Jane made sure she was at the registration desk to welcome the Heartfire editor in person.
“Ms. Jamison. I’m sorry that we aren’t meeting under happier circumstances,” Jane said to a petite woman with glasses, a lovely smile, and sky blue eyes.
The woman took Jane’s outstretched hand. “Call me Lily. All of us at Heartfire are devastated by Rosamund’s passing, but we’re also glad that you decided not to cancel the rest of the week’s events. Rosamund wouldn’t have wanted that. She was very devoted to her readers.”
A burly young man with shoulder-length hair and sun-kissed skin strode up to Lily and handed her a book. “You left this in the car.” He pointed at her wheeled suitcase. “Would you like me carry that to your room?”
Lily shook her head. “Thank you, Alex, but I think I can manage.”
After Alex rejoined the other cover models lined up to check in, Lily whispered, “The man flirted with me the whole way here. I guess he was trying to get an edge in tonight’s competition, but it didn’t work.”
Jane glanced at the group of men. They all had chiseled jawlines, powerful builds, shiny hair, and bronzed skin. When they smiled, they flashed bright white teeth.
“I’m glad I’m not a judge,” she told Lily. “It can’t be an easy task, though I know my friends will enjoy every second of deliberation.”
Jane had asked Phoebe and Mrs. Pratt to serve as judges. Phoebe was Storyton’s resident artist and Mrs. Pratt was their romance novel expert. If anyone could decide which hunk deserved to grace the cover of a future Heartfire novel, it was Eugenia Pratt.
“May I show you to your room?” Jane asked Lily.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to pay my respects to Rosamund first. Could you take me to the place where . . . ?” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“Of course,” Jane said. After grabbing her coat from her office and calling for a bellhop to see to Lily’s bag, Jane led her through the house and out into Milton’s gardens.
“It’s hard for me to imagine Rosamund here. She hated the cold. She said her Florida blood got thinner by the year.”
Jane glanced at the editor. “How did Rosamund end up signing with Heartfire?”
“Francine Bloom, a senior editor at Heartfire, read a partial manuscript Rosamund submitted for a contest. Francine loved her writing and asked to see the rest of the novel. That novel was the first Venus Dares book.”
Jane nodded. “How does the editing process work? Once you have the complete manuscript, what comes next? Do you talk with the author on the phone?”
“Not anymore,” Lily said. “Everything is electronic. We type our suggestions or questions in comment bubbles in the manuscript’s margin. The author addresses them and sends the corrected manuscript back to us.”
“How can you be sure the author is doing the editing and not someone else?” Jane asked.
Lily laughed. “Not many authors could find someone who knew their books well enough to take over the edits. Every author’s voice is unique.” She smiled a sad smile. “Rosamund’s books were usually very clean. Francine often remarked how little needed to be done to improve them.” Her eyes lifted to the high hedge to her right. “Rosamund could behave like a diva at events such as this, but she was a delight to work with. She never missed a deadline and her communication was always polite and professional.”
If everything was done electronically, then Nigel could have easily written the Venus Dares novels, Jane thought. He and Rosamund could have argued about all kinds of things: plotlines, the events Rosamund should attend, how the money would be divided.
Jane felt a quickening of her pulse. What if Nigel asked for more money to cover his debts and Rosamund refused to comply? That would definitely give him a motive to commit murder. Then again, by killing Rosamund, he’d never see another dime from the Venus Dares novels. Jane darted a quick look at Lily. If Nigel told the assistant editor that he was the talent behind Rosamund York, would Heartfire hire him to continue the bestselling series?
“What did you think of her new novel?” Jane deliberately slowed her pace as they approached the arbor.
Lily shrugged. “It’s not my favorite, but it’ll sell because Rosamund’s name is on the cover.” Her face took on a closed expression and Jane decided to stop hammering Lily with questions. Lily wanted to say farewell to someone she’d known for years and deserved a little privacy.
Jane came to a halt. “I’ll wait for you here. As soon as you round this bend, you’ll see the arbor. That’s where she was found.”
“I was told she died at night,” Lily whispered. “It must have been freezing.”
