Jane went straight to her office, shut the door, and unlocked the desk drawer where she’d placed the biographical sketches on Maria Stone and Nigel Poindexter.
Skipping over the details on Nigel’s journalism career, Jane went farther back in time to when he taught English and creative writing classes at a small Florida college.
“If only I could get my hands on a yearbook,” Jane murmured and then recalled an ad she’d seen online. The ad, which featured a smiling high school girl with a mane of hair teased to the high heavens, promised to replace missing yearbooks.
Wondering if the same service was available for college yearbooks, Jane did a Google search and was pleased to discover that not only were the yearbooks from Sarasota College available, but they’d also been uploaded for anyone to view. Every yearbook from the mid eighties to the present was listed. After glancing back at Nigel’s timeline, Jane opened the virtual yearbook from 1999.
Clicking until she reached the faculty pages, Jane zoomed in on the photos of the English Department. “There you are. Nigel Poindexter, adjunct professor.”
Jane studied Nigel’s face. She’d found him bookishly handsome when they’d first met, but there was something even more attractive about his younger self. He had a kind, honest face and his smile was playful. “You must have been carefree then—before all the debts began piling up,” Jane addressed Young Nigel. “Your students must have loved you. I wonder how many coeds had a crush on you.”
Jane continued clicking on yearbook pages until she found a section called “Clubs & Activities,” where she spotted a photograph of Nigel flanked by several students—mostly female—who formed the Creative Writing Club.
Zooming in again, Jane examined every face, but none of the young women resembled Rosamund York. Just in case, she looked over the entire graduating class, but none of the girls were Rosamund.
Foiled, Jane began to search through other yearbooks. As the years passed, Nigel continued to teach the same classes and run the same club, but none of his students included a pretty young woman who would one day become a successful romance writer named Rosamund York. That is, until Jane saw the photograph of the Creative Writing Club from 2004.
“Gotcha!” she cried.
No names were listed below the image, but Jane was positive that she recognized the college student perched on the edge of Nigel’s desk. At twenty-two, this woman had yet to possess the sophisticated style she’d later cultivate, but she was a natural beauty. In the photograph, she wore tight jeans with holes in the knees, a striped tank top, and ankle boots. Her blond hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she wore too much eye makeup, but her skin glowed with good health and her big, bright eyes gazed at Nigel Poindexter in adoration.
For some reason, the naked expression of desire on Rosamund’s face made Jane think of Edwin. Shaking her head dismissively, she searched the online yearbook until she found Rosamund’s senior portrait. Jane stared at the familiar face and the halo of blond hair and murmured, “It’s nice to meet you, Rosie Yates.”
Jane thought of the promising career awaiting this young woman and of how her life would come to an abrupt and violent end in a cold, dark garden.
“You didn’t deserve such an ending,” Jane whispered.
For the next thirty minutes, she tried to find information on Rosie Yates. Her efforts bore no fruit until Rosie’s name popped up in conjunction with a writing contest sponsored by Writer’s Digest. Rosie hadn’t won the grand prize, but she’d snagged first place, which entitled her to a cash prize as well as the publication of her story in the magazine.
“Is this where your writing career began?”
The contest had occurred in 2004, the same year Rosie had been a student of Nigel Poindexter’s.
Rosie won two more contests that year. She received another cash award for a contemporary short story, but the second contest was a major coup. The Golden Palm Contest was for novel-length historical romance and included the privilege of having one’s manuscript critiqued by the editor of a well-known publishing house. The Florida Chapter of Romance Writers of America printed a short piece featuring quotes from the winners, including Rosie.
“I couldn’t have succeeded without the help of my mentor,” Rosie had said during the interview. “He might be a man, but he taught me more about writing romance than any of my female teachers. I guess he’s my muse.”
“Was he more than that, Rosie?” Jane asked. “I think he was. I think you and Nigel were partners.”
Jane printed out the Sarasota College yearbook photos, and the details about the writing contests Rosamund York had won as Rosie Yates, and left her office.
She didn’t make it very far because Sue stopped her to point out an arrangement of red poppies sitting on the reception desk. “These are for you. Mr. Green is delivering the rest of the Valentine’s flowers to the guest rooms. Mrs. Pimpernel is assisting him.”
“Good,” Jane said, her mind still fixed on what she’d learned back in her office.
“Aren’t you going to read the card?” Sue asked in surprise.
Jane would have liked to tear the card into shreds, but she smiled and shook her head. “Not at the moment. I have too much to do.”
