Murder in the Paperback Parlor (2 page)

“You expect me to break that with my bare hand?” Jane Steward, manager of Storyton Hall and mother of six-year-old twin boys, pointed at a piece of wood in disbelief.

“I certainly do,” replied Sinclair, Storyton's head librarian. He was looking at Jane with the fixed stare he reserved for guests who made too much noise in one of the resort's reading rooms or had mishandled a book.

Storyton Hall had thousands of books, and Sinclair knew the location and condition of every volume. He cared for the books as though they were priceless treasures. And to those who worked and visited Storyton, that's exactly what they were. People came from across the globe to spend a few days in the stately manor house tucked away in an isolated valley in western Virginia. Surrounded by blue hills and pristine forests, Storyton Hall was heaven on earth for bibliophiles.

Jane glanced around and for a moment, nearly forgot that she was standing directly beneath the carriage house in a room that didn't appear on the official blueprints. In fact, only a few people knew of its existence. Like Sinclair, they used the practice space to hone their martial arts skills. Butterworth, the butler, was particularly fond of attacking the seventy-pound
weighted bags hanging from the ceiling. Sterling, the head chauffeur, preferred to spar with nunchucks, and Sinclair's weapon of choice was a set of throwing knives he kept hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of
The Art of War
.

Not too long ago, Jane would have found the idea of practicing roundhouse kicks utterly ridiculous, but now, as she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall-length mirror, she knew that there was nothing amusing about her situation. It was also clear from Sinclair's expression that he expected her to break the board with her bare hand, and he expected her to do so without delay.

“It's easy, Mom! Fitz and I did it on our first try.”

Displeased by the idea of being shown up by her sons, Jane frowned. “All right, I'm ready.”

Sinclair held the rectangular piece of pine by its sides and braced himself for impact. “Check your stance,” he ordered. “The power comes from your body. Whip your trunk around and you'll break the board without injuring your hand. Focus on a spot in the center of the board. See your hand going through the wood and continuing to move forward. Don't stop. If you think about stopping, you won't succeed. Lead with your palm, not your pinkie finger.”

“Got it.” Taking a deep breath, Jane trained her eyes on the board. She saw the grains in the wood and visualized the exact location she intended to strike. Raising her right arm, she pivoted her entire right side toward the back wall. Concentrating on whipping her hip and shoulder around as quickly as possible, she drove her hand, palm facing the ceiling, into the board. It parted with a satisfying crack, and a large splinter of wood flew past Jane's cheek and landed on the floor mat near Hem's feet.

He picked it up, tested its sharpness with his index finger, and promptly jabbed it into his brother's side.

“Ow!” Fitz howled and immediately retaliated by administering a front snap kick to his brother's wrist. The splinter came dislodged from Hem's hand and was snatched midair by Sinclair.

“What have I told you gentlemen about martial arts?” he asked, his voice steely with disapproval.

Hem dropped his gaze and tried to appear penitent. “We should only use it for self-defense.”

“Or if our safety is . . . threatened,” Fitz added, looking smug over having remembered the second half of the creed Sinclair recited at the end of every class. Too late, Fitz realized that he should have adopted a contrite expression as well.

“Next class, you two will drill the entire time while your mother learns a new kick.” Sinclair turned to Butterworth, who'd just finished pummeling a practice bag. It was still jerking on the end of its chain as though it had been electrocuted. “Mr. Butterworth? Would you be so kind as to demonstrate a spinning hook kick?”

“Certainly,” said Butterworth. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his left leg. In a flash, he whipped his right leg around in a sweeping, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. When he struck the bag with the ball of his foot, Jane was sure he'd knock it clean off its chain.

“You need to train until that kick is second nature,” Sinclair said.

“Perhaps that kick should wait until after the Romancing the Reader week,” Jane said. “I don't want to pull a muscle before the Regency Fashion Show. I'd be a poor representative of La Grande Dame if I limped down the catwalk in the gown Mabel toiled over for months.”