Jane touched the other woman’s arm. “I like to think that the last thing she saw were the moon and stars. All those lights shining down on her.”
Lily’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded wordlessly and then walked away.
Once Lily was out of sight, Jane paced in a slow circle. The movement kept her blood flowing and helped her process what Lily had told her. Five minutes had passed when Jane heard raised voices coming from the direction of the arbor. The voices turned to shouts.
Jane broke into a run, and the second she rounded the curve in the path, she saw Maria Stone gripping Lily by the collar of her coat.
“Let go of me!” Lily cried angrily.
“Not until you swear not to publish that filth.” Maria’s mouth twisted in rage.
“Ms. Stone!” Jane infused her voice with authority. “You will release Ms. Jamison this instant.”
Maria shot her a scathing glance. “Not until she gives me her word.”
Jane took another step forward. “You will release her immediately or I will force you to release her. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m fighting for our gender!” Maria shouted and tightened her grip on Lily’s collar. Lily gave a little squeak of pain. “Just swear to me—”
Maria’s speech was cut off by the force of Jane’s roundhouse kick. Jane’s right foot slammed into the back of Maria’s knees. Her legs buckled and she went down. Taking advantage of Maria’s fall, Jane pressed her knee into the younger woman’s back and pulled out her cell phone.
“Come to the arbor immediately,” she told Butterworth. “And bring restraints.”
“You’re crazy!” Lily, who’d retreated to a safe distance, was holding her throat and staring at Maria in horror. “It’s just a book.”
“Books have power,” Maria murmured from the ground.
Though Jane agreed with her, she had no intention of saying so. “Don’t move. I’d rather not kick someone who’s already down.” She glanced at Lily. “Are you all right?”
Lily nodded. “A bit shaken, but yeah, I’m okay.”
“You won’t be troubled by this young woman again,” Jane promised. She eased her knee off Maria’s back. “Shame on you, Ms. Stone. Rosamund York is dead. A woman lost her life this week. There are appropriate ways to further one’s cause, but you don’t seem to understand that. You’ve crossed the line again, Ms. Stone. This time, there will be repercussions.”
Butterworth appeared, breathing heavily. “Madame?” He bowed to Lily. “Are you injured?”
Lily managed a weak grin. “Thanks to Ms. Steward’s well-aimed kick, I’m fine.” She pointed at Maria. “I’ve seen my share of rabid fans, but this one takes the cake.”
“She will be removed from the premises without delay,” Butterworth said. “In the meantime, you’ve suffered a shock. May I send something to your room to help you recover?”
Lily waved him off. “All I need is a hot bath and a cup of tea.”
“Ah, here’s our Ned. He’ll escort you to your suite.” Butterworth turned to Ned. “Please get Ms. Jamison whatever she’d like from the room service menu.”
“This way, ma’am.” Ned smiled at Lily. “While we walk, why don’t I tell you about today’s tea menu? I could bring you a plate of the choicest treats.”
“Was anything made of chocolate?” Jane heard Lily say as she and Ned headed back to the manor house.
“Absolutely! We love chocolate around here,” Ned said, and when Lily laughed, Jane relaxed. A bath, a pot of tea, and Mrs. Hubbard’s sweets might help Lily put the unfortunate episode behind her.
Meanwhile, Butterworth had hauled Maria to her feet and secured her hands behind her back using plastic wrist ties.
Maria twisted her shoulders left and right and bellowed, “You can’t do this to me!”
“I’m merely restraining you until Sheriff Evans arrives,” Butterworth said. “Where would you have me take her, Miss Jane?”
“To the garage,” Jane said. “And tell the sheriff that Ms. Jamison is not to be disturbed. I’ll press charges on her behalf. Ms. Stone could use an evening or two in lock-up to reflect on her behavior.”
Maria glowered at Jane. “The sheriff can’t hold me.”
“You assaulted a woman without provocation. In these parts, that’s a crime, Ms. Stone.”
“What about you?” Maria retorted. “You kicked me!”
Jane grinned. “I most certainly did.”
With that, she turned and walked away. As she hurried up the path, she thought of how pleased Sinclair would be to learn that his pupil had used her martial arts skills to protect an innocent guest from harm.
