Murder in the Paperback Parlor (19 page)

Chuckling, the women buttoned up their coats and pulled on gloves while Eloise remained on her kitchen stool.

“I'm worried about you,” Eloise whispered as Jane rinsed the wineglasses. “If you really believe Nigel could pop up in the middle of tonight's ball, how will you respond? Do you plan to tackle him in a dress and heels? Edwin should be here to help. Sam too. Of all the nights for them to have committed to a poker game.”

Jane handed Eloise her crutches. “It's fine. I have plenty of security.”

“Well, I suppose Nigel could be halfway to Mexico—or wherever people run to—by now, “Eloise said. “Maybe he killed Rosamund because she didn't return his affections and then bolted.”

“There has to be more to it than that,” Jane argued. “Remember what Mrs. Pratt told us during our last book club meeting? Two years ago, she overheard Georgia threaten to expose Rosamund as a charlatan. What if Georgia knew that Nigel was writing Rosamund's books?”

“She'd have exposed her ages ago. Unless . . .”

“Unless she was waiting for a chance to obtain proof.” Jane helped Eloise to her feet. “What if the only person who could provide her with that proof was Nigel Poindexter? What if, for whatever reason, Nigel gave it to her?”

“Too many questions without answers.” Eloise gazed at Jane with concern. “Just be careful, okay? Don't chase a bad guy down an empty corridor by yourself. Come get me first.”

Jane gave her friend a bemused smile. “And what will you do to protect me?”

Eloise shrugged. “Pummel the louse with books? I'd use big ones—like a collection of Shakespeare's plays. That tome could inflict serious damage.”

Laughing, Jane joined the rest of her friends by the coat tree. Bundled up to the chins, they ventured outside. The melody of their voices and the scent of their perfume drifted into the night air, and for just a moment, Jane could pretend that she was just an ordinary girl going to a dance with her friends. But when the dark shadow of a bird taking wing startled her, her smile slipped. Once again, the secret side of her, the Guardian, moved to the forefront.

As she lifted her eyes to the glowing windows of Storyton Hall, Jane suddenly felt very alone.

*   *   *

Mrs. Pratt and
Phoebe sat in chairs in the front row of Shakespeare's Theater. Eloise had volunteered to serve as an alternate judge in case of a tie, so she also had one of the most coveted seats in the room. Georgia, Ciara, and Barbara filled out the rest of the row while Jane opted to stand in the rear. She wanted to have a clear view of the entire space, especially the exits.

Sinclair, looking very dapper in his tux, took the stage and
tapped the microphone. “Good evening,” he said in his rich, deep voice. “The moment you've all been waiting for has arrived. The Heartfire Male Cover Model Search will start in a few minutes.”

The ladies in the audience clapped and whistled in zealous anticipation.

“The contestants will begin their promenade onstage,” Sinclair continued once the noise died down. “When they have finished, they will proceed down the stairs to my left, walk up the aisle, and then cross to the right aisle and return to the stage. Please do not hinder the gentlemen's progress in any manner.” Sinclair stared at the crowd. His expression was stern. “Individuals who fail to comply with this rule will be asked to leave.”

Twitters of dismay followed this declaration. Satisfied that his warning had been received, Sinclair continued. “Once the contestant has returned to the stage, his portfolio highlights will appear on this projector screen.” Right on cue, the, crimson curtains parted to reveal an enormous white screen. “We have thirty finalists, so if you're ready, I will introduce our first contestant. Let's give a warm welcome to Roberto Caballero from Las Vegas, Nevada.”

Roberto strutted onstage in a Phantom of the Opera costume. After waving his cape around, he untied it and tossed it to an audience member. His white linen shirt was open to the navel and he ran a hand down his chiseled chest, smiling roguishly all the while. The ladies responded with gratified moans. And when he tore his shirt down the middle and let it fall to the floor, they shrieked and applauded boisterously. As the theme song from the famous musical floated out of the theater's speakers, Roberto played the air organ. With every movement of his fingers, the muscles in his arms tensed and rippled.