Amusement glinted in Sinclair's eyes. “Ah, the fashion show. I'd nearly forgotten about that particular event—probably because every female under our roof can speak of only two subjects: the male cover model competition and the habits, interests, and whereabouts of Mr. Lachlan.”

Taking the broken pieces of wood from Sinclair, Jane laughed. “Weeks before Lachlan first stepped foot on our property, you predicted that many ladies would fall in love with him.”

Sinclair sighed. “Indeed I did. I also assumed that after two months, his allure would have dimmed somewhat. Obviously, I underestimated Mr. Lachlan's appeal.” He shot her a sly glance. “How do you find him?”

Jane made a shooing gesture at her sons. “Run home and
change. If you get your chores done in time, I'll hand over your allowance before we drive to the village. A little bird told me that the Hogg brothers are hosting an indoor picnic lunch and special contest for all kids twelve-years-old and under. The winner will receive a new bicycle from Spokes and a gift certificate from the Pickled Pig.”

The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks and raced off. Butterworth followed at a more dignified pace, his spine straight and his shoulders squared. Jane recognized that Butterworth was leaving his role of combat expert behind in favor of his butler persona and wondered if such a marked change came over her when she finished one of her training sessions.

I doubt it,
she thought.
I'm still getting used to living a double life. Sinclair, Butterworth, and Sterling have been doing it for decades. And now, Lachlan has joined our secret circle.

Once the sound of the boys' shouts and jostles faded, Jane finally answered Sinclair's question. “I find Lachlan a bit of an enigma. He's hardworking, courteous, and organized. He's also a master salesman. For such a quiet person, I'm amazed by his ability to talk people into sleigh rides and cross-country skiing ventures. Usually, wintertime means less business at the recreation desk, but not since Lachlan's arrival. He's certainly increasing our revenue.”

“I'd hazard a guess that our female guests would happily risk losing the feeling in their extremities if it meant spending time with Mr. Lachlan.” Sinclair flicked a switch on the wall and the practice bags began to rise to the ceiling. “Are you immune to that shy smile, that roughish hair, or those striking blue eyes?”

“He's quite attractive,” Jane admitted. “But I have no real sense of him. He doesn't volunteer an ounce of personal information and he'd rather traipse through the woods than socialize with the rest of the staff. I know he's an outdoorsman, but I hadn't realized he'd be so . . . hermitlike.”

Together, she and Sinclair walked to the door where they'd left their shoes and socks. Once their bare feet were covered and they'd bundled up in wool coats, Sinclair locked the door behind them. “Mr. Lachlan was an army ranger. He served
on covert missions in both Iraq and Afghanistan. I was aware of his history before casting my vote in favor of hiring him. I don't think his past will impede his performance as head of recreation, and he's an excellent asset when it comes to guarding you and your family.”

Sinclair hurried up the stairs, checked to see that the coast was clear, and waved for Jane to step through the narrow gap behind a workbench. After she was through, he pushed a button obscured by a rusty saw blade and the workbench swung back against the wall.

Jane had only learned about the surprising number of hidden rooms and passageways located around Storyton Hall and its outbuildings during the past few months. Until last October, she'd been completely ignorant of the fact that certain people she'd known her entire life were a part of a group called the Fins. These men had pledged to protect the members of the Steward Family with their lives. And since Jane had been born into a family that had been guarding a secret library and its treasures for centuries, she and her sons were also under the Fins' protection.

The first time Sinclair had led Jane to the attic turret and pushed open the door to the fireproof and temperature-controlled vault, Jane had nearly fainted. It wasn't every day that one discovered the existence of unpublished Shakespeare plays, gilt-covered Gutenberg Bibles, or the endings of famous, but incomplete novels. Treasures entrusted to the Stewards for all sorts of reasons—to keep them from being stolen, damaged during wartime, or sold on the black market.

There were also books deliberately kept from the public eye—radical works filled with disturbing and dangerous ideas. Jane had read a few lines from one of them and was shocked and angered by the author's proposition that women were vastly inferior to men. The author went on to encourage mass sterilization of any female lacking a genius IQ. Considering the book had been written by a prominent English scientist during the first stirrings of the women's emancipation movement, its publication could have crippled an entire gender.

