Murder in the Paperback Parlor (8 page)

Sinclair rubbed his chin in thought. “Venus Dares is powerful because she's an independent woman of her own means. She still fits the romance formula because she creates happy endings, but she breaks the mold when it comes to Regency-era heroines. Considering Ms. Stone's childhood history of abuse, it's no surprise that she connected with this character on such an intimate level. And it's no wonder she's so upset by Ms. York's new book. If women are portrayed as weak and foolish, then I don't really blame her.”

“The young lady feels betrayed. Betrayed by another woman.” Uncle Aloysius picked up Maria's letter. “I wouldn't dismiss the seriousness of this threat.”

Jane looked at him. “Should we ask her to leave Storyton? After all, she's definitely crossed a line.”

“So she has,” Uncle Aloysius agreed. “However, she's young. She let her passion overrule her good sense, and I believe she may already regret her actions. Speak with her, Jane. Make it clear that we know what she did and warn her that a second act of indiscretion will not be tolerated. If she seems contrite, let her stay. If not, send her packing.”

With a nod, Jane turned to the second sheet of paper Sinclair had given her. Nigel Poindexter's list.

Nigel's red flags weren't as dramatic as Maria's. He lived
above his means and owed money to a dozen credit card companies. There was also a lien on his Florida home. For a man in his forties, he had no savings and very few possessions.

“And yet, he was drinking that expensive whiskey.” Jane shook her head in dismay. “How can he afford a week at Storyton Hall?”

“His room was pre-paid several months ago,” Sinclair said. “As far as any expenses he incurs this week, I don't know how he plans to pay for those.”

Sterling pointed at the security camera, which showed a housekeeper pushing a supply cart down a carpeted corridor. “I had a quick word with the second-floor housekeeper and she informed me that Mr. Poindexter brought an entire case of whiskey with him.”

Jane hated to think what his guest room looked like. She imagined empty liquor bottles, dirty tumblers, and spots of spilled whiskey on every surface. In her mind, clothes were tossed unceremoniously on the floor, pages of yesterday's newspaper were scattered across the carpet, and the bathroom towels were haphazardly draped over the reading lamp and chair.

Some people lose all sense of decorum when they don't have to clean up after themselves
, Jane thought, and was then jerked back to the present by the sound of her name.

“Sorry. I wandered off for a minute.” She glanced at her watch. “I'll speak with both Ms. Birch and Maria Stone after we're finished. Ms. Birch must be addressed first and I'll catch up with Ms. Stone as soon as I can. She'll need a stern warning about behavior, and I'll have to insist that she keep her distance from Ms. York for the rest of the week. Nigel Poindexter will also need to be cautioned. We can't have him pacing the hallway outside Ms. York's room again. Perhaps I can invite him to afternoon tea.”

Uncle Aloysius shook his head. “I'm afraid Mr. Poindexter is booked this afternoon. He's covering the truffle demonstration for”—he turned to Sinclair—“which magazine was it?”

Sinclair pointed at the list of magazines, blog sites, and small newspapers Nigel worked as a freelancer for, but Jane was no longer listening.

“Heaven help me! I forgot to tell Mrs. Hubbard that I'd invited Tobias Hogg to help with the workshop. She's so seldom in the limelight that she covets these opportunities, but I thought, what with a room full of women, that Tobias—”

“Are you playing Cupid?” Uncle Aloysius asked, his eyes shining with amusement.

“I hope not,” Sinclair said. “Cupid's Greek counterpart is Eros. And Eros is stirring up enough trouble as it is.”

After Jane left the office, she couldn't stop thinking about Eros. Not the plump, winged, cherubic figure favored by Italian Renaissance painters and the designers of Valentine's Day greeting cards, but the older and less innocent version. The Eros who carried a bow and arrow or a flaming torch and could instill in his unsuspecting victims such an all-consuming desire that they thought of nothing but their obsession.

“Eros robs his victims of freedom of choice,” Jane said to herself as she headed to the ballroom to catch the second half of the author panel,
Sugar or Spice: The Flavor of Regency Romance
.

Jane decided to watch the event from backstage. She was interested in how other readers would react to
Eros Steals the Bride
and hoped the moderator, the Fan Guest of Honor, would be able to keep the audience under control.

Apparently, she'd arrived during the short break because the room was filled with animated conversation. The authors had retreated backstage where they sipped ice water and glowered in the general direction of the podium.