Just when Jane started to wonder how much longer this scene would go on, Roberto finally descended the stairs. After making a big show of removing his mask, he sauntered up the aisle. By the time he returned to the stage, his four portfolio shots had appeared on the projector screen. In
every pose, Roberto held a beautiful woman in his arms. The full-length images accented his bare chest and emphasized how his muscular legs looked in tight breeches, leather pants, jeans, and a very short kilt.

As the evening progressed, it became clear that the contestants favored particular costumes. Jane watched a steady parade of bare-chested vampires, cowboys, buccaneers, centurions, and Highlanders, while also scanning the room for signs of suspicious activity.

After all the models had taken their turn in the spotlight, the first round of voting took place and three finalists were chosen. Roberto made the cut, as did Wyatt from Dallas and Griffin from Tennessee. Onstage, the men struck poses while Phoebe, Mrs. Pratt, and Lily Jamison exchanged a flurry of whispered remarks.

The audience members, who'd been silent for the majority of the deliberations, began shouting the names of their favorite contestant. Listening to their enthusiastic cheering, Jane smiled. She had no doubt that her guests were having the time of their lives and fully expected the gaiety to continue at the Ladies' Choice Ball.

In the end, Griffin was declared the winner. Lily ascended the stage steps and presented him with a mock contract tied with a silk ribbon. She extended her hand for him to shake, but he swept her up in his arms and spun her in a circle instead.

Looking relieved that the contest was finally over, Sinclair asked the ladies to make their way to the Great Gatsby Ballroom.

“I'm ready to add names to my dance card,” a woman told her friend as they filed out. “If Roberto dances with me, I'll go to my grave happy.”

Jane heard similar remarks as she joined the flow of bodies moving through the lobby. It was like being in a river of glittering, colorful, perfumed fish. Caught among swishes of satin and taffeta and excited chatter, Jane found the sensation of being swept along with her guests extremely agreeable.

The Great Gatsby Ballroom was resplendent. The women were dazzled by the sight of flickering candles and rose
topiaries strung with fairy lights. The local men and Storyton Hall staff members who'd volunteered to serve as dance partners stood in two columns. Straight backed and smiling, they bowed as the women streamed in. The ladies wasted no time presenting their dance cards, giggling and blushing all the while.

When the cover model contestants entered the room several minutes later, they were instantly mobbed. Luckily, the Storyton Band struck up the first chords of a tango and many of the women scurried off to find the partners already penciled in on their dance cards.

By the second song, all the men were on the dance floor. Jane wandered over to the refreshment station, which featured punch bowls filled with Love's First Blush—a blend of champagne, lime, and raspberries. There was also a selection of heart-shaped cookies, cheeses, and finger sandwiches.

For the most part, the guests remained in the ballroom, but both gentlemen and ladies occasionally stepped outside for a breath of fresh air or to use the restroom. Jane did her best to stay alert and vigilant, but as the night wore on, she began to tire. And while she enjoyed seeing Tobias Hogg lead Barbara Jewel in dance after dance, she was less pleased by the way Lachlan stuck to Eloise's side like a metal shaving captured by a magnet. Though he fulfilled his duty by dancing with other guests, he always returned to the empty chair next to Eloise's. He examined her ankle, fetched punch for her, and gave her his undivided attention whenever she murmured in his ear.

At least Edwin's not here
, Jane thought and wondered why he hadn't volunteered to be one of the dancers.

“He was willing to dress up like Mr. Rochester and dance with me,” she mumbled to herself. “But if he thought he could seduce me in order to gain access to the private reaches of Storyton Hall, then he was sadly mistaken.”

“Are you having a conversation with the candelabra?” Sterling asked, having noiselessly appeared at Jane's side.

“I'm trying to avoid falling asleep on my feet,” she answered.

At that moment, a group of dancers shifted and Jane saw
Lily near the front of the room. A tall, thin man with the beginnings of a dark beard led her in a waltz. Jane only caught a fleeting glance of the couple before other dancers obscured them, but she stiffened so abruptly that Sterling was instantly on alert.

“What is it? Did you see something suspicious?”

Jane stood on tiptoe and tried to locate Lily again. “I'm not sure.”