After that unpleasant read, Jane had stuck to perusing the
secret library's incredible selection of rare fiction. A voracious reader since early childhood, it galled Jane that she didn't have enough free time to delve more deeply into the astounding collection stored in airtight containers in a nearly inaccessible room hundreds of feet from the ground.

It had taken Jane several weeks to reconcile herself to the fact that it was more important that she protect the library's contents than examine them. After all, to a lifelong book lover, the library was the Eighth Wonder of the World, and Jane referred to it as such when speaking to her great-aunt and -uncle or to the Fins.

Suddenly, the thought of her aunt made Jane start. She glanced at her watch and let loose a small cry. “I'm going to be late! Aunt Octavia will be furious if she doesn't get the best seat in the house for Edwin Alcott's soft grand opening.”

Jane jogged around the building that had once served as the estate's hunting lodge. The lodge was so spacious that Jane's uncle had divided it into two residences. Sterling, the head chauffeur, lived in the front half while Jane and her sons inhabited the back. Jane loved the privacy this arrangement afforded her little family. She loved her side door entrance that led into her bright, cheery kitchen. She loved the open living room with its comfy sofas and book-lined walls. She loved her herb and flower gardens, which were protected from prying eyes by a tall hedge. Most of all, she loved how the house had seemed to open its arms to her after her husband's tragic death. A pregnant widow, Jane had returned to Storyton Hall in search of comfort and a fresh start. She'd found both within its walls and in the hearts of its people.

Now, bursting into her cheerful, yellow kitchen, Jane cast a longing glance at the coffeemaker and then bounded upstairs to change.

“Boys!” she hollered as she ascended. “I hope you're dressed. I also hope your beds are made. If that room's a mess, you'll get a smaller allowance.”

Indignant cries came from behind the twins' closed door, and Jane knew they'd opted to put off their chores and were now regretting that decision.

“And I
will
be checking under your beds,” she added for good measure as she hurried through her bathroom and into her small walk-in closet. “What to wear? What to wear?”

After selecting a pencil skirt in gray wool, a cowl-necked sweater, and a pair of riding boots, Jane fastened her strawberry blond hair into a loose chignon, added a pair of hoop earrings, and then dabbed on gardenia-scented perfume. Satisfied by what she saw in the mirror, she exited the bathroom and yelled, “Fitzgerald and Hemingway! Prepare for inspection!”

There was a crashing sound from the boys' room and when Jane pushed open the door, her twins cast guilty looks at the closet.

“We're ready, Mom!” Hem said, throwing his arms around her neck. “You smell nice.”

“And you look pretty,” Fitz chimed in.

Jane knew perfectly well that should she peek inside the closet, a cascade of toys, books, and dirty clothes would tumble out, but she was running too late to do anything about it. Glancing down at her sons, she tousled their hair and said, “I will delay the inspection until this afternoon in exchange for a kiss.”

Because the twins were in the “girls have cooties” phase, Jane knew she was asking for a significant boon. After a brief hesitation, her sons gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then immediately held out their hands.

“Can we have our allowance now?” Hem asked. “Please?”

“I don't keep dollar bills in my boots. I'm not a—” Jane stopped herself before the word “stripper” rolled off her tongue.

Fitz cocked his head. “Not a what?”

“A walking bank,” Jane said and ushered the boys downstairs.

Five minutes later, the trio arrived, red-cheeked and panting, in Storyton Hall's main lobby.

Aunt Octavia was already there, of course, looking regal in an indigo coat with a fur-trimmed collar, cuffs, and hem. She made a big show of examining her watch and then glanced across the room at the grandfather clock and muttered, “‘I wasted time and now time doth waste me.'”

“I hope Mr. Alcott's café is a salubrious establishment,” Butterworth said to Aunt Octavia as he held open the front door for their little party. “Mrs. Hubbard is most concerned that your healthy eating plan will be compromised.”