Murder in the Paperback Parlor (7 page)

Jane surveyed the crowd. Women examined angry, red scratches or fresh bruises on their arms or legs. Jane was appalled to see a trickle of blood on Mrs. Pratt's forehead. Luckily, Anna carried a small first-aid kit in her purse and was already applying a cotton pad to the laceration.

On the dais, Barbara, Ciara, and Georgia were huddled close together in fear. Rosamund York, however, was the picture of calm. She wore a smug smile and surveyed the room with a self-satisfied expression.

She's pleased because her fans are willing to trample one another—to draw blood, for crying out loud—to get their hands on her book.

“These aren't exactly the gentle readers I imagined,” Jane muttered darkly. “If the rest of the week's events are like this, my martial arts skills are going to be put to the
test.”

When Sterling returned from driving the twins to school, he called Jane into his office, which doubled as the video surveillance room.

“This needs to be a private meeting,” He shut the door and locked it. “I've already shown this feed to the rest of the Fins, but you need to see it too.”

Jane sat in a chair facing the bank of small television screens while Sterling lifted the framed map of Virginia off its wall hooks, revealing four more screens.

The screens showed a live, around-the-clock feed of the front driveway, back terrace, lobby, and the hallways leading to the guest rooms. Sterling's hidden screens focused on less visible areas of the resort.

At the moment, three of the four screens were active, but the action on the last screen had been frozen. Jane immediately recognized the door to the Romance and Roses Suite.

“I don't think I'm going to like this matinee, am I?” she asked, staring at the blurred shadow of a person standing outside the guest room.

“Probably not,” Sterling said and hit the play button.

The figure came to life. A woman, Jane realized, paced
back and forth in a highly agitated state, like a person on the verge of making a serious mistake. “It's as though she's gathering her courage,” Jane murmured.

“Butterworth would be impressed by your ability to read her body language,” Sterling said. “Especially since you haven't had your first lesson with him on the subject yet.”

Jane barely registered the compliment. She was too anxious to see what the pacing figure would do. “I recognize her clothes,” she cried softly. “The white blouse, black skirt, and the bead necklace. It's Maria Stone, the woman who started the chaos at the end of last night's auction.”

“That's correct. Keep watching. By the time the recording is finished, Sinclair will be here to review what he's learned about Ms. Stone.”

Jane returned her attention to the screen where Maria Stone was raking her hands through her hair, destroying the sleek ponytail she'd worn earlier that night. Jane glanced at the time stamp in the corner of the screen. “It's just after midnight. What was she doing up so late?”

And then Jane remembered Maria's obsession with being the first to receive a copy of Rosamund York's new novel. “Of course. She stayed up reading
Eros Steals the Bride
.” Jane noticed that Maria's lips were moving. “She certainly doesn't seem eager to heap praise on her favorite author. She's distraught. It's as though she were holding a one-sided conversation with Rosamund York. Hopefully, Ms. York is fast asleep and has no idea that a fan is coming to pieces outside her door.”

Maria stopped pacing. She balled her hands into fists, shook them at the ceiling, and then abruptly deflated. Her shoulders sagged, her spine slumped, and her hair hung over her face like a dark curtain. Very slowly, she pulled an envelope from the pocket of her slacks. She gazed at it for a long time without moving and then bent down and slid it under Rosamund's door.

Mission accomplished, she straightened and turned her back to the door. She pushed her hair out of her face, squared her shoulders, and raised her chin defiantly. “It's like watching a break-up, only the other person in the relationship isn't present,” Jane said.

“Ms. Rosamund's publicist delivered the note Ms. Stone slipped under the door to the front desk this morning. Ms. Birch is demanding to be given the identity of the letter writer and insists we post a guard by Ms. York's door.”

Jane was taken aback. “A guard? This isn't Buckingham Palace. Is one of the bellhops supposed to stand in the hallway all night?” She shook her head. “Ned is so sweet that he'd probably volunteer, but unless Ms. Stone's note contains a serious threat . . .” She trailed off, realizing that the possibility was quite likely.

She glanced at the screen in time to see Maria Stone, looking tired and bereft, walk out the camera's field of view.

Sterling pressed the pause button and handed Jane a folded piece of paper. “I'll give you a few moments to absorb this bit of prose before I show you the second half of last night's footage.”