The waltz ended and half of the dancers cleared the floor. Some headed for the refreshment table while others sank into one of the many chairs surrounding the dance floor. Several exited the room altogether, and Jane spotted the man again just before he disappeared into the lobby. Like most of the men, he wore a black tux. That in itself didn't cause her alarm, but the memory of the contents in Nigel Poindexter's closet did.

“We need to look at our laundry records for the week,” Jane told Sterling. “Now.”

Sterling followed Jane to the front desk where she asked the clerk on duty to pull all transactions involving the pressing of garments.

“What are we searching for?” Sterling wanted to know.

“An order for a man's suit or tuxedo. I saw someone who looked like Nigel on the dance floor. It was just a flash, but this man was wearing a tuxedo and there was no tux in Nigel's closet. The suit I saw hanging there was too casual for this event, so if he meant to attend tonight's dance, even if only as an observer—a reporter—what did he plan to wear?”

Sterling understood immediately. “He obviously didn't have a formal suit on his person the morning he fled. We saw the video feed. He had a messenger bag, which was just large enough to hold a laptop.”

“It could just be wild imagining on my part,” Jane said. “But you know what Aunt Octavia always says about imagination.”

“That it's more important than knowledge.” Sterling's gaze was fixed on the computer screen. “Einstein also said that ‘Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you
everywhere.'” He pointed at a laundry order. “I'd say that logic and imagination just came together with a big bang.”

Jane's stared in astonishment. “Nigel's tux was pressed and delivered to Georgia Dupree's room! Could she have been hiding him this whole time? Sterling, take a master key and search Ms. Dupree's room. I'll alert the rest of the Fins. I believe Nigel was the man I saw dancing with Lily. He's not clean-shaven, but I think it's him. Lily may have been waltzing with a murderer. And an unsuspecting cover model or Storyton staff member could be holding Nigel's accomplice, aka Georgia Dupree, in his arms this very moment!”

*   *   *

Sterling sprinted down
the deserted lobby to the servant's stairs. At the same time, Jane sent a group message to the Fins and then hurried toward the ballroom.

She stopped in the hallway to read a text from Sinclair saying that Georgia was not in the ballroom.

“Where are you?” Jane asked aloud.

Suddenly, she heard a whisper of silk. Glancing up from her phone, Jane saw Georgia rush from a room at the other end of the hall. Clad only in a slip of a dress with a plunging neckline, she burst through the doorway leading to the back terrace, completely ignoring Jane's shouts for her to stop.

Jane used speed dial to reach Sinclair. “Georgia just left the house!” she cried. “She's heading for Milton's gardens. I'm going after her.”

“Do not go alone,” Sinclair commanded. “Mr. Lachlan will join you directly,”

Jane knew it would be foolish to chase after Georgia alone in the dark, so she decided to meet Lachlan at the end of the hall. She was desperate to find out what Georgia had been doing in the Jane Austen Parlor.

She hustled down the empty corridor and came to a halt in the doorway. Her heart hammering, she looked inside the dimly lit room and saw Nigel Poindexter on the fainting couch. His shoulders were slumped and his was head bowed. He didn't look up at the sound of Jane's approach.

Jane was about to speak, to warn Nigel to stay where he was, but the words died on her lips.

The man who Jane suspected of poisoning Rosamund York wasn't going anywhere. Jane knew this to be true because of the unnatural stillness of Nigel's body.

And because she saw blood soaking into the back of the sofa's velvet upholstery.

She stood in the doorway, transfixed with horror, and stared as ruby-red droplets gathered on the underside of the couch and fell onto the rug in muted thuds. Their slow, steady rhythm was more frightening than a scream.

She couldn't tear her gaze away from the red stain. She stood, immobile, until Lachlan squeezed her shoulder. “Miss Jane? Are you all right?”

Turning to grip Lachlan's arms, Jane spoke in a harsh whisper. “Do not let that woman get away. Do you hear me?
Get her
.”

Lachlan darted through the exit doors. The cold air swept over Jane's bare skin and she shivered. And then, she drew in a deep breath and entered the Jane Austen Parlor. There was nothing to do now but wait.

She must wait, and keep vigil with the
dead.

Jane shut the parlor door and, keeping clear of the rug, walked behind the fainting couch. Knowing better than to taint a crime scene, she touched nothing. It only took her a second to identify the murder weapon.