* * *
With thirty minutes prior to the start of the male cover model contest, the Cover Girls convened in Jane’s kitchen. Other than Eloise, who was perched on a stool to avoid putting strain on her tender ankle, the women stood around the center island and waited for Jane to fill their glasses with a fruity red wine.
When everyone was served, Jane showed her friends the Sarasota College yearbook photographs and shared her theory about Nigel Poindexter being the talent behind the Venus Dares novels.
“Impossible,” Mrs. Pratt spluttered. “No man could write a woman that well.”
Eloise arched her brows. “I’d have to disagree. I can think of a dozen male writers who created complex female characters. Roth, Updike, Steinbeck. And what about Tolstoy’s heroine, Anna Karenina? She’s more complex than this wine. No offense, Jane.”
Mrs. Pratt shrugged. “I don’t have your expertise when it comes to classic literature, but I know my contemporary romance novels. If we were talking about a man writing two hundred years ago, then I might believe it. But now? Modern romances aren’t written by men.”
“That we know of,” said Phoebe and winked at Mrs. Pratt.
Violet looked pensive. “Technology has made it easy for people to invent personas. In cyberspace, we can decide what version of ourselves we want people to view, and it’s usually a rose-colored version, if not a downright fictitious one.”
“That’s true.” Mabel said. “And despite the warning not to judge a book by its cover, folks do make judgments based on what they see.”
“Lots of programs can alter how you look too. Like Photoshop.” Anna said. “I could turn myself into a twenty-year-old bikini babe.”
Violet, who was bent over the yearbook photographs, glanced up at Anna. “You can’t improve on that gorgeous hair.”
Anna touched her newly layered locks and grinned. “I want to look my best tonight. I’m wearing control top pantyhose that practically stretch from my toes to my neck, so one of those sizzling hot men had better hold me close.”
Eloise looked at Jane, and Jane feared that her best friend might raise the subject of her date with Edwin, but before anyone else could speak, Mrs. Pratt said, “You’ll have to be aggressive, girls. The seasoned women in this room aren’t shy. Isn’t that right? Betsy? Mabel?”
Mabel laughed. “Right you are!”
“What about Gavin?” Betsy asked Mrs. Pratt. “Won’t he be jealous if you dance with other men?”
“Ours is not an exclusive relationship,” Mrs. Pratt said firmly. “I am free to dance with whomever I please. Would Bob object?”
Betsy snorted. “Not in the least. He hates dancing and hopes I’ll get my fill tonight. Besides, he has to run the Cheshire Cat. Valentine’s Day isn’t a happy holiday for everyone. Some people feel terribly lonely on this day, and my Bob will do his best to make them feel less blue.”
“I hope you all have the time of your lives tonight,” Jane said. “But don’t let your guard down. Nigel Poindexter is still at large.” She swirled wine around the base of her glass. “At least one of our suspects is out of the picture.”
“Who?” Mrs. Pratt demanded eagerly.
Jane told them about Maria Stone.
“I can’t help but feel sorry for the young lady,” Mabel said. “It sounds like she’s scratched and clawed her way through life. No child should be raised without love.”
“Speaking of children, where are yours, Jane?” Eloise asked.
Jane smiled. “After volunteering to clean up the kitchen, they packed their overnight bags and left. They’re having a sleepover with Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia and are dying to give them the cards they made at school. Apparently, the boys invented their own Valentine’s Day knock-knock jokes and riddles.”
“Those two are so creative,” Phoebe said. “Maybe they’ll grow up to be artists or writers.”
“Speaking of writers, are Georgia, Ciara, and Barbara in the clear?” Violet asked, smoothing the skirt of her lavender dress.
Jane frowned. “Unfortunately, no. Ciara and Barbara seem like genuinely nice people, but they could be putting on an act. And Georgia? Watch her if you can. She looks extremely self-satisfied.”
“How could a person take pleasure from another’s death?” Eloise said.
No one responded, and eventually, Jane tapped her watch face and said, “We’d better get going. If my hunch about Nigel is correct, he’ll risk being seen in order to speak with Lily Jamison, the Heartfire editor.”
