer her space in order to check in with the station.

Jane took advantage of the respite to walk through the kitchens to the loading dock. She paused briefly at one of the prep sinks to drop the bouquet into a pitcher of water before heading out into the cold.

Coatless, Jane jogged across the lawn to the garage and knocked three times on a closed door marked with a
No Admittance
sign.

A shadow darkened the peephole and Jane could hear Sterling undoing a pair of dead bolts on the other side of the metal door. He opened it just wide enough for Jane to slip through and then quickly shut and locked it again.

Jane surveyed the head chauffeur's lab. She'd only been inside a few times and though she couldn't identify most of the aging pieces of equipment other than test tubes, beakers, or centrifuges, she was impressed that Sterling seemed able to conduct a number of basic experiments in the small space.

“There's a strong possibility that Nigel used castor seeds to poison Rosamund.” Jane gestured at the test tubes. “Did you find a specific poison in the samples you collected from the garden?”

“Yes, and in copious amounts,” Sterling said. “Mr. Lachlan brought me one of the seeds immediately after searching Mr. Poindexter's room. Not only was I able to identify the seed, but I also learned how easy they are to acquire. Despite their high level of toxicity, they're available online. Anyone with a credit card can buy them.”

Jane stared at the microscope slide and wondered what a lethal poison looked like up close. “Why are castor seeds so dangerous?”

“Do you remember hearing accounts of letters containing
Ricin powder being sent to the White House and other government offices?” At Jane's nod, Sterling continued. “Ricin powder is the result of a chemical process. It's lethal when inhaled or injected. Ricin comes from the castor beans, which can be deadly in their raw form. However, if a healthy person were to swallow a handful of beans whole, they wouldn't die. A person needs to
chew
the beans for the poison to be released.”

Jane gasped. “Someone who was fond of nuts in their dessert would certainly do that. Someone like Rosamund.”

“Precisely. Our killer mixed the seed hulls into a chocolate truffle along with chopped walnuts. Ms. York didn't stand a chance. If she'd only had a seed or two, she might have survived. However, the lethal dose is eight seeds for a male of average height and weight. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume that Rosamund chewed that much poison simply by consuming two or three truffles.”

“Then she was definitely killed during the truffle workshop.” Jane moaned. “All of our suspects were present at that event.”

“But only one has fled,” Sterling reminded her.

Jane released an exasperated sigh. “How can he have evaded our cameras?”

“I've been asking myself the same question,” Sterling said. “And the only answer I can come up with is that Mr. Poindexter hasn't left the house at all. We searched the public areas, Miss Jane, but not the private ones. Nor the secret ones.”

“But that means . . .” Jane trailed off. “Could Rosamund's death have been a diversion? Something to keep us distracted while Nigel tried to find our hidden library?” She felt her panic rising. “I haven't spoken with Uncle Aloysius or Aunt Octavia all morning! What if—”

“I have, and they're both fine.” Sterling patted Jane on the shoulder. “Actually, your aunt has a bit of a cold and has kept to her apartments since lunch time yesterday. Mrs. Pimpernel stopped by an hour ago to do some dusting and ended up fetching tea mixed with ginger and honey instead. She and Mrs. Hubbard have concocted a host of home remedies to treat your aunt's sniffles.”

Jane knew Sterling was trying to make her feel better, so she nodded gratefully. “I wish I could check on her in person, but I have to make an announcement to our guests.”

At this, Sterling picked up his cell phone and began to type. “Mr. Butterworth and I should be on hand for this. There's no telling how the guests will react.”

“Isn't this more important?” Jane waved at the lab at large. “And if Nigel's our murderer, we should be examining his credit card statements from the months leading up to this event. If we can prove that he bought the seeds, then we'll know we're chasing the right person.”

Sterling tapped the open laptop behind him. “I'm already on it.” Glancing at his cell phone screen, he said, “We'd better go. Mr. Butterworth is already ushering the guests into Shakespeare's Theater.”

Jane waited for Sterling to secure the lab and then stepped back outside.

“You should be wearing a coat, Miss Jane,” Sterling chided, buttoning his own and pulling on a pair of leather gloves.

“Right now, I welcome the cold,” Jane said. “It reminds me that I'm alive—that I have two amazing sons, a wonderful aunt and uncle, and the most incredible friends and colleagues. Today won't go down as one of the highlights of my career as Storyton's Guardian, but I will stand in front of our guests and promise them that, despite what's happened, they are perfectly safe.” She stopped and fixed Sterling with a plaintive stare. “You have to help me keep that promise. For the sake of Storyton Hall, we must not fail another guest.”

*   *   *

Jane tapped the
microphone twice. After hearing the echoed “thump, thump,” she said, “I apologize for delaying your lunch and for interrupting the trivia contest, but I have grave news to impart.”

The subtle din of women whispering, fidgeting, or coughing abruptly stopped. All eyes were upon Jane and she felt the weight of their collective stares. Her palms were clammy and her fingers trembled, but she adjusted her grip on the
microphone and reminded herself that the women gazing up at her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension were her guests. They deserved honesty. They deserved to hear the unmitigated truth, or as much truth as Jane was able to provide.

“It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that Ms. Rosamund York passed away late last night.”

Jane waited for the crowd to respond. For a split second, no one reacted, but then, almost as a single entity, the women gasped. Throughout the room, women covered their mouths in shock. Several cried out. Others reached out to their neighbors, clasping hands or locking arms.