One of the gilt and bronze candlesticks had been taken from the fireplace mantel and brought down hard on the back of Nigel's skull. The candlesticks, which belonged to Jane's ancestor, Walter Egerton Steward, were very heavy. With a square base rising to a bronze column, each candlestick was capped by the figure of a naked child cradling a golden horn. Jane stared at the bloodied antique and grimaced. The plump, dimpled child reminded her of a cherub. Or of Cupid.

The only light in the room came from a floor lamp in the corner by the hearth. In the dimness, shadows loomed. The longer Jane stared at the bronze child, whose body was slick with Nigel's blood, the more sinister it looked.

Eventually, her gaze shifted from the candlestick to the dead man's ruined head. There was a large depression at the base of his skull and the sight of fractured bone made bile rise in Jane's throat. Still, she could not look away. She saw how blood had leaked from the wound and stained the collar of Nigel's white
shirt a dark shade of red before soaking into the black jacket of his tuxedo.

“Miss Jane?” The door opened and Sterling peered inside.

“Stay there,” Jane whispered. “I'm coming out.”

Joining Sterling, Jane leaned against the wall and accepted the bottle of water he proffered.

“Nigel Poindexter is dead. Georgia Dupree struck him with a candlestick. She must have been incredibly angry to inflict such a terrible wound. His skull . . .” She stopped to take a tentative sip of water.

“Mr. Lachlan has her,” Sterling said, taking in the parlor's grim tableau. “He and Mr. Butterworth are holding her in the garage. Mr. Sinclair sent me back to get you. We called Sheriff Evans and informed him that we have a second criminal for him to take into custody. I hope Ms. Dupree will be more cooperative than Ms. Stone. The latter tried to bite one of the deputies when they loaded her in the cruiser.”

Jane hadn't registered anything beyond the line, “Mr. Lachlan has her.” After asking Sterling to lock the Jane Austen Parlor and stand guard outside the door, she took off at a clipped pace for her office.

Grabbing her coat and scarf, she left Storyton Hall through the kitchens.

Outside, the night wind whistled through the bare trees and stung Jane's eyes. She breathed deeply, inviting the air into her lungs. She hoped its sharpness would help clear her mind of the image of Nigel's horrible wound and the bloodied candlestick.

In the garage, Sinclair, Butterworth, and Lachlan stood in a loose circle around Georgia Dupree. They'd given her a chair and had yet to restrain her, and she was taking advantage of her freedom to wave her arms around and shout, “I didn't kill him! I'm telling you, you stupid oafs, that he was already dead when I went into that pink and red monstrosity of a room.”

Georgia's eyes blazed and her cheeks were flushed with indignation. Upon seeing Jane, she attempted to rise, but Butterworth put a restrictive hand on her shoulder and pushed her down again.

“Don't touch me!” Georgia spat. “I'll sue you.
All
of you!”

Butterworth removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his coat. “Madame, please remain in your seat until the authorities arrive. If you cannot comply with this simple request, I shall be forced to tie your hands behind your back.”

“You wouldn't dare,” Georgia hissed and then turned to glare at Jane. “I'm not some housewife on a dream getaway. I'm a well-known and highly respected author. You can't treat me this way.”

Jane grabbed the chair near the workbench and dragged it to the center of the room. She dropped into it with a sigh. “It's been a long day, Ms. Dupree. In an hour or two, I'll be able to sleep. Not you. Your night will be filled with questions and more questions. When Sheriff Evans is finally satisfied that you have nothing left to say, you'll be escorted to a holding cell. I doubt you'll find the cot as cushy as the bed in your Storyton guest room. The wool blanket will hardly compare to our soft comforter either.” Jane shrugged. “Still, it's better than being laid out on a metal table. That's the harsh fate awaiting Mr. Poindexter.”

“But I—”

“If you want my help, Ms. Dupree—and I'm offering you help because you're a guest of Storyton Hall—then you must start by explaining why you allowed Mr. Poindexter to hide in your room. You knew full well that he was wanted by the authorities.”

Georgia crossed her arms over her chest and pressed her lips together in a display of stubborn silence.

