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.
“At this point, we don’t know what happened to Ms. York. She was unwell yesterday afternoon, and we believe that her illness intensified over the course of the evening.” Jane gestured to her left. “This is Sheriff Evans of the Storyton Sheriff’s Department. He’s asking for your assistance in his investigation. If you have any helpful information about Ms. York—anything she might have said in passing or a remark she may have made during the truffle workshop, or at any other time, that you feel could be pertinent—please come forward after I’m finished.”
Next, Jane turned her right. “If the sheriff is unavailable, Deputy Amelia Emory would be glad to speak with you.”
A woman in the second row got to her feet. “You used the word investigation. Does that mean Ms. York’s death is raising suspicion?”
A wave of anxious muttering swept over the room and Jane knew she must be the picture of composure if she wanted to prevent fear from spreading like a wildfire. “As I said, we don’t know what brought on her sudden illness. I can assure you that it’s not contagious, but the until the medical examiner completes his examination and reports his findings to the sheriff, we cannot say for certain what precipitated her passing.”
“What happens now?” another woman asked timidly from an aisle seat in the ninth row. “Are you going to cancel Romancing the Reader?”
“Absolutely not,” Jane said firmly. “I believe Ms. York would want you to enjoy the rest of the week’s events. She came to Storyton Hall to interact with you, her readers, and to witness your delight as you learned Regency dances, created a reticule, or bid at the charity auction. I feel quite confident in saying that she would be disappointed if I canceled tonight’s highly anticipated fashion show or tomorrow’s male cover model search contest.” Jane paused to give the women a chance to mull this over.
“I don’t want to miss either of those things,” a woman toward the front said.
Jane gave her a grateful smile. “Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. The national holiday of romance. Rosamund York was known as First Lady of Romance, so let’s honor her memory by surrounding ourselves with flowers, music, food, candlelight, books, and handsome men. We have a trio of very talented authors in residence to help us continue celebrating the genre we all love. I say we go on. What do you say?”
Slowly, very slowly, a few women began to nod. And then, more and more ladies began bobbing their heads in agreement. This was followed by murmurs of assent from every corner of the room. Jane had swayed them, but she’d yet to tell her guests that they weren’t free to leave.
“Today will be unpleasantly cold and rain will plague us until tomorrow. Please stay snug and dry inside and enjoy our afternoon activities followed by this evening’s fashion show. If you have an urgent need to purchase something from Storyton Village, stop by the front desk and we’ll be glad to assist you. I know that many of you are anxious to have your gowns fitted for tonight’s fashion show, but you won’t need to leave Storyton Hall to attend to this. Mabel Wimberly will be arriving shortly for the reticule workshop and has set aside several hours to make last-minute adjustments to your gowns.” She smiled warmly at her audience. “Thank you for your patience and understanding. Before we adjourn, let’s take a moment of silence in honor of Rosamund York.”
Jane switched off the microphone and bowed her head. After a full minute, she descended the stage steps. Sheriff Evans and Deputy Emory walked behind her and the women started quietly filing out of the theater. However, several ladies formed a queue by the theater door where they patiently waited to talk with the sheriff.
Jane hung back to listen to their accounts, hoping these women had valuable information to share. However, it soon became obvious that they were all only interested in engaging in wild speculation.
“I know exactly what happened. Ms. Rosamund took her own life because her new book was bound to be a failure,” one woman theorized.
“That’s ridiculous,” a second woman said. “She could have changed the book. I’m sure her editor would have given her more time. I heard that she was suffering from depression. Maybe she popped too many pills by mistake. That would certainly make her feel ill, and celebrities seem to die from accidental overdoses all the time.”
Sheriff Evans listened patiently, but after hearing a woman suggest that Rosamund might be faking her own death in order to make a dramatic appearance at the fashion show, Jane had had enough.
Back in the lobby, she spotted Eloise, Mabel, and Mrs. Pratt standing by the center table and felt a lump form in her throat. The sight of her friends, tugging at their gloves and mittens, made Jane acutely aware of the weight of her responsibilities. She wanted to lean on them. For just a moment, she longed to share her heavy burden with the women she thought of as sisters.
“Jane!” Eloise rushed forward and gave Jane a fortifying hug. “Your poor thing. Are you holding up okay?”
Jane blinked dumbly. “How did you—”
“Everyone in the village knows about Rosamund. Deputies are canvasing every house, shop, and eatery in search of”—she stopped, glanced around the busy lobby, and lowered her voice—“your missing guest. Edwin canceled lunch service at the restaurant to join in the hunt. He and Sam are now roaming the woods on horseback. Such cowboys,” she said with a snort, but Jane saw pride in her eyes. Sam was the owner of Hilltop Stables and Edwin’s oldest friend.
“That cowboy can throw me over his saddle any time,” Mrs. Pratt declared fervently.
Mabel elbowed her in the side. “What would your Scotsman make of your infatuation with a younger man?”
