“Hello?” Mabel’s sleepy voice was a soft rasp.
“I’m sorry to call you at this hour,” Jane said. “But it’s urgent.”
There was a rustle at the other end of the line and Mabel whispered, “What’s wrong?”
“Nigel Poindexter has been murdered.”
“Good Lord!” Mabel was now fully awake. “What can I do to help?”
Jane was touched. How many people would respond to news of a murder by instantly offering assistance? “The killer’s face was hidden by the hood of one of your Regency cloaks, so I need the name of every woman who bought a cloak from you.”
“I’ll have to look in my record book. It’s downstairs,” Mabel said. “I’ll get right back to you.”
Jane begged her to hurry and then hung up. She paced behind her desk for several minutes, feeling a fresh pang of regret over having disturbed Mabel’s sleep. Between the dress fittings, the fashion show, and the reticule workshop, Mabel had to be exhausted.
We can all rest after I catch the killer, Jane thought.
The phone rang and Jane lunged for it.
There were fourteen names in all, but Jane only recognized two of them. After thanking Mabel, Jane hurried out to the reception desk. Andrew was on duty and Jane quickly explained what she needed from him. Within seconds, he’d pulled up the room number of the first name on the list and was dialing the extension.
Moving to the other computer, Jane looked up Barbara Jewel’s room. As she reached for the receiver, Jane recalled how happy Tobias and Barbara had been on the dance floor. The pair had stared at each other as though no one else existed, as though the music was playing for them alone.
Jane swallowed a lump in her throat. She’d felt that way two nights ago when Edwin had taken her in his arms and led her in waltz after waltz.
“For your sake, Tobias, I hope Ms. Jewel answers her phone,” Jane said as she pressed the number keys.
Barbara Jewel didn’t pick up.
Jane called Butterworth next and told him to knock on Ms. Jewel’s door. She then returned to the security room. Sinclair was studying a still frame of the hooded figure. He was concentrating so intently that his bushy brows were nearly touching.
“Do you remember seeing Barbara Jewel in tonight’s footage?” Jane asked.
Sinclair reached for the controls. “Yes. I spotted her leaving just before eleven.”
Jane was confused. “Leaving? To go where?”
“You’ll see.” Sinclair pointed at the screen displaying footage of the front entrance. Sure enough, there was Barbara Jewel. Draped in her Regency cloak, she and Tobias Hogg descended the stairs to a Pickled Pig Market van. Tobias opened the passenger door for Barbara, held her elbow as she climbed inside, and then kissed her hand.
When the van pulled away, Jane felt a wave of relief. “I didn’t expect her to leave with Tobias, but I’m glad to see that she wasn’t involved in Nigel Poindexter’s murder. I like her.”
“Apparently, Mr. Hogg does as well,” Sinclair said with a hint of reproach. He clearly disapproved of Barbara going home with a man she barely knew. “Who else is on your list?”
“Andrew is calling the other ladies as we speak. I told him to get me if a guest fails to pick up her phone. The only names I recognized were Barbara Jewel and Rosamund York.”
Sinclair shot her a questioning look. “Ms. York ordered a cloak?”
“No, Mabel made one for her in hopes of getting some free publicity,” Jane said. “If someone gained access to Ms. York’s room—” She inhaled sharply.
“What is it?” Sinclair asked.
“Rosamund’s publicist.” Jane clapped her palms against her cheeks. “Taylor Birch had access to Rosamund’s room! Taylor, who wore Rosamund’s dress the night of the fashion show. Taylor, who’d do anything to break into publishing. Anything at all!”
Sinclair headed for the door. “I’ll look up her room number,” he called over his shoulder.
Jane contacted Butterworth and was unsurprised when, several minutes later, the butler reported that Taylor hadn’t responded to repeated knocking on her door.
“Use the master key and let yourself in,” Jane said. “Sinclair and I will join you shortly.”
As Jane hurried through the lobby, she tried to organize her thoughts by sharing them with Sinclair. “I think Ms. Birch discovered that Nigel wrote Rosamund’s books. Maybe she overheard them arguing over money or something that hinted at their secret partnership.”
Sinclair pushed open the door to the staff stairwell. “Judging by the manner in which she blatantly disregarded our technology policy, she’s a strong-willed young lady.”
“A young lady who’d grown tired of being a lackey,” Jane added. “Taylor told me that she dreamed of a career in publishing. She said that it’s a highly competitive field and that she’d need an advantage to get her foot in the door.” Jane jogged down the third floor hallway. “What if she stumbled upon the perfect advantage?”
“An unpublished Venus Dares manuscript on Mr. Poindexter’s laptop, for example?” Sinclair said.