Groaning, Jane unfolded the note and began to read.

To Ms. York,

There are no words to express how deeply offended I am by your new book. You've dealt our gender a crippling blow. How could someone who created Venus Dares, a character who openly encourages female equality, have reduced every female character in
Eros Steals the Bride
to brainless chattel? Eros is just the sort of chauvinistic, self-serving, belittling, and abusive oppressor that women have fought against for centuries. You wrote a contemporary romance, but in Shamus Eros, the man who owns a matchmaking company for millionaire bachelors, you took women back in time by hundreds of years! No modern, independent, freethinking woman should be attracted to someone like Eros, and yet, he seduces the bride, a woman who owns her own law firm, the night before her wedding? I literally felt ill while reading this abomination of a novel.

If you do not make major changes before the book is published, I promise that you'll regret it. I will devote
my every waking hour to ruining you. I'll leave negative reviews all over cyberspace, write scathing comments on any blog mentioning your name, send letters to the publications promoting the book, and reach out to the women who host the Venus Dares fan websites. I will do everything in my power to prevent women from reading this piece of trash.

So think carefully before you publish something that could cause real harm. Don't you see how dangerous your message of subservience is? Eros reverses everything you've accomplished through Venus Dares. Why would you make our sex so weak? So stupid and desperate? You've betrayed us all!

Change it, before it's too late. Change it, or you'll be sorry. I won't stand aside and allow thousands of readers to be influenced by something that should never have been printed in the first place.

You've been warned.

A
former
fan

Jane folded the note and passed it back to Sterling. “This definitely sounds like a threat. The question is, will Ms. Stone act on it over the next few days? We have to assume that Ms. York will ignore Ms. Stone's over-the-top demands.” She pursed her lips. “Though to be honest,
Eros Steals the Bride
sounds pretty unappealing.”

“Do you think we can expect more of Ms. York's fans to become irate?” Sterling asked. “Those advanced reading copies are all over the resort. There are women in almost every chair and sofa with that book in hand. They're even reading over their breakfast plates.” He flashed a wry grin. “It's a good thing Mrs. Hubbard can't see them. She'd be thoroughly insulted.”

Jane pointed at the screen, the lines on her forehead deepening. “Show me the other footage, please.”

Sterling fast-forwarded until the time stamp read 1:12
A.M
. He then pushed play and sat back in his chair, hands folded on his lap.

Another figure appeared in front of the Romance and Roses Suite.

“A male visitor this time.” Jane felt a knot form in her belly. “And he's carrying a liquor bottle.”

“It's Scotch. The good stuff. Bowman Islay Single Malt, aged twenty-five-years. Costs nearly two hundred dollars a bottle,” Sterling said. “It looks like our friend already guzzled one hundred and seventy-five dollars' worth.”

Jane didn't like the sound of that. “Great. A drunken stalker. I'm sure Ms. York would be delighted to receive such a worthy admirer. Oh, brother. Now
he's
pacing.” She could feel a headache coming on. “We'll have to replace the carpet in that hallway by the end of this event.”

The man took swigs of Scotch as he lurched back and forth outside the Romance and Roses Suite. Finally, he stopped and raised his hand. He curled his fingers into a fist, preparing to knock on Rosamund's door, and then slowly lowered it again. He shook his head as though to dispel a foolish thought and then turned to leave. Jane only caught a glimpse of his face, but she recognized him immediately.

“That's Nigel Poindexter, a freelance journalist,” Jane told Sterling. “He was friendly to Muffet Cat yesterday evening.” She clucked her tongue. “And I thought Muffet Cat was such a good judge of character.”

“We've already identified Mr. Poindexter,” Sterling said. “Mr. Sinclair is digging deeper into his background as we speak. Ms. Stone's too.”

Jane continued to massage her temples. “Do you have any aspirin?”

Sterling opened a desk drawer and fished out a bottle of Bayer. Smiling, he passed it to her. “Mr. Poindexter could probably use a few right about now.”

“I doubt he's awake yet,” Jane said sourly.

There was a tap on the door and Sterling leapt to his feet. “That's probably your great-uncle. He wanted to hear your thoughts on Ms. York's visitors.”

To be on the safe side, Sterling replaced the map of Virginia before opening the door.