Jane rubbed her hands together, shivered theatrically, and glanced up at Lachlan. “Do you have any spirits in your cottage? Something that might coax the feeling back into my fingertips?”

“I have just the thing,” Lachlan said and hustled out. He returned a moment later carrying a bottle of whiskey and a battered tin cup. “I don't have any proper glasses,” he said apologetically.

“This will do nicely, thank you.” Jane poured a splash of whiskey into the cup and took a tiny swallow. She then
added more whiskey and put the cup in Georgia's hand. “You must be freezing. Mr. Lachlan? Lend Ms. Dupree your coat, would you?”

Lachlan removed his tuxedo jacket and draped it over Georgia's shoulders. She clutched the lapels and shot Jane a suspicious glance. “There's no sense trying to butter me up. The harm's already been done. I plan to bankrupt you.”

“Then I might as well drink up,” Jane said breezily and reached for the cup.

Her ploy worked. Georgia snatched the cup away, raised it to her lips, and gulped down the contents.

Jane smiled indulgently. “That'll get your blood flowing again.” She offered to refill the cup and Georgia grudgingly accepted. “Why were in you in the Jane Austen Parlor in the first place?” Jane asked in a gentle tone.

“Why should I tell you?” Georgia curled her lip. “The only person I plan to speak to is my attorney.”

“Because if someone else is responsible for Mr. Poindexter's death, then apprehending him or her would prove your innocence. Otherwise, you could spend a great deal of time in that holding cell. You won't be able to work on your next novel or interact with your fans. If people hear you're being held as a murder suspect, you could lose hundreds of loyal readers.”

Georgia's face went ashen. “I was supposed to meet Nigel in the parlor at eleven o'clock. We made a deal. In exchange for keeping him hidden in my room—not to mention bringing him food and making sure his tuxedo was ready for tonight's ball—he was supposed to give me something.” She put the cup on the floor and burrowed deeper inside Lachlan's jacket.

“So you had an arrangement,” Jane said. “What were you promised in return for your assistance?”

“I can tell you this much; what I was promised was
not
in the parlor. Either Nigel lied to me or his killer took it.”

Watching Georgia closely, Jane asked, “Were you and Mr. Poindexter in collusion? Did you help him poison Ms. York?”

“No, I did not.” Though her eyes were still dark with
anger, Georgia had grown calmer since she'd been given whiskey and a coat. “I had no idea he was going to do that.” She shrugged. “Not that I would have gotten in his way had I known, but I didn't. I write romance novels, not mysteries. I don't know a damned thing about poison.”

“But you had a compelling motive. With Rosamund York gone, you could take your rightful place at the top.” Jane cocked her head inquisitively. “Isn't that a direct quote? Haven't you always felt that the title of First Lady of Romance should have been yours? Even though Ms. York consistently outsold you, you act as though she was unworthy of her accolades, of her awards, of her legion of devoted—”

Georgia bolted upright in her chair. “She didn't write the books! She was just a pretty face! A cardboard cutout.
Nigel
wrote every single Venus Dares novel. Rosamund couldn't pen a grocery list. I'd been on enough panels with her to know that something was amiss. She had to consult notes about her
own
characters. She couldn't answer instinctively. She avoided questions about the writing process. And I always saw her having clandestine meetings with Nigel. A few years ago, just before Rosamund and I were about to get on an elevator, a fan questioned Rosamund about a scene in her first novel. Instead of answering, Rosamund pretended to feel ill and shut the door in the woman's face. She couldn't answer, you see, because she didn't remember the scene. It's one thing to read a book and
quite another
to write one.”

“Is that what you wanted from Mr. Poindexter?” Jane asked calmly. “Proof that Ms. York was a fake? A charlatan?” When Georgia didn't answer, Jane changed tack. “Did you really think you could trust him? The man murdered his partner. She died a horrible, agonizing death.”

“I wasn't afraid of Nigel because he could only get what he wanted through me,” Georgia said flatly. “He told me about the castor seeds. He swore up and down that he meant to use them to convince Rosamund to pay him what he was owed. It was his intention to give her the worst stomachache of her life. Nothing more. While she was suffering, he was going to tell her that the discomfort he'd caused was only the
beginning of what he'd do unless she agreed to immediately transfer money into his bank account. Nigel's debts made him . . . rash. He was desperate for money, but after he found Rosamund's body, he became a frightened little boy.” Georgia's voice held a hint of sympathy. “He knocked on my door the next morning.”