“I’m not sure.” Jane lowered her voice so as not to disturb the other guests. “Nigel would surely have multiple copies of each file. You and I have met dozens of writers. They all keep backup files. And while I can’t say why Nigel’s laptop is such a prized possession, I think Taylor killed him to get it.”
When the pair reached Taylor’s room, they found the door slightly ajar. Inside, all the lights were on and Butterworth was carefully poking through the young woman’s drawers. Jane noticed that he’d donned a pair of gloves.
“Ms. Birch’s toiletries are missing. As is her phone,” Butterworth said. “I haven’t finished with my search, but nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.”
Jane nodded. “Sinclair, can you see if Taylor left any notes or clues in the trash?”
While Sinclair rifled though the bathroom bin, Jane examined the contents of the writing desk. She found nothing in the top drawer other than a Storyton Hall pen and notepad. However, the pen looked strange. An object was lodged beneath its metal clip and when Jane held the pen under the direct light of the desk lamp, she knew at once what it was.
She showed the castor bean to Butterworth.
Sinclair stepped out of the bathroom, peered at the pen, and pulled out his phone. “Mr. Sterling, we need to locate Ms. York’s publicist, Taylor Birch. We believe she took Ms. York’s cloak, entered Storyton Hall through the terrace entrance, and waited for Mr. Poindexter in the parlor. After striking him with the candlestick, she fled, undoubtedly to hide Mr. Poindexter’s laptop.” He paused to listen. “Yes, you and Mr. Lachlan should search the outbuildings.”
“I bet Taylor believes she’s gotten away with murder. Literally.” Jane stared at the castor bean. “She knew where our cameras were in position and avoided facing them. Because she wore gloves, her prints won’t be on the murder weapon. If we don’t recover that laptop, all we’ll have on her is this castor bean. It’s enough for the sheriff to take her in for questioning, but it doesn’t prove that she killed Nigel. And possibly Rosamund.” Jane shook her head. “At this point, I have no idea who murdered whom.”
“Let’s focus on what we do know,” Butterworth said. “Ms. York was poisoned with castor beans. The fact that Ms. Birch has one of these beans in her room suggests that she could have been involved in the first murder. Nigel also had beans in his possession, so nothing is clear about Ms. York’s death. If Ms. Birch took Ms. York’s cloak, however, then it’s likely she committed the second murder. That means Ms. Dupree didn’t kill Mr. Poindexter, though we can still use her arrest to our advantage. If Ms. Birch thinks she’s gotten away with murder, she might do something foolish.”
Jane fell silent while she weighed their options. “Perhaps we can entrap Ms. Birch with a little help from Lily Jamison.” A plan took shape in her mind. “I’ll speak with Lily in the morning. Until then, we must find that laptop.”
“As well as the cloak we believe Ms. Birch wore tonight,” Sinclair said. “The cuffs or sleeves are probably stained with Mr. Poindexter’s blood. One cannot inflict that kind of damage without . . .” he trailed off. “You saw the wound, Miss Jane.”
“Yes,” she said absently, her eyes scanning the room. “Where are you, Taylor? If killing Nigel was a premeditated act, then you’d want an alibi for tonight. Your toiletries are missing. So where are you sleeping? And with whom?”
Butterworth and Sinclair exchanged a brief, whispered conversation, and Jane raised her brows in question. “What are you talking about?”
“We think you should grab a few hours’ rest. Tomorrow will be a trying day and you need to be sharp, especially if we’re going to act like we know nothing of Ms. Birch’s involvement.”
Jane nodded. “We’ll have to inform the guests that there’s been another tragic death at Storyton Hall, and before they have a chance to panic, assure them that Sheriff Evans has already made an arrest.”
“Precisely,” Sinclair said.
“I don’t like deceiving our guests.” Jane put the pen back in the desk drawer.
“Romancing the Reader is nearly over,” Butterworth reminded her. “If Ms. Birch committed murder, we must find proof before time runs out.”
Jane ran her hand over the Storyton Hall notepad. “I’ll compose a letter to slip under every guest room door. Once the announcement’s been made and the guests realize Georgia Dupree is missing, they’ll assume she’s the killer. This might destroy her reputation.”
“She risked her reputation the moment she decided to harbor Mr. Poindexter,” Sinclair pointed out.
“That’s true,” Jane agreed. “While I write the statement, I’d like the two of you to review all the video footage from an hour prior to when Nigel was killed until now. We need to know where Taylor spent the night if we want to poke holes in her alibi. To do that, the person she’s sleeping with will have to admit that she wasn’t in his room until after Nigel was killed.”