In the Henry James library, she found Sinclair presenting a thick tome to an elderly woman. “This should keep you occupied until tonight’s festivities, ma’am.”
“Are you sure?” The woman squinted at him through a pair of reading glasses with hot pink frames. “I can polish off most books in a single sitting.”
“It’s over eight hundred pages and I believe there’s enough historical detail to slow your pace.”
The woman frowned. “I still say that time travel belongs in science fiction novels, but I’ll give this”—she paused to read the title—“Outlander a try.”
Sinclair smiled warmly. “That’s all any author, or librarian for that matter, can ask.”
“I’m glad we own the rest of Diana Gabaldon’s novels,” Jane said to Sinclair after the woman had gone. “I have a feeling that guest will be back for more.”
“One can only hope,” Sinclair said. His eyes moved to the papers in her hand. “Did you find something?”
Jane glanced around to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard, but all of the library’s occupants had their noses buried in books. “A crazy thought came to me when I was in our special library. I was looking at a poem written by George Eliot.”
“The pseudonym for a very talented lady writer,” Sinclair said.
“Yes. A woman writing as a man. Thinking about gender roles led me to wonder why Nigel Poindexter attended so many conferences for authors and readers of romance novels. Even if he’d been madly in love with Rosamund, would he really travel to every conference just to be near her? She would have been preoccupied with panels, lectures, banquets, etcetera.”
“When Mr. Poindexter showed up with a bottle of Scotch and began to pace outside Ms. York’s guest room, you suggested the possibility that he was either in love with her or obsessed with her.”
Jane moved to a bookshelf and ran her fingers along the spines. She breathed in the scent of leather, old paper, and dust. To her, there was no sweeter perfume in the world. Tracing the gilt letters on an edition of Wuthering Heights, she said, “The most celebrated romance stories have mostly been written by women. The Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell, M. M. Kaye, and so on. But if you take romantic poetry or plays into account, writers like Shakespeare, Blake, Neruda, Rumi, Keats, and Byron balance out the genders. So let me ask you this: Can a man pen a bestselling romance novel?”
“Certainly,” Sinclair answered. “I can think of several. The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Knowles, D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love, E. M. Forster’s Room With a View, and who could forget Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago?”
Jane nodded in agreement. “Do you see what I’m trying to say? What if Rosamund and Nigel were more than lovers? What if they were partners?” Beckoning for Sinclair to follow her to the closest table, she spread the printouts across its polished surface and pointed at Rosie’s senior photograph. “What if this young woman fell in love with her writing teacher? What if she had the ideas, the look, and the charisma, but lacked the talent to become a popular romance novelist?”
“Rosie Yates.” Sinclair stared at the image. “You found her. Well done.”
Jane tapped the photograph of Nigel posing with the Creative Writing Club. “What if he had the talent, but wasn’t the right gender? After all, how many bestselling contemporary romance novels are written by men?”
Sinclair studied the printouts. “If Mr. Poindexter truly possessed the ability, he could have written under a female pseudonym.”
“For a little while, maybe, but today’s writer is expected to have a website and a social media presence. Eventually, Nigel would be pressured into making appearances—attending book signings, conferences, library talks. He wouldn’t be able to hide behind a female name forever.”
“You make a valid point,” Sinclair said.
Jane looked at her printouts and sighed. As interesting as her research was, it wouldn’t help them locate Nigel. “What if he’s still near Storyton Hall? He might be entertaining a wild hope of speaking with the Heartfire editor? Of convincing her that he’s the real author of the Venus Dares books.”
“That would be rather foolhardy,” Sinclair pointed out. “Unless he aspires to write from behind bars. And this is all conjecture, Miss Jane. We have no proof that Mr. Poindexter could pen a romance novel, though I admit his articles are very well written. I read as many as I could over the past forty-eight hours.”
At that moment, Ned entered the library. Spotting Jane, he hurried over to her and whispered, “The UPS truck just pulled up to the loading dock. Mr. Butterworth told me to fetch you as soon as we saw it coming down the driveway.”
“Thank you, Ned.”
“We’ll keep chipping away at this,” Sinclair said to Jane before turning to assist a guest. She nodded and followed Ned out of the library.
As usual, the kitchen was a scene of organized chaos. Mrs. Hubbard was wielding a wooden spoon and barking commands like a five-star general. When the UPS driver appeared up in the doorway, she waved at him.
“I have a tin of cookies for you, Grant. They’ll keep you warm on this cold Valentine’s Day. Would you like milk or coffee to go with them?”
The man in brown glanced at his watch. “I’d love a coffee, but I don’t want to trouble you in the middle of your lunch rush.”