Mrs. Pratt put her wineglass in the sink. “Since we’re both judges, Phoebe and I will be sitting on either side of Ms. Jamison. We promise to keep a close eye on all the men she talks to after the contest.”
Chuckling, the women buttoned up their coats and pulled on gloves while Eloise remained on her kitchen stool.
“I’m worried about you,” Eloise whispered as Jane rinsed the wineglasses. “If you really believe Nigel could pop up in the middle of tonight’s ball, how will you respond? Do you plan to tackle him in a dress and heels? Edwin should be here to help. Sam too. Of all the nights for them to have committed to a poker game.”
Jane handed Eloise her crutches. “It’s fine. I have plenty of security.”
“Well, I suppose Nigel could be halfway to Mexico—or wherever people run to—by now, “Eloise said. “Maybe he killed Rosamund because she didn’t return his affections and then bolted.”
“There has to be more to it than that,” Jane argued. “Remember what Mrs. Pratt told us during our last book club meeting? Two years ago, she overheard Georgia threaten to expose Rosamund as a charlatan. What if Georgia knew that Nigel was writing Rosamund’s books?”
“She’d have exposed her ages ago. Unless . . .”
“Unless she was waiting for a chance to obtain proof.” Jane helped Eloise to her feet. “What if the only person who could provide her with that proof was Nigel Poindexter? What if, for whatever reason, Nigel gave it to her?”
“Too many questions without answers.” Eloise gazed at Jane with concern. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t chase a bad guy down an empty corridor by yourself. Come get me first.”
Jane gave her friend a bemused smile. “And what will you do to protect me?”
Eloise shrugged. “Pummel the louse with books? I’d use big ones—like a collection of Shakespeare’s plays. That tome could inflict serious damage.”
Laughing, Jane joined the rest of her friends by the coat tree. Bundled up to the chins, they ventured outside. The melody of their voices and the scent of their perfume drifted into the night air, and for just a moment, Jane could pretend that she was just an ordinary girl going to a dance with her friends. But when the dark shadow of a bird taking wing startled her, her smile slipped. Once again, the secret side of her, the Guardian, moved to the forefront.
As she lifted her eyes to the glowing windows of Storyton Hall, Jane suddenly felt very alone.
* * *
Mrs. Pratt and Phoebe sat in chairs in the front row of Shakespeare’s Theater. Eloise had volunteered to serve as an alternate judge in case of a tie, so she also had one of the most coveted seats in the room. Georgia, Ciara, and Barbara filled out the rest of the row while Jane opted to stand in the rear. She wanted to have a clear view of the entire space, especially the exits.
Sinclair, looking very dapper in his tux, took the stage and tapped the microphone. “Good evening,” he said in his rich, deep voice. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for has arrived. The Heartfire Male Cover Model Search will start in a few minutes.”
The ladies in the audience clapped and whistled in zealous anticipation.
“The contestants will begin their promenade onstage,” Sinclair continued once the noise died down. “When they have finished, they will proceed down the stairs to my left, walk up the aisle, and then cross to the right aisle and return to the stage. Please do not hinder the gentlemen’s progress in any manner.” Sinclair stared at the crowd. His expression was stern. “Individuals who fail to comply with this rule will be asked to leave.”
Twitters of dismay followed this declaration. Satisfied that his warning had been received, Sinclair continued. “Once the contestant has returned to the stage, his portfolio highlights will appear on this projector screen.” Right on cue, the, crimson curtains parted to reveal an enormous white screen. “We have thirty finalists, so if you’re ready, I will introduce our first contestant. Let’s give a warm welcome to Roberto Caballero from Las Vegas, Nevada.”
Roberto strutted onstage in a Phantom of the Opera costume. After waving his cape around, he untied it and tossed it to an audience member. His white linen shirt was open to the navel and he ran a hand down his chiseled chest, smiling roguishly all the while. The ladies responded with gratified moans. And when he tore his shirt down the middle and let it fall to the floor, they shrieked and applauded boisterously. As the theme song from the famous musical floated out of the theater’s speakers, Roberto played the air organ. With every movement of his fingers, the muscles in his arms tensed and rippled.