After making sure that Taylor’s room was exactly how they’d found it, Jane turned off the lights. In the hallway, she sighed heavily. “How will I break the news to Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia? And what about the twins? They’re bound to hear that something awful happened at Storyton Hall. It was one thing to keep Rosamund’s murder from them, but there’s no way I can prevent them from learning about a second death.” She rubbed her temples. “I can’t have them hearing about it from someone at school.”
“Take time to speak with your sons in the morning,” Butterworth said. “Mr. Sinclair and I will handle things during your absence.”
Jane gave him a grateful smile. “All right. Thank you.”
“And I wouldn’t worry about your aunt and uncle,” Sinclair said as they emerged from the stairwell into the lobby. “They come from tough stock. As do you, Miss Jane.”
The trio parted ways and Jane headed home. She managed to shrug off her coat and shoes before collapsing on the living room sofa. “I’ll just close my eyes for second,” she mumbled drowsily.
She fell asleep almost instantly, and her dreams were haunted by frightful images of bloodstained cherubs. Dozens of them surrounded her as she stood in the middle of the Jane Austen Parlor. Their plump arms stretched out, reaching for her, their chubby fingers grasping hungrily. Jane turned to flee, but Nigel Poindexter blocked the doorway. She looked at his misshapen skull and the trickle of blood dripping onto his shirt collar and tried to scream, but she couldn’t utter a sound. Something was obstructing her airway.
Jane shoved her fingers down her throat and pulled out a thin, metal object. It was the pen Jane had found in Taylor’s room. The pen with the tiny castor seed wedged beneath its metal clip.
Only the seed was gone.
* * *
The next morning, Jane wheeled a cart into her aunt and uncle’s apartment. “Who’s ready for breakfast?” She smiled, hoping her makeup hid the fatigue etched into her face. “I have scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit.”
Muffet Cat trotted into the room and meowed. Jane gave him a tiny piece of bacon. He gulped it down, licked his lips, and stared at her with expectant eyes.
“You’re up early,” Aunt Octavia said. The twins were dressed in sweaters and corduroy slacks, but Aunt Octavia was still in her terry cloth bathrobe and fuzzy striped socks. Uncle Aloysius wore plaid pajamas and his favorite pair of fish-shaped slippers.
Jane fixed plates for her sons and then poured coffee for her aunt and uncle.
Fitz and Hem carried their plates to Aunt Octavia’s small library table while Jane conversed with her aunt and uncle in hushed tones. After a time, she joined her sons.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said, looking from Fitz to Hem. “One of our guests passed away last night.”
Hem stopped chewing. “We had a Rip Van Winkle?”
Jane hesitated. Rip Van Winkle was a code the staff used to describe a guest who’d expired in their room or on the grounds. Prior to the Murder and Mayhem event, there had only been one Rip Van Winkle in the history of Storyton Hall. But after Jane discovered the body of a guest in the Mystery Suite last autumn, Fitz and Hem had learned about the code name and its meaning.
However, Nigel hadn’t died peacefully in his sleep or suffered a heart attack on the tennis court, as had Storyton Hall’s first Rip Van Winkle. He’d been brutally murdered.
They don’t need to know that, Jane thought.
“Sheriff Evans has already taken care of everything,” she continued, being deliberately vague. “I don’t want you to talk about this at school. It is our duty to protect the privacy of all our guests—even a Rip Van Winkle. Do you understand?”
The boys nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you have any questions?” Jane studied her sons. She wanted to dissuade them from gossiping about the latest death, but she also needed to make sure the news hadn’t upset them.
Hem looked thoughtful. “Was it a man or a lady?”
“A man,” Jane said.
Fitz laid his fork down and reached for his orange juice. “Was he old?”
“He was about forty.” Jane knew that the twins viewed anyone over thirty as being old.
Hem twisted his napkin in his hands. “Are you old, Mom?”
Jane knew what Fitz meant. “This man died because of an injury, not because he was forty. Okay? You don’t need to worry about the same thing happening to me or to Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius. We’re all safe.” She hugged both of her sons. “Come on, I’ll drive you to school. We can sing the Broken Arm Bend song all the way there.”
Fitz and Hem thanked Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius for letting them spend the night, gave Muffet Cat a quick scratch behind the ears, and then grabbed their coats and book bags.
“Last one to the car is a rotten egg!” Hem shouted.
“And the first one has to eat it!” Fitz retorted.
Following the boys to the apartment door, Jane cast an exasperated glance over her shoulder. Her aunt and uncle were smiling.
“Longfellow once said, ‘Youth comes but once in a lifetime,’ but those two keep me young.” Uncle Aloysius wriggled his toes, making the red mouth of his fish-shaped slippers open and close.