Mrs. Hubbard beamed at him. “Oh, Jane will see to it, won’t you, dear?”
Jane led Grant to a counter near the walk-in refrigerator. “It’s wise to keep a safe distance. Mrs. Hubbard has been known to throw things.” She gave Grant a conspiratorial wink and then fetched a takeout cup and carried it to the commercial coffeemaker. “I’ll brew you a fresh pot. It’ll only take a minute.”
Grant checked his watch again and Jane quickly pulled on an oven mitt and slid a steaming triple berry tart from the cooling racks onto a dessert plate. Setting the plate as well as a napkin and fork on the counter, Jane said, “Have a treat while we wait on the coffee.”
“Twist my arm.” Smiling, Grant cut into the tart and waved at a plume of steam.
“I wanted to ask you a hypothetical question,” Jane said as she put her signature on Grant’s handheld device. “Could a person hide in the back of your truck?”
Grant considered the question. “I guess someone could squeeze in between boxes, but I’d probably find them at the next stop.”
“Where do you go from here?”
Pausing to load his fork, Grant said, “To the village. I start at the Cheshire Cat and work my way down Main Street.” He ate half of his tart in two bites. “Does this have anything to do with your missing guest?”
Jane stared at him. “How did—?”
“My wife shops at the Pickled Pig. While she was in line at the deli counter, she heard some other customers talking about it.” He polished off his tart, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and put down his fork. “I’m sure that I’ve never had a stowaway, ma’am, but I parked right next to the florist’s van. Maybe his van was unlocked.”
Though Jane felt leaden with disappointment, she thanked Grant, gave him his coffee, and wished him a good day.
“I nearly forgot,” Grant said on his way to the door. “The box on top of today’s stack is a little worse for the wear. It was like that when I loaded it at the warehouse, but I wanted to let you know, especially since the contents need to be kept frozen.”
Seeing that the damaged box was addressed to Landon Lachlan, Jane took it off the pile and carried it to the counter. There was a deep gash in one side and the tape securing the flaps closed was partially torn. Jane lifted one of the flaps and tried to peek inside, but a layer of air pillows blocked her view of the contents.
Jane glared at the box. She knew she had no business opening it, but when she recalled how Eloise had gazed at Lachlan with the same look of adoration a student named Rosie had bestowed on her teacher, one Nigel Poindexter, Jane felt a rush of anger.
“I need to make sure Lachlan is worthy of Eloise’s affection. Clearly, Nigel didn’t deserve Rosie’s, just as Edwin doesn’t deserve mine.” Jane removed a serrated knife from the knife block and severed the remaining strip of tape.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Mrs. Hubbard was suddenly at Jane’s side. She placed a bowl of soup on the counter and frowned. “You look a bit peaked. Sit down and warm your belly with my chicken and wild rice soup.” She pointed at the box. “I hope that’s the crème fraîche I ordered ages ago.”
Jane started to warn Mrs. Hubbard that the box was Landon’s, but Mrs. Hubbard yanked out the air pillows before she had the chance.
“Lord have mercy!” Mrs. Hubbard shrieked and pressed both hands over her chest. “Never in my life!”
Putting a reassuring hand on Mrs. Hubbard’s back, Jane looked inside the box, gasped, and instantly closed the flaps. “What would a normal person do with those?”
Mrs. Hubbard, white-faced and shaken, began to fan herself with her hand. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t!”
By this time, the staff member who’d been tasked with putting away the deliveries stepped out of the freezer and walked over to where Lachlan’s box sat on the counter. “Does this need to be unpacked too?”
“Not unless baby chicks are on tonight’s menu,” Jane said.
Mrs. Hubbard moaned. “I’m willing to serve exotic foods, but there’s a limit to what I consider exotic. Let’s just stick the box in the freezer and forget we ever saw it. I have too much to do to spend time wondering why Mr. Lachlan has been receiving regular shipments of . . .” With a shiver of repulsion, she walked away.
Jane glanced down at the bowl of soup and felt her stomach turn.
“Can this Valentine’s Day get any worse?” she muttered to herself and then, catching sight of the paper flowers the twins had made for Mrs. Hubbard, she realized that it could. She’d forgotten to pick up the special valentines she’d ordered from the Pickled Pig. If she didn’t borrow one of the Rolls-Royce sedans right now, she wouldn’t have the car back in time for the next pickup at the train station.
“I officially hate this holiday,” Jane grumbled on her way to the garage.