“That woman should not be moderating this panel,” Georgia complained to Jane the moment she saw her. “You need to take over. We're not supposed to field questions from the audience until the
end
of the panel, but they keep interrupting. Every time Rosamund opens her mouth, it's to dodge questions about her new book. There are three
other
authors on this panel and we'd like to discuss
our
works.” She shot Rosamund a venomous glare and Jane noticed that Barbara Jewel and Ciara Lovelace seemed equally displeased.

At that opportune moment, Mrs. Pratt appeared at Jane's elbow. “I can help,” she said brightly and turned to the authors.
“As a former high school principal, I can handle this crowd. They just need a firm reminder about conference etiquette. Last night's spectacle during the auction has allowed them to forget, but I'll be sure to remedy that.”

Jane beamed at Mrs. Pratt. “I can vouch for this lady. Not only is Eugenia Pratt highly capable of the job, but she knows
all
of your books inside and out.”

This seemed to mollify the authors and, having entrusted Mrs. Pratt with moderating the second half of the panel, they returned to their seats on the dais.

As soon as Mrs. Pratt took the podium, Taylor Birch strode up to Jane and hissed, “Did you find out who sent Ms. York that horrible letter?”

“Yes. We're handling the matter. I will speak with Ms. York about the subject after the panel.”

Taylor shook her head. “That won't work. She's booked all day. She has a lunch interview followed by the truffle workshop. Tell me, and I'll pass the message along. That's why I'm here—to make things smoother for Ms. York.”

“I'd still like to speak with Ms. York in person, but please assure her that she won't be disturbed by the letter writer again.” Jane tried to infuse her tone with confidence.

“That letter was a threat,” Taylor persisted. “Ms. York should press charges. To do that, I need the person's name.”

Jane hadn't expected this. “Ms. York has every right to be upset by what happened, but I can assure you that my senior staff and I have things well in hand.” Though Jane knew this wasn't entirely true, the last thing she wanted was for Taylor to retaliate against Maria or to publicize the entire affair on Facebook. Storyton Hall could lose thousands of potential guests if someone as influential as Rosamund York publically denounced the resort.

Jane scanned the audience in search of Maria Stone and found her sitting at the end of the third row. Jane was shocked by the young woman's appearance. Her skin was wan, her eyes were dull, and her hair hung in limp strands. Gone was the passion that seemed to light her from the inside out. Gone was the youthful vivacity and vigor. She didn't fidget or shift
in her seat as she had during dinner the night before, but slumped in the chair as though she wanted to fold in on herself, to become so small that she might vanish altogether.

She looks like a mourner at the graveside
, Jane thought and then realized that Maria
was
grieving. In reading
Eros Steals the Bride
, Maria had lost something precious. She felt betrayed by someone she admired and heartbroken on behalf of her entire gender.

Jane stared at her with a mixture of pity and wariness and then retreated a few steps into the shadowy backstage wing. Her mind shifted back to Eros. Eros had the power to create desire disguised as love, but Jane knew that spurned desire could deeply wound a person.

Suddenly, a snippet of poetry from a book Eloise had given her for Christmas entered her mind. Standing in the dark, watching Maria Stone, Jane whispered,

“‘When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.'” Jane sighed. “I'm afraid you've been wounded, Ms. Stone. And not for the first time either.”

All at once, she had the feeling that she was no longer alone.

“Are you reciting Khalil Gibran?” Landon Lachlan asked from behind her.

Though Jane couldn't see him clearly in the dim light, she knew Lachlan's voice well enough. “I'm impressed. I only know a handful of people who'd recognize those lines.”

“I read some of his work during my second tour in Afghanistan,” Lachlan said and then fell silent.

He was so close to Jane that she could feel his breath on her neck. Though puzzled by his sudden appearance, she was too interested in what he was saying to ask what he was doing backstage. She nodded to show that she was listening and waited for him to go on.

“There I was, in no man's land, reading Gibran,” Lachlan spoke in a near whisper that increased the intimacy of the moment. He smelled pleasantly of wood smoke, fresh air, and apples. “Everything he wrote was the opposite of what I was
living. One of our missions went wrong and . . . we lost people. My brothers.” He swallowed hard. “That night, I read this in
The Prophet
: ‘But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully.'”