Aunt Octavia swatted her husband. “Quickly, Aloysius. We don’t have a moment to lose. You and I need to get dressed and take up positions at the reception desk. As soon as the guests read Jane’s letter, they’ll want a more detailed explanation. Or worse, a refund. Jane needs to focus on catching a murderer, so you and I must handle the rest.”
Uncle Aloysius grabbed his wife’s cane and pointed it in the air. “To battle!”
Muffet Cat, startled by the movement, dashed out from under the sofa and into the hall. He padded to the door leading to the staff stairwell, where he sat on his haunches and meowed.
“Let’s go, Muffet Cat.” Jane opened the door. “It’s hunting time.”
* * *
After dropping the boys at school, Jane parked in front of the sheriff’s department.
She entered the squat stone building, which looked more like an English cottage than a law enforcement hub, carrying a hamper in each hand. The larger basket was for the sheriff and his deputies and the smaller one was for Georgia Dupree. It was Jane’s plan to offer food from Storyton Hall’s kitchen in exchange for a visit with Georgia.
“Is that a bribe?” Sheriff Evans asked when Jane stepped into his office. “Because if you have buttermilk biscuits in that hamper, I’ll probably say yes to anything.”
“I do have biscuits,” Jane said. “And I’d like to spend a few minutes with Ms. Dupree. She’s still a guest of Storyton Hall, so I feel responsible for her.”
The sheriff accepted the basket and called to Deputy Emory.
“Show Ms. Dupree to an interview room, but leave the door open a crack and stand outside,” Sheriff Evans told his deputy. “You never know what you might hear.” To Jane, he said, “Ms. Dupree was not very cooperative last night. Other than insisting she had nothing to do with Mr. Poindexter’s death, she refused to talk.”
“She might be telling the truth.” Jane quickly explained her theory that Taylor Birch was the real murderer. “But I have no proof. Yet,” she added. “With Ms. Dupree’s help, I might be able to get something more concrete. If she’s willing to speak with me, that is.”
The sheriff opened the hamper. “She turned her nose up at our breakfast, so if she’s hungry enough, she might be willing to chat. See if you can find out why she wrote Mr. Poindexter a check for five thousand dollars. It was found in his tux jacket.”
Filing the detail away for later, Jane said, “I’ll do my best.”
A night in the sheriff’s holding cell hadn’t improved Georgia’s prickly disposition, but when Jane offered her an egg and cheese biscuit, Georgia managed to grumble a soft, “Thank you.”
“I also have hot, strong coffee,” Jane said, placing the thermos and a container of cream on the table. She waited while Georgia served herself.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Georgia cast a suspicious glance at Jane.
Jane leaned in. “Because I don’t think you killed Nigel. However, the rest of the story you told me last night was made up of partial truths. To catch the real murderer, I need to know everything.”
Instead of replying, Georgia unwrapped her biscuit and placed a paper napkin on her lap. Jane decided to let her eat while she continued to talk.
“Nigel was supposed to meet you, but when you showed up in the parlor, he was dead and his laptop was gone.” Jane dug into the hamper and came out with a Tupperware container filled with cut strawberries. “I’m not sure why his computer mattered to you. Nigel undoubtedly kept backups of every file he created, so the only conclusion I can draw is that you wanted a current file—something that was generated during the Romancing the Reader event. Am I getting warm?”
Georgia, who’d devoured the biscuit as though she hadn’t eaten in days, wiped her mouth with her napkin and sat back in her chair. “Nigel and I were going to work together. He spent many hours in my room, and whenever I was free, he and I would add to the outline we were creating for the next Eros book. Nigel’s an incredible writer, but he got it all wrong with Eros. He was sick of writing Venus Dares and wanted to use a male voice for a change, but his protagonist was a pig. I told him exactly how to rework the first book and shared my ideas for the second. He loved them.” Georgia’s eyes shone. “We were both really excited about the future. The plan was for me to continue writing my Regency novels while Nigel and I penned the Eros series together.”
“How?” Jane asked. “Eros Steals the Bride will be published under Rosamund’s name.”
“And mine.” Georgia’s predatory smile surfaced. “As soon as I heard about Rosamund’s death, I called my agent, and she talked with Rosamund’s editor later that same day. My agent told Rosamund’s editor that not only had Eros Steals the Bride been poorly received by the readers at Storyton Hall, but that I could fix it and continue writing the series for them. It was practically a done deal. All I had to do was e-mail a proposal to Heartfire. Nigel and I wrote one that afternoon, and Rosamund’s editor loved it.”
Jane was repulsed by how quickly Georgia had taken advantage of Rosamund’s demise. “How could you trust a man who poisoned his current partner?”