* * *
“Miss Jane!” Tobias Hogg hailed her from behind the bakery counter at the Pickled Pig. After handing a loaf of honey-wheat bread to a customer, he gestured for Jane to meet him at the far end of the counter.
“I was wondering when you’d come for the boys’ treats,” Tobias said. “I was planning to deliver them to Storyton Hall if I didn’t see you within the hour.”
“You’re far too busy for that.” Jane waved her hand to incorporate the whole market. The aisles were crammed and customers were lined up at both checkouts, their carts full of Valentine’s-themed goodies like wine, bread, cheese, and chocolate. Tobias’s display case of homemade truffles was nearly empty and the candy section was thoroughly picked over.
Tobias grinned. “I love the hustle and bustle. It’s like Christmas all over again.” He reached behind the counter and pulled out a white shopping bag. “I have your items ready to go. Would you like to see how they came out?”
Jane nodded and Tobias pulled out a plastic tube filled with red, pink, and white gumballs. At the top of the tube was a single chocolate kiss and a little tag reading, “Blow me a kiss.”
“You should get plenty of hugs and kisses for these,” Tobias said.
Jane smiled. “I hope so. And what about you? If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that you put your very best truffles aside for a certain lady.”
Tobias nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I did. I want Barbara to pick me for every dance tonight. Those cover models might be hunky, but would they cook gourmet meals for her? Would they rub her sore back after she’d been typing all day? Would they listen to her read chapters out loud?” He folded his arms across his chest. “I would. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to convince her that what I feel for her isn’t some passing fancy. I’ll follow her over the mountain if need be, but only to convince her to return to Storyton one day. As my wife.”
“But you barely know each other.” Jane felt like a cad for diminishing Tobias’s fantasy, but she was too hurt and angry over Edwin to stop herself.
Unperturbed, Tobias shrugged. “I’m letting my heart lead me. It’s never steered me wrong before.” He smiled dreamily. “I’m going to spend every spare minute with Barbara until the week comes to an end. After that, I’d like to offer to pay for her to stay at Storyton Hall for another week so I can court her. If she agrees, I know I stand a chance at winning her hand.”
“In that case, I hope you succeed,” Jane said and meant it. Just because she’d been taken for a fool didn’t mean everyone else would suffer the same fate. She accepted the shopping bag and turned to go, but then remembered that Tobias had made a delivery at Storyton Hall the morning Nigel had vanished. “Tobias, have you spoken with Mr. Butterworth or Mr. Sinclair today?”
He nodded. “I can assure you that no one was in my van except for—” His hand flew to his mouth and he chuckled. “I almost told you our pig’s name and ruined the surprise!” He clapped his hands gleefully. “Anyway, our piggy mascot would have snorted and grunted if someone had been in the back with him. He’s very social and incredibly talkative. Storyton Hall was my only delivery that day because I had to take our pig over the mountain for his vet appointment. So unless your missing guest was clinging to the undercarriage, there’s no way he hitched a ride with me.”
Jane thanked Tobias, paid for her purchases, and hurried down the street to Geppetto’s Toy Shop. She pushed open the front gate and stopped at the Pinocchio statue to the right of the flagstone path to touch the wood puppet’s nose. All the locals did this before entering Barnaby Nicholas’s shop. No one knew how the tradition had started, but it had become a collective habit. Now, people were afraid not to touch the puppet’s nose, as though passing the puppet by was unlucky.
Inside Geppetto’s, Barnaby was manipulating a ballerina marionette for a customer.
“I’ll take it!” the woman exclaimed. “Mr. Nicholas, what would we do without you? You’ve made holidays magical for Isabella since she was a baby.”
“Mine is the business of quickening imaginations and sparking smiles, Mrs. Rowe.” Barnaby grinned. “Let me wrap her for you.”
Several minutes later, Barnaby bid the woman good-bye and turned to greet Jane. “When I was a tyke, kids were lucky to get a card on Valentine’s Day. Now, every holiday is a big deal.” He shrugged. “I’m not complaining. Holidays keep me afloat, but times have certainly changed.”
“Maybe parents like me buy things to make up for how many hours we end up having to work instead of spending quality time with our kids.” Jane let loose a dry laugh. “Isn’t that I’m doing right now? Ever since I started planning Storyton Hall’s latest event, I feel like I’ve neglected my boys.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Barnaby said. “You’re a very attentive mother.” He presented her with a shopping bag. “Besides, you’re giving them the gift of mystery. What could be better than that?”
“Mysteries are only satisfying when one can find the solution,” Jane said and left a befuddled Barnaby to tend to his next customer.