To Jane, Georgia's tale sounded more than a little fictitious. “Why did you let Mr. Poindexter in?”

“I didn't realize he was a suspect when he came to me. I figured he showed up because he had something to offer. I was more than willing to listen because I had a proposition of my own,” Georgia said airily.

“I assume that you're not going to tell me what you were after, but what did Mr. Poindexter want?” Jane asked.

Georgia shrugged. “For me to get his tuxedo and to keep him out of sight until tonight's ball. Simple enough.”

Jane was positive that Georgia would go to any length to secure her place in the limelight, but she had no idea how helping Nigel would advance Georgia's career. “Not only have you broken the law, but you also put yourself at great risk. Once you knew he was a murder suspect, why didn't you turn him in?”

As though bored, Georgia yawned loudly, and Jane was tempted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Instead she continued with her questions. “By the time he came to you, Mr. Poindexter had already eliminated your competition. So why would you put yourself in harm's way to help him?” Jane sat back in her chair and studied Rosamund. “Your story doesn't make sense. You've built a career on fabrication and I think you're doing it again now.”

Georgia smiled wryly. “I don't care what you think. Nigel Poindexter gave me the most exciting week of my life. Rosamund was an idiot to have mistreated him. Not only was he a master wordsmith, but he was excellent company as well, if you get my meaning.” She flashed Jane a enigmatic smile. “I'm sorry that he's dead. He and I could have made history together.”

Jane adopted a dubious expression. “The two people responsible for the Venus Dares novels have been killed,
and you still claim to be innocent of any wrongdoing. Are you saying that it's just a matter of good fortune that you'll reap the benefits of two murders?”

“The cream always rises to the top,” Georgia replied smugly. “And since
Nigel's
new Eros book is sure to be reviled by most of Rosamund's fans, I believe I'm going to have a very successful year.” Her eyes danced with a zealous light. “Even though I didn't get what Nigel promised me, there was no need for me to kill him. With or without it, I'm moving up the food chain.”

At the sound of approaching sirens, Jane instructed Butterworth to hail the sheriff and lead him into the garage. Georgia watched the butler leave and then flicked a lock of red hair over her shoulder. “You should worry less about me and more about yourself, Ms. Steward. There's a murderer on the loose in your hotel.”

Jane got to her feet. “Yours is a hollow victory, Ms. Dupree. Mark Twain once said, ‘Man will do many things to get himself loved; he will do all things to get himself envied.'” Though she heard voices behind her, Jane continued to stare intently at Georgia. “I don't know what things you've done, but there will be a reckoning.”

Georgia responded with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

Jane smiled coldly at her. “Cream does rise to the top, Ms. Dupree. But guess what? So does scum.”

*   *   *

As soon as
Georgia was Mirandized and escorted to a cruiser by Deputy Emory, Sheriff Evans turned to Jane. “Did you witness the murder?”

“No. I was at the other end of the hall when I saw Ms. Dupree leaving the parlor. I shouted for her to stop, but she exited Storyton Hall through the doorway leading to the terrace. I hurried after her, but stopped to look in the parlor. That's when I saw Mr. Poindexter. I spoke to him and he didn't respond, so I entered the room.” Jane recalled the sight of the bloodied candlestick and suppressed a shudder. “I only had to glance at the back of Mr. Poindexter's head to see that he
was dead, so I quickly left the room without touching anything. Mr. Sterling is standing guard.”

The sheriff nodded. “We'll take it from here, Ms. Steward. If one of your staff could direct me to the scene . . .”

Jane signaled to Butterworth, who immediately gestured for Sheriff Evans and his deputies to follow him to the Jane Austen Parlor.

“The ball will be ending soon and I hope our guests will go straight to bed,” Jane said to Sinclair and Lachlan when the sheriff was gone. “If so, they won't hear about the murder until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, how can we dissuade people from wandering toward the parlor?”