“Because I had the upper hand. He needed me,” Georgia explained reasonably. “Nigel was going to end up facing consequences for what he’d done to Rosamund eventually. And while he could continue to write from the comfort of his jail cell, he was going to need me to handle everything else for us when it came to the Eros series. So I agreed to help him in the short term in order to reap the benefits in the long run. It was worth the risk. If Rosamund’s editor hadn’t fallen in love with our proposal, I would have simply called the sheriff and told him Nigel was in my room. But she did love it, so I decided to keep him hidden.”
“Nigel obviously needed his tuxedo so he could blend in with the other men at the ball, but what were his plans after that? Was he going to flee Storyton?”
“He said that he’d arranged for transportation,” Georgia said. “I didn’t want to hear the details, so I didn’t ask. Hiding him in my room was enough of a risk.”
“Did you know that Nigel danced with Lily Jamison, the assistant editor from Heartfire?” Jane asked casually. “I saw them toward the end of the song and, from what I could see, he had a great deal to say to her.”
Georgia’s eyes darkened with anger. “He was dancing? He was supposed to sneak out of my room once the ball was underway and meet me in the parlor with his computer. That’s what we agreed on.”
“I think Nigel Poindexter deceived you from the get-go.” Jane opened the Tupperware lid and inhaled the perfume of ripe strawberries. “Maybe killing Rosamund wasn’t an accident. Maybe that was just one of the many lies he told you.”
When Georgia didn’t answer, Jane popped one of the strawberries in her mouth and chewed. “Hm,” she moaned softly.
Georgia made a “give me” gesture and Jane slid the strawberries across the table. “Rosamund wasn’t poisoned during the truffle workshop,” Georgia said after eating three strawberries. “Nigel gave her a small box of truffles when they met for lunch. He bought them at the village market that morning. Nigel knew Rosamund tended to eat sweets when she was upset, so he made sure she was plenty upset during their meal. By the time she got to the truffle workshop, she’d already ingested all four truffles.”
“How many castor seeds did he use?”
“Two. He chopped them up in his bathroom and pushed the pieces inside using a pair of tweezers. Then, he dipped his finger in hot water, smoothed over the chocolate layer, and put them back in the box. It was a clever plan.”
Jane couldn’t contain her surprise. “Two seeds? That’s all it took?”
“Don’t you get it? He only wanted to make her suffer. Why else would he tell me exactly what he did? He never set out to kill her.” Georgia licked strawberry juice from the tip of her thumb.
Jane suppressed a grimace. She was almost done with Georgia Dupree, but she had one more question to ask before she left. “Who else would want Nigel’s computer?”
Georgia was about to shrug again. She lifted her shoulders halfway, her mouth set in an obstinate line, but then her eyes flew open wide. “Rosamund’s publicist! What’s her name? She must have discovered that Rosamund was a fake too. Boy, I bet that made her really mad. There she is, taking care of Rosamund’s e-mails and social media sites, as well as fetching lattes and polishing shoes, only to discover that her boss is nothing but a pretty face.” She barked out a laugh. “Oh, that must have stung! All these publicists want the same thing, you know—to be the woman they’re working for. So how could what’s-her-name be Rosamund? By getting her hands on Nigel’s computer. Just because Rosamund was dead didn’t mean her writing had to die with her. If the publicist claimed that she had access to unpublished Venus Dares manuscripts, she could pass them off to Heartfire as the work of Rosamund York. She’d gain the attention of all the right people.”
“But Taylor could only succeed if she silenced Nigel,” Jane said under her breath.
“You need to find that girl!” Georgia shouted imperiously. “I want that computer!”
Jane got to her feet and picked up the hamper. “Why weren’t you this forthright last night? You could have saved us a heap of trouble.”
“I didn’t think you could help me, but I’ve since changed my mind. You and your staff are my best shot at getting copies of the material Nigel and I created together. Find that girl so I can get out of here.”
At that moment, Sheriff Evans entered the room. “That won’t be happening anytime soon, Ms. Dupree. You harbored a fugitive.”
“A minor crime compared to murder,” Georgia scoffed. “I should be given a stern warning and released.”
Sheriff Evan sat down at the table and waved at Deputy Emory to take the chair in the corner of the room. “Now that you’ve breakfasted, you can provide me with a complete statement.”
Seeing that her visit was over, Jane thanked the sheriff and left the station.
Outside, her steps faltered. At the end of the path, a man was leaning against the garden gate. He had his arms crossed over his chest and seemed to be waiting for someone.
It was Edwin Alcott.
And Jane knew that he was waiting for her.