“That's beautiful,” Jane whispered over the sound of laughter from the audience. “But it's scary too. To deliberately surrender control like that.” She gestured at the romance novelists. “That's a reoccurring theme in the books these lady authors write. Happiness is only possible when one of the main characters—male or female—surrenders to the other. Their willingness to be vulnerable makes them equals and binds them together.”

When Lachlan didn't respond, Jane worried that he'd found her remark foolish.

“Ms. Jane.” Grabbing her hand, he enfolded it within his larger one and started to raise it.

Is he going to kiss my hand?
Jane thought, too stunned to move.

But Lachlan didn't kiss her. He lifted her entire arm and used it to direct her attention toward the side of the ballroom. “Look. Someone's breaking the rules.”

Jane spotted Taylor Birch holding her cell phone in front of her face, her mouth curved into a smug smile.

“Damn it,” Jane muttered angrily. “The girl isn't going to live to see Valentine's
Day.”

From her position behind the hostess podium in the Madame Bovary Dining Room, Jane was able to keep a close eye on Taylor Birch.

After Lachlan had pointed out the young woman's flagrant disregard of Storyton Hall's restricted technology policy, Jane had descended the stage stairs, marched over to the publicist, and asked to speak with her in the hallway.

Taylor had tried to pretend that she'd just forgotten about the policy and claimed that it was instinctual for her to capture images and video during Ms. York's appearances. Unmoved, Jane had given her a choice: Taylor could either surrender her cell phone for the rest of the day or pack her bags.

“You can't do that!” Taylor had spluttered.

“You signed an agreement weeks before your arrival,” Jane had patiently reminded her. “I will return your phone after the truffle demonstration. Until then, I'll keep it locked in my personal safe.”

Taylor's shock had quickly turned to indignation. “But I have to post these photos to Facebook.”

“I'm sure that can wait until this evening.” Jane had held out her hand, her expression firm.

Her mouth contorting in anger, Taylor had slapped the phone against Jane's palm. “Do you realize Ms. York has thousands and thousand of fans? How do you think they'd react if I told them how the manager of Storyton Hall refused to let me document Ms. York's visit?” Taylor lowered her voice. “Don't you see what I can do for your resort? If I post photos of Ms. York eating cake in the Agatha Christie Tea Room, sipping a cocktail in the Ian Fleming Lounge, or dancing in the Great Gatsby Ballroom, your bookings would skyrocket. Why ruin such a golden opportunity for us both?”

Jane had bristled over the initial threat, but as she continued to listen to Taylor, she had to admit that the young publicist's argument had merit. Hesitating, she'd returned Taylor's phone. “All right. Post what you have so far, but do not take this out in public again. Do you understand?”

Flashing a wily smile, Taylor had nodded and returned to the panel.

Now, the publicist sat at a large table in the center of the dining room, feverishly taking notes. When Taylor glanced up to nod encouragingly at her dining companions, Jane noted the deep crease between her brows.

I wonder if Ms. Birch's dining companions are sharing how they feel about Ms. York's new book
, Jane thought.

As for Rosamund York, she was having lunch with Nigel Poindexter in a secluded nook. Per Jane's request, the hostess had placed reserved signs on the two tables nearest the author, thereby creating a buffer between her and the rest of the diners.

“People are staring daggers at Ms. York,” the hostess whispered, breaking into Jane's thoughts.

It was true. Jane saw several women raise their advanced reader's copies of
Eros Steals the Bride
in the air, give the book a violent shake, and cast hostile glances in Rosamund's direction. Luckily, she didn't seem to notice.

Gazing around the dining room, Jane saw the other three authors seated together at a table near the back. They were also shooting hateful looks at Rosamund. “I wish Ms. York hadn't insisted on being interviewed in such a public place.
Considering the uproar at this morning's panel, I thought a private luncheon in the William Faulkner Conference Room would have been preferable, but Ms. York was firm about being
seen
by her fans.”

The hostess frowned. “She might be
seen
getting stabbed with a butter knife. Judging by the snippets of conversation I've overheard since the lunch service began, she's upset most of these women.”

“Thank goodness for Mrs. Hubbard,” Jane said. “It's as though she knew our guests would be in need of comfort food today. With specials like fried macaroni and cheese, double crust chicken pot pie, shrimp and grits, pecan-peach cobbler, and banana meringue pudding, who could be disgruntled for long?”