Ignoring the remark, Mrs. Pratt fixed her attention on Jane. “Maybe we should we find a more private place to chat.”
Recalling that she’d asked Mrs. Pratt to collect information on Lachlan, Jane nodded. “Let’s go to the Jane Austen Parlor. It’s bound to be empty, seeing as most of the guests are in the dining room. I’ll order a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea. We can have lunch while we talk.”
Over Dijon chicken salad sandwiches, Jane told her friends most of what she knew. Normally, she would have held back dozens of details, but since Rosamund’s murder didn’t seem connected to Storyton’s secret library, there was no need to omit much. She didn’t mention Sterling’s lab, the hidden passageway outside the conference room, or the surveillance footage, but she told them enough to have them gawking in shock.
“Nigel has to be the killer,” Eloise said. “The poisonous seeds were found in his room and he’s fled for the hills.”
“He could also have been in collusion with another guest,” Mrs. Pratt suggested.
Mabel raised a finger to stop anyone else from speaking. “But what’s the man’s motive? Jane, do you think Nigel and Rosamund were lovers?”
“All I can say is that they weren’t strangers, even though that’s exactly what they were pretending to be,” Jane said.
Mrs. Pratt refilled her teacup with the day’s featured blend, a fragrant and invigorating jasmine green tea. “Theirs must have been a case of unrequited love. It would take an intense depth of rage to plan such an agonizing death for a former flame. I only saw Nigel in passing, but he seemed like a friendly enough soul. I guess he fooled everyone.” Frowning, she pulled a piece of paper from her handbag. “I’ve had no luck digging up anything on Rosamund’s past. All I managed was a chronological list of her public appearances.”
“That could be useful,” Jane said. “If we cross reference those appearances with Nigel’s published articles, we’ll discover if he and Rosamund attended the same events. That would help prove my theory that they knew each other.”
“Where can Nigel be hiding?” Mabel puzzled. “Unless he packed foul-weather gear, he won’t last long outdoors. He’d have to travel many miles to go over the mountain. Even with my natural padding, I need my heaviest wool sweater and my puffiest coat just to walk from one end of the village to the other.” She shook her head. “Folks who think it doesn’t get cold in this part of Virginia haven’t visited in February.”
“At least it’s nice and toasty in here,” Eloise said, smiling at Jane. “I’m glad you didn’t cancel tonight’s festivities. I’m sure Nigel will be found by then and everyone can focus on having fun. I don’t know if I’m more excited about donning my Regency gown or seeing the men in their top hats and tails. Especially Sam and Edwin. I don’t know how you convinced them to participate, Mabel.”
Mabel winked. “I have my ways. Besides, what would a fashion show be without a bevy of attractive men on hand to escort the ladies down the catwalk? The male cover models don’t arrive until tomorrow, so I had to make due with our local lads. Fortunately, we have plenty of lovely men to choose from.” She took Mrs. Pratt by the hand. “You might just swoon tonight, my dear. Both Gavin and Lachlan will be attired in Regency-era Highland costumes. And they cut fine figures. Very fine figures.”
“I’m surprised Mr. Lachlan volunteered to be a part of this spectacle,” Mrs. Pratt said in a theatrical whisper. “I wouldn’t think he’d be comfortable being in front of a crowd, seeing as he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Jane felt a rush of sympathy for the quiet and reserved Fin. “I got the feeling that not only had he seen action in the Middle East and in Afghanistan, but that he’d also lost some of the men in his unit. Men he was very close to. However, I didn’t know about the PTSD. How awful for him.”
Mrs. Pratt sipped her tea. “Yes, the men he fought beside were like brothers to him, but his deepest emotional wound occurred following his last tour of duty. Gavin told me that Mr. Lachlan was present when his real brother, a DEA agent, was killed during a house raid. The back steps of the house had been booby-trapped, you see. The poor man never stood a chance. Lachlan, who’d been on a ride-along with his brother at the time, witnessed the terrible event.”
The women fell silent. Jane was torn between regret and anger. On one hand, she was sorry that she’d asked Mrs. Pratt to gather information on Lachlan, but she was also upset to learn about Lachlan’s issues months after he’d been hired. Gavin should have been more forthright with her concerning Lachlan’s past. Knowing what she now knew, Jane wasn’t sure that her newest employee was truly capable of protecting her family. Though he might be in dire need of professional help to cope with his PTSD, as far as Jane knew, Lachlan spent all his free time traipsing about in the woods.
“Mr. Lachlan might be among the walking wounded—a man whose injuries aren’t visible to the naked eye—but thank goodness he found Storyton Hall. He definitely belongs here,” Eloise said softly. “Storyton’s books, beauty, and isolation are a balm to the saddest of souls.”
“I agree. I’ve always felt that this house and our village were imbued with restorative powers,” Mabel said.
“Oh, yes, they’re very peaceful and soothing.” Mrs. Pratt chuckled wryly. “As long as you discount the fact that somewhere in our bucolic utopia, a murderer is on the loose.”