Just when Jane started to wonder how much longer this scene would go on, Roberto finally descended the stairs. After making a big show of removing his mask, he sauntered up the aisle. By the time he returned to the stage, his four portfolio shots had appeared on the projector screen. In every pose, Roberto held a beautiful woman in his arms. The full-length images accented his bare chest and emphasized how his muscular legs looked in tight breeches, leather pants, jeans, and a very short kilt.
As the evening progressed, it became clear that the contestants favored particular costumes. Jane watched a steady parade of bare-chested vampires, cowboys, buccaneers, centurions, and Highlanders, while also scanning the room for signs of suspicious activity.
After all the models had taken their turn in the spotlight, the first round of voting took place and three finalists were chosen. Roberto made the cut, as did Wyatt from Dallas and Griffin from Tennessee. Onstage, the men struck poses while Phoebe, Mrs. Pratt, and Lily Jamison exchanged a flurry of whispered remarks.
The audience members, who’d been silent for the majority of the deliberations, began shouting the names of their favorite contestant. Listening to their enthusiastic cheering, Jane smiled. She had no doubt that her guests were having the time of their lives and fully expected the gaiety to continue at the Ladies’ Choice Ball.
In the end, Griffin was declared the winner. Lily ascended the stage steps and presented him with a mock contract tied with a silk ribbon. She extended her hand for him to shake, but he swept her up in his arms and spun her in a circle instead.
Looking relieved that the contest was finally over, Sinclair asked the ladies to make their way to the Great Gatsby Ballroom.
“I’m ready to add names to my dance card,” a woman told her friend as they filed out. “If Roberto dances with me, I’ll go to my grave happy.”
Jane heard similar remarks as she joined the flow of bodies moving through the lobby. It was like being in a river of glittering, colorful, perfumed fish. Caught among swishes of satin and taffeta and excited chatter, Jane found the sensation of being swept along with her guests extremely agreeable.
The Great Gatsby Ballroom was resplendent. The women were dazzled by the sight of flickering candles and rose topiaries strung with fairy lights. The local men and Storyton Hall staff members who’d volunteered to serve as dance partners stood in two columns. Straight backed and smiling, they bowed as the women streamed in. The ladies wasted no time presenting their dance cards, giggling and blushing all the while.
When the cover model contestants entered the room several minutes later, they were instantly mobbed. Luckily, the Storyton Band struck up the first chords of a tango and many of the women scurried off to find the partners already penciled in on their dance cards.
By the second song, all the men were on the dance floor. Jane wandered over to the refreshment station, which featured punch bowls filled with Love’s First Blush—a blend of champagne, lime, and raspberries. There was also a selection of heart-shaped cookies, cheeses, and finger sandwiches.
For the most part, the guests remained in the ballroom, but both gentlemen and ladies occasionally stepped outside for a breath of fresh air or to use the restroom. Jane did her best to stay alert and vigilant, but as the night wore on, she began to tire. And while she enjoyed seeing Tobias Hogg lead Barbara Jewel in dance after dance, she was less pleased by the way Lachlan stuck to Eloise’s side like a metal shaving captured by a magnet. Though he fulfilled his duty by dancing with other guests, he always returned to the empty chair next to Eloise’s. He examined her ankle, fetched punch for her, and gave her his undivided attention whenever she murmured in his ear.
At least Edwin’s not here, Jane thought and wondered why he hadn’t volunteered to be one of the dancers.
“He was willing to dress up like Mr. Rochester and dance with me,” she mumbled to herself. “But if he thought he could seduce me in order to gain access to the private reaches of Storyton Hall, then he was sadly mistaken.”
“Are you having a conversation with the candelabra?” Sterling asked, having noiselessly appeared at Jane’s side.
“I’m trying to avoid falling asleep on my feet,” she answered.
At that moment, a group of dancers shifted and Jane saw Lily near the front of the room. A tall, thin man with the beginnings of a dark beard led her in a waltz. Jane only caught a fleeting glance of the couple before other dancers obscured them, but she stiffened so abruptly that Sterling was instantly on alert.
“What is it? Did you see something suspicious?”
Jane stood on tiptoe and tried to locate Lily again. “I’m not sure.”