Jane's prediction turned out to be true. As soon as the food was served, the women's faces relaxed and their voices softened. The same could not be said of Rosamund, however. Jane was just about to leave the room to attend to several mundane tasks when Rosamund shoved her chair back from the table so roughly that both water goblets overturned. Nigel yelped and leapt to his feet, but not quickly enough. A dark patch spread across the crotch of his khaki pants where the water had soaked through his napkin.

“We're done, do you hear me?” he hissed at Rosamund. “It's over.”

“You can't make it without me and you know it.” Rosamund's mouth twisted into a triumphant snarl. And then, becoming aware of the sudden stillness around her, she turned to address the room at large. “I apologize for disturbing your lunch, ladies.” To Jane's surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “I can't tell you how much your support has meant to me over the years, and it's my deepest hope that your loyalty won't waver now.”

And with that, she fled the dining room.

After her dramatic exit, Jane hurried over to Nigel Poindexter. Grabbing a fresh napkin from one of the empty tables, she offered it to him. “I'm sorry about your lunch,” she said. “Can I get you a fresh plate?”

Nigel shook his head. “No, thank you. I'm afraid I've lost my appetite.”

Jane accompanied him to the lobby. “It looked like your interview was going quite well. Ms. York seemed downright jolly. I heard her laughing throughout most of your meal. It's a shame it ended the way it did. Can I do anything to smooth things over?”

“No. I just need to change my pants and take a break from all of these”—he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, incorporating all of Storyton Hall—“women!”

Jane let him go. The pressure of trying to keep this particular group of guests satisfied was very taxing. The painful truth was that all four of the celebrity guests, the publicist, and the visiting journalist had the power to damage the resort's reputation. And none of them seemed happy. The other authors and most of the fans were angry with Rosamund, and now she and Nigel had had a spat. But why?

“Did he press Rosamund about her fans' reaction to
Eros Steals the Bride
?” Jane wondered aloud. “Maybe she's genuinely fearful that she'll lose readers after the book is published.”

Jane suddenly realized that Nigel hadn't taken any notes during his interview. He and Rosamund had spoken for over thirty minutes and he hadn't written a single line. Not only that, but their argument seemed personal, as though it wasn't the first time they'd had a disagreement.

Odd
, Jane thought, remembering Nigel's late-night pacing session outside Rosamund's guest room door. She was about to share the lunchtime events with Sinclair when she caught sight of a familiar figure heading her way.

“Mrs. Pratt!” Jane hailed her friend. “Why, you're pretty as a picture. Have you come for lunch?”

Mrs. Pratt blushed and smoothed her cornflower blue blouse. “Gavin asked me to join him for a meal, and I wasn't about to pass up a chance to savor Mrs. Hubbard's cooking.”

The previous head of the recreation department, Gavin had retired last fall at the age of sixty-five. After recommending his cousin, Landon Lachlan, for his former position, Gavin spent two months in Scotland visiting family. Not long
before his departure, he'd admitted to Jane that he'd long harbored feelings for Eugenia Pratt. He vowed to woo her as soon as he returned from his trip.

“I hadn't realized he'd returned,” Jane said.

“He arrived late last night and probably went straight to bed after phoning me.” Mrs. Pratt did her best to sound nonchalant, but Jane saw the way her fingers drummed against her purse. She was a bundle of nerves.

Jane grabbed her friend by the hand and pulled her behind a potted fern. “I don't want to interfere with your lunch date, but would you be willing to extract some information from Gavin?”

The glimmer in Mrs. Pratt's eyes turned into a full-blown gleam. Her love of gossip was equal only to Mrs. Hubbard's. “What about?”

“See what you can learn about Mr. Lachlan. I have no
sense
of the man. Who are his friends? What are his habits? What is he
really
like?”

“Are you sweet on him?”

Jane shook her head. “Mr. Lachlan's been here for months, and I still feel like he's a stranger. As his employer, I should know him better than I do.”

“And that's all there is to it?” Mrs. Pratt asked slyly. “It doesn't matter that he looks like he just stepped off the cover of a romance novel?”

Jane was saved from having to reply by Gavin's arrival.

“What are you ladies doing back there?” Gavin peered between the fronds in amusement. “Are you plotting and scheming?”

Jane threw her arms around Gavin. “It's wonderful to have you back. I've missed seeing lights on in your cottage.” After examining his outfit, she smiled. “You look very handsome. These are your clan colors, right?”