Jane made it back to Storyton Hall in time to turn the Rolls over to Sterling. “I’m off to collect the first Fabio,” he said, saluted her, and drove away.
Jane expected the lobby to be filled with women waiting for the cover model contestants to arrive, but after glancing at the grandfather clock, she realized that it was almost teatime. The guests would be lining the hall outside the Agatha Christie Tea Room.
Jane thought of the special Valentine’s Day treats Mrs. Hubbard was about to serve. She could almost taste the sandwiches: sun-dried tomato and cucumber cream cheese, smoked salmon mousse, roast beef with cherry chutney, and goat cheese with honey and walnuts. And the desserts! Jane’s step quickened at the very idea of raspberry scones with lemon curd, triple chocolate brownie tarts, red velvet cake, chocolate dipped strawberries, heart-shaped Linzer cookies, and multi-colored cupcakes decorated to resemble conversation heart candies.
When Jane entered the kitchens, her stomach rumbling in anticipation, she was met with a chorus of “Surprise!” from Fitz and Hem.
Jane pretended to swoon. “Be still, my beating heart,” she cried, hiding her shopping bags behind her back.
“Hem and I would like to invite you to tea,” Fitz said in his best British accent.
Adopting the same accent, Hem said, “Close your eyes, please.”
Putting the bags down, Jane complied. Her sons took hold of her hands and led her down the quiet staff corridor to the public hallway and into what Jane guessed, judging by the distance from the kitchens, was the Jane Austen Parlor. The room was commonly referred to as the Paperback Parlor due to the number of paperbacks stuffed into the bookcases lining both walls. Over the years, readers had begun leaving a copy of their favorite Jane Austen title with their name, date, and often, a short message inscribed on the inside of the front cover, in the room. Both guests and staff members enjoyed plucking a random paperback from the shelf to see what a former visitor had to say about Ms. Austen’s work. The most popular quote, which came from the pages of Pride and Prejudice, was, “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!”
“You can open your eyes now,” Fitz whispered.
“Okay.” Jane gasped in delight when she saw the small table and three chairs set up in the middle of the room. The boys—assisted by Mrs. Pimpernel and Mrs. Hubbard, no doubt—had draped the table with a rose-colored cloth. Paper doilies decorated with crayon drawings served as placemats. A bouquet of pink and purple flowers bloomed from the teapot and the teatime treats included peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, heart-shaped strawberries, and shortbread cookies covered with a raspberry drizzle.
“You two did this?” Jane asked, her heart swelling.
“We had a little help,” Hem admitted. “But we made the sandwiches and put the flowers in the teapot. You can take them out when you’re ready for tea. See? They’re in a jam jar.”
Jane ruffled his hair. “My brilliant boys.”
Fitz pointed at the table. “And we drew hearts on the placemats so they’d look fancy.”
Hem pulled out a chair for Jane and Fitz placed a napkin on her lap.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to the best mom ever!” they said and gave her a hug and a kiss. While the boys served themselves, Jane furtively dabbed at her wet eyes.
“How do you like your tea?” Hem asked after Jane had finished her sandwich and was devouring her fifth strawberry.
“It was the best I’ve ever had,” she said. “And I have treats for you too. Be right back.”
She hurried to the kitchen, grabbed the gifts, and returned to the parlor.
The boys dug through the bags, shouted with glee when they saw the tubes of gum and frowned in confusion after shaking the wooden boxes from Geppetto’s Toy Shop.
“Sounds like a puzzle,” Fitz said.
Jane nodded. “It is. And when you put it together, you’ll discover a special message from me.”
Hem’s eyes widened. “Like a secret code?” He nudged his brother. “Let’s go home and work on it.”
“Can we, Mom?”
“Sure. I’ll be there soon.”
The boys gave her one more hug and dashed from the room.
While savoring a shortbread cookie, Jane studied the crayon hearts the twins had drawn on her placemat. She smiled, feeling content for the first time in what felt like ages. She didn’t need Edwin’s red poppies or his promises. She didn’t need to dance with him or feel his arms around her. She had all the love she needed.
Jane got up and walked to the back door so she could watch her boys race across the lawn. “I know what Mark Twain meant when he said, ‘To get the full value of a joy you must have someone to divide it with.’”
She pressed her hand against the glass. “I divide my joy with you, Fitz and Hem. My sweet, impish, maddening, darling boys.”
And then she blew against the pane so that her breath fogged up the glass. She traced a heart in the clouded glass and watched her sons through the opaque outline until they disappeared from view.