The waltz ended and half of the dancers cleared the floor. Some headed for the refreshment table while others sank into one of the many chairs surrounding the dance floor. Several exited the room altogether, and Jane spotted the man again just before he disappeared into the lobby. Like most of the men, he wore a black tux. That in itself didn’t cause her alarm, but the memory of the contents in Nigel Poindexter’s closet did.
“We need to look at our laundry records for the week,” Jane told Sterling. “Now.”
Sterling followed Jane to the front desk where she asked the clerk on duty to pull all transactions involving the pressing of garments.
“What are we searching for?” Sterling wanted to know.
“An order for a man’s suit or tuxedo. I saw someone who looked like Nigel on the dance floor. It was just a flash, but this man was wearing a tuxedo and there was no tux in Nigel’s closet. The suit I saw hanging there was too casual for this event, so if he meant to attend tonight’s dance, even if only as an observer—a reporter—what did he plan to wear?”
Sterling understood immediately. “He obviously didn’t have a formal suit on his person the morning he fled. We saw the video feed. He had a messenger bag, which was just large enough to hold a laptop.”
“It could just be wild imagining on my part,” Jane said. “But you know what Aunt Octavia always says about imagination.”
“That it’s more important than knowledge.” Sterling’s gaze was fixed on the computer screen. “Einstein also said that ‘Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.’” He pointed at a laundry order. “I’d say that logic and imagination just came together with a big bang.”
Jane’s stared in astonishment. “Nigel’s tux was pressed and delivered to Georgia Dupree’s room! Could she have been hiding him this whole time? Sterling, take a master key and search Ms. Dupree’s room. I’ll alert the rest of the Fins. I believe Nigel was the man I saw dancing with Lily. He’s not clean-shaven, but I think it’s him. Lily may have been waltzing with a murderer. And an unsuspecting cover model or Storyton staff member could be holding Nigel’s accomplice, aka Georgia Dupree, in his arms this very moment!”
* * *
Sterling sprinted down the deserted lobby to the servant’s stairs. At the same time, Jane sent a group message to the Fins and then hurried toward the ballroom.
She stopped in the hallway to read a text from Sinclair saying that Georgia was not in the ballroom.
“Where are you?” Jane asked aloud.
Suddenly, she heard a whisper of silk. Glancing up from her phone, Jane saw Georgia rush from a room at the other end of the hall. Clad only in a slip of a dress with a plunging neckline, she burst through the doorway leading to the back terrace, completely ignoring Jane’s shouts for her to stop.
Jane used speed dial to reach Sinclair. “Georgia just left the house!” she cried. “She’s heading for Milton’s gardens. I’m going after her.”
“Do not go alone,” Sinclair commanded. “Mr. Lachlan will join you directly,”
Jane knew it would be foolish to chase after Georgia alone in the dark, so she decided to meet Lachlan at the end of the hall. She was desperate to find out what Georgia had been doing in the Jane Austen Parlor.
She hustled down the empty corridor and came to a halt in the doorway. Her heart hammering, she looked inside the dimly lit room and saw Nigel Poindexter on the fainting couch. His shoulders were slumped and his was head bowed. He didn’t look up at the sound of Jane’s approach.
Jane was about to speak, to warn Nigel to stay where he was, but the words died on her lips.
The man who Jane suspected of poisoning Rosamund York wasn’t going anywhere. Jane knew this to be true because of the unnatural stillness of Nigel’s body.
And because she saw blood soaking into the back of the sofa’s velvet upholstery.
She stood in the doorway, transfixed with horror, and stared as ruby-red droplets gathered on the underside of the couch and fell onto the rug in muted thuds. Their slow, steady rhythm was more frightening than a scream.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the red stain. She stood, immobile, until Lachlan squeezed her shoulder. “Miss Jane? Are you all right?”
Turning to grip Lachlan’s arms, Jane spoke in a harsh whisper. “Do not let that woman get away. Do you hear me? Get her.”
Lachlan darted through the exit doors. The cold air swept over Jane’s bare skin and she shivered. And then, she drew in a deep breath and entered the Jane Austen Parlor. There was nothing to do now but wait.
She must wait, and keep vigil with the dead.