“Aye,” Gavin said, putting a fist on the plaid that crossed over his heart. “Our surname was originally McGavin and my family is kin to the clan MacIntosh. When you were a girl, you said that my kilt reminded you of Christmas because of its red and green.”

“And you were as jolly as St. Nick himself,” Jane said. “But forgive me for hogging your attention. I believe someone else would like to admire your ensemble.” Having heard Mrs. Pratt laud the merits of a man in a kilt, Jane winked at her friend, wished her a pleasant lunch, and strolled away.

Her step was much lighter than it had been before seeing Gavin and Mrs. Pratt. “Love is in the air,” Jane declared en route to her office.

Inside, she immediately spied a strange object on her desk. It looked like a rose, but Jane could tell that it hadn't come from a garden or greenhouse.

Jane approached it slowly, cautiously. After all, she rarely received flowers. When the twins were younger, they used to pick them from Milton's gardens, but Jane explained that the flowers were more beautiful left intact because more people were able to enjoy them. From that point on, the boys made her tissue paper flowers. Jane half-expected the single stem on her desk to be one of their creations, but it wasn't. Black letters of uniform size marched across these paper petals.

“Book pages!” Jane exclaimed.

The stem, which was made of green leather, bore gilt letters from the book's spine or cover. Jane twisted the stem until she could make out the title. “Not the title. The author. Jane Austen. One of my very favorites.”

Her curiosity piqued, Jane raised the petals closer to her face. A name leapt out at her. “Miss Bennet. These pages are from
Pride and Prejudice
.”

As Jane pivoted the flower in search of familiar phrases, three petals fluttered onto her desk blotter.

“Oh!” Jane cried, fearing she'd handled the rose too roughly.

Scooping up one of the loose petals, she saw its letters had not been printed by a machine. They'd been written by hand in a delicate script by someone wielding a fountain pen. The message said:

I was promised a dance.

Jane picked up the second petal. It said:

The ballroom, immediately following the fashion show.

And the third said:

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards . . .—E

“Edwin,” Jane whispered, tracing his initial with her index finger. She smiled, recalling the night of Storyton's previous costume ball. The guests had dressed as famous fictional detectives, and Edwin, looking dashing in his toga, had come as the Roman sleuth, Marcus Didius Falco. Edwin had approached Jane during the band's warm-up session when she'd thought she was alone in the room. He'd then bowed, taken her hand, and waltzed her across the empty dance floor.

As they danced, an electric warmth had spread through Jane's body. It was like having sunshine in her veins instead of blood. No one had held Jane the way Edwin had. Not even William, Jane's late husband.

From the first step on that dance floor, she and Edwin had become one entity—their hands locked, his arm around her waist, her chin resting on his shoulder. They'd moved with the fluid grace of water and Jane had lost all sense of place or time. There was only Edwin's face, so close to hers, and his hand on the small of her back. There was only the two of them, turning and swirling, like leaves on the wind.

Eventually, other guests had entered and the spell of being in Edwin's arms had been broken. But Edwin had made Jane promise to meet him in the ballroom one night in the future so that they might have a second dance. He also asked that they be the only dancers on the floor.

“He's ready for that dance,” Jane murmured softly. “As am I.”

Part of her—the part that was the manager of Storyton Hall and the mother of twin boys—worried that it was too much of a risk to get involved with Edwin Alcott, but the woman in her, the woman who hadn't been kissed in over six years, wanted to dance until dawn.

Jane pictured the dress Mabel had made for her to model
in the fashion show. It would be absolutely perfect for dancing. She need only speak with Butterworth about keeping the band playing for another hour or two and to ask Ned to watch the twins.

Picking up the third petal, Jane reread the line. “It sounds like an incomplete quote. I'll have to search for the rest before the fashion show. It may help me understand Edwin's intentions. After all, I'm a single mother. I can't enter into a frivolous dalliance.”

I barely know him,
Jane thought.
But I'd like to change that.

And then she remembered Aunt Octavia saying that Edwin would never be a suitable husband or father. Jane shrugged. She wasn't thinking that far ahead. She was focused only on a vision of herself, looking ethereal in her Regency gown, leading Edwin to the back terrace to view the winter sky. She'd be cold, of course, and he'd pull her close to share in his warmth. Jane would tilt her face to his, their eyes would meet, and her lips would part in silent invitation.