Uncle Aloysius appeared in the threshold, looking every inch the country gentlemen in his tweed suit, loafers, and fishing hat. He wore his beloved hat everywhere, only taking it off in church where he placed it reverently on the pew cushion. There was conjecture among Storyton Hall's staff that he slept in the hat, but Jane knew this was nonsense. There were several sharp hooks and hand-fashioned flies attached to the worn fabric.

“Good morning, my girl.” Uncle Aloysius planted a kiss on Jane's forehead. Taking the chair next to hers, he pointed at the map of Virginia. “Such goings on last night, eh? What do you make of it all?”

“The man, a Mr. Nigel Poindexter, may be infatuated with Ms. York,” Jane said. “Maybe he needed a large dose of liquid courage to approach her. Then again . . .” She frowned. “No man could be foolish enough to believe that showing up at a woman's door at one in the morning would produce a positive outcome.”

Uncle Aloysius grunted. “I should say not.”

There was a tap on the office door. Sinclair entered, said good morning to Jane, and distributed two sheets of paper to those present.

“As you know, we run basic background checks on every guest prior to their arrival,” he said, addressing Jane. “We only probe deeper if someone strikes us as suspicious. On the first sheet, you'll find several red flags concerning Ms. Stone. The second sheet primarily focuses on Mr. Poindexter's financial woes.”

Jane scanned the first paragraph on Maria's list, which painted a sad picture of her childhood.

“She spent half of her childhood in the foster-care system.” Jane glanced at Sinclair. “What happened to her parents?”

“The mother died of a heroine overdose. The father is still alive, but Ms. Stone was removed from his custody shortly after her tenth birthday because he was physically abusive,” Sinclair said solemnly. “He never tried to reconcile with her, and as far as I can tell, no contact was made after Ms. Stone became a ward of the state.”

Jane imagined a small, dark-haired girl cowering in the
corner of a room as her father's long shadow fell over her. “That poor child,” she whispered. “She must have felt scared and alone for so many years. No child should live like that.”

“Keep reading,” Sinclair prompted gently.

As a teenager, Maria had been arrested multiple times. “Vandalism, arson, breaking and entering.” Jane whistled. “Why didn't these crimes come to light during your routine background check?”

“She was a minor at the time of each arrest. Juvenile records are sealed,” Sinclair explained. “Mr. Sterling had to call in a favor to get this information.”

Jane was about to ask another question when something on Maria's list caught her eye. “Its says here that she heads a group of millennial feminists called the Matildas. What's millennial feminism?”

Uncle Aloysius, who'd been silent up to this point, cleared his throat. “I can't speak to that precise term, but your aunt started her own feminist movement here in Storyton in the early seventies. She campaigned for equal pay for the women in the village, and when Storyton Hall became a resort, she made certain that our employees were given the same wages and benefits, regardless of gender.” He smiled with pride. “We were both determined that none of our staff should be exposed to harassment. More than one fellow was tossed out on his ear for administering unwelcome pinches in the hallway or indecent whispers in the staff elevator.”

Jane nodded in approval and then looked at the paper in her hands. “So what's the mission of the Matildas?”

Sinclair moved to the computer and pulled up a website. A graphic of Roald Dahl's child heroine, Matilda, the little girl with magical abilities, appeared onscreen. “Ms. Stone's group focuses on how the media portrays women. The Matildas oppose racism, objectification, unrealistic body image, harassment, and abuse against women in film, television, social networks, and print media.

“A worthy cause,” Sterling said. “But why is Maria Stone attending this event? I don't picture the head of a feminist group as a diehard fan of Regency romance novels.”

Jane shot him a censorious look. “That's just the type of stereotype Ms. Stone would find objectionable.”

Sterling threw out his arms in a show of helplessness. “Am I out of line? Consider the book covers. The women are thin, gorgeous, and partially undressed. More often than not, a burly, half-naked guy has his hands all over her. Every cover implies that the couple is seconds away—”

“From having consensual sex?” Jane asked, amused to see Sterling redden. “Last time I checked, feminists were pro-sex. Their bodies, their choices, right? Besides, the romance genre is replete with strong female characters. Ms. York took that idea of a strong heroine and morphed it into something even more powerful. She created an unconventional protagonist in Venus Dares. A feminist heroine.” She paused. “However, it seems like she penned the antithesis of Venus in Eros.”