Murder in the Cookbook Nook

Book 7: Book Retreat Mystery

by Ellery Adams

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Virginia is for lovers—and Storyton Hall is its best vacation spot for lovers of books. The big event this summer at Jane Steward's resort is A Bookish Cook-Off. It's a blend of the literary and the culinary—but someone's headed for the mortuary . . .



Six chefs are preparing to compete in an outdoor tent at Storyton Hall for prizes that will boost their careers—but is there someone who can't stand the heat? It looks that way when one of the contestants is found dead in a pantry packed with two centuries' worth of cookbooks, among other treasures and rarities.



Could there be a connection to other recent events in town, like tampering with the costume of a local mascot? Jane isn't sure, but after someone serves a second course of murder, the kitchen must be closed and the killer must be found . . .

Release date: April 27, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Jane Steward, single mother to twin boys and manager of Storyton Hall, the renowned resort for bibliophiles, saw no cars on the narrow bridge she and her sons needed to cross as they headed home from the village.

Glancing over her shoulder, Jane adjusted her bike helmet and shouted, “The coast is clear! Catch me if you can!”

Her sons, Fitzgerald and Hemingway, responded with ear-piercing war cries that would have made Genghis Khan proud. They’d slowed down to polish off their ice cream cones, giving their mother a sizeable lead, and now pedaled like mad to catch her.

Jane was halfway across the bridge when the twins—known to all as Fitz and Hem—began singing “London Bridge Is Falling Down.”

With the school year finishing three weeks ago, the boys were officially rising fifth graders and therefore, too old for nursery rhymes. It wasn’t a lack of maturity, but a recent devotion to all things British that inspired the song about the famous London landmark.

The twins had become Anglophiles back in February when Jane’s beau, Edwin Alcott, had given her a very thoughtful and generous valentine: a literary tour of London. Edwin had included the boys in the invitation, a gesture that elevated him even higher in Jane’s esteem.

The trip had been scheduled for the beginning of June, and Fitz and Hem spent the months leading up to their departure researching British customs. And while Jane admired their enthusiasm, she could have done without their British accents or their obsession with certain British terms. They were particularly fond of “loo,” “lift,” “telly,” “biscuits,” “cuppa,” and “crisps.” By April, Jane was tired of her sons describing everything from food to books to television shows as dodgy, mental, or brilliant.

Hours after landing at Heathrow, the twins had talked Jane and Edwin into a tour of London Bridge. Jane had listened to the guide’s disturbing tales of human sacrifice and the immurement of prisoners within the foundations without batting an eye. Unlike the other tourists, she knew that all old places had secrets, and it would take more than a whisper of skeletons to upset the heir of Storyton Hall.

Somewhere behind Jane, Hem now bellowed, “Take the keys and lock her up!”

“On death and darkness will she sup!” Fitz cried merrily.

Together, the boys finished the verse by shrieking, “My fair female bag of bones!”

Seeing as the current version of the classic nursery rhyme omitted much of the landmark’s grim history, Fitz and Hem had decided to rewrite it. Over a dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding the evening after the tour, they’d shared their new and improved “London Bridge Is Falling Down.”

Edwin had applauded their efforts, calling their work clever and creative, but Jane had leaned over and whispered, “Don’t encourage them. They’re like the Vikings. Show the slightest weakness, and before you know it, they’ve taken all of your treasure.”

“Then it’s a good thing my treasure is right here,” Edwin had said, squeezing Jane’s hand.

But on this glorious summer afternoon, Jane felt like a warrior as she raced past Storyton Outfitters. She maintained a decent speed on the treacherous Broken Arm Bend and, feeling invincible, prepared to face the hill.

Crouching low over her handlebars, she pumped her legs even harder, trying to gain momentum before the road began its sharp rise. With the warm breeze caressing her flushed cheeks and her strawberry-blond ponytail streaming out behind her like a comet’s tail, Jane felt unstoppable.

The feeling was short-lived.

She was still on the lower part of the hill when the twins caught her. Hem’s front tire practically kissed Jane’s rear tire, and Fitz was poised to overtake her as soon as the shoulder widened.

“Are you tired, Mom?”

“We can hear you panting.”

Jane scowled. She was panting. It was a blisteringly hot day, the air was thick with humidity, and Jane was out of shape.

A guest had once told her that British food was awful, but Jane disagreed with this assessment. She’d eaten plenty of lovely food in England. After she and the twins had indulged in fish and chips, bangers and mash, Welsh rarebit, and ploughman’s lunch, Edwin had taken charge of their restaurant picks.

In addition to running a restaurant in Storyton, Edwin was also a food writer. He’d traveled the world for years and knew exactly which dishes to order at which restaurants. Based on his recommendations, Jane dined like a queen in London. She ate amazing sushi, sumptuous savory pies, truffled egg toast, Peking duck, a flat-iron steak she chopped with her own cleaver, bao buns, and the best Indian cuisine she’d ever tasted. She also feasted on delectable desserts that included, but weren’t limited to, puddings, pastries, gelato, pies, biscuits, teacakes, and scones.

Her delight in British cuisine was easily measured. Two days after returning stateside, she’d stepped on the scale and let out a squeak of dismay. The offending device was now under her bed—banished until further notice.

“I’m not panting,” she protested as she tried to focus on pedaling and not on the pair of pants she could no longer zip. “I’m opening my lungs to get more oxygen in.”

“You’re panting like Lassie,” said Fitz.

“Or Fang,” Hem said in an English accent. “Hey, Fitz, do you think Mom could beat Hagrid up this hill?”

The twins laughed.

Jane wanted to sprint up the rest of the hill like a racehorse out of the starting gate, but her pace was more like a snail’s than a thoroughbred’s.

When she finally reached the top, she steered her bike into a patch of scraggly grass and waved for the boys to go ahead.

Instead of speeding off, they both stopped.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Fitz asked with genuine concern.

Jane waved again. “Just . . . catching . . . my . . . breath.”

“You should be careful,” Hem said with devilish glee. “Queen Anne wasn’t much older than you when she died.”

Fitz peered into the basket attached to Jane’s handlebars. “Did you pack your smelling salts?”

Jane glowered at her sons. “I’m not . . . too tired . . . to think of extra chores for you two.”

Suddenly, Hem’s smile vanished, and he pointed at the woods. “Is that smoke?”

The sun’s glare bounced off the road, so Jane shielded her eyes with her hand and followed her son’s gaze.

He was right. A ribbon of smoke rose above the treetops.

“Mom? Is it coming from our woods?” Fitz asked.

“But we’re under a fire restriction,” Hem interjected before Jane could respond. “No campfires allowed. Mr. Lachlan told us to look for guests breaking the rules.”

As Jane watched the smoke, a darker curl joined the pale gray coil. The fire was growing stronger.

“Should we ride over there?”

“Yes,” said Jane. “If there’s a wildfire, even a small one, use the phone in the archery hut to call 911. Got it?”

The twins said, “Got it,” and sped off.

Knowing they’d reach the source of the smoke much quicker than she could, Jane stayed where she was and called Butterworth. A former member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, the butler of Storyton Hall was also an expert in marksmanship, reading body language, and remaining calm during a crisis. A bit of smoke wasn’t a crisis, but when it came to the safety of Storyton Hall guests, Jane always erred on the side of caution.

“Good afternoon, Miss Jane.” Butterworth’s voice was as deep and constant as a mountain.

“The boys and I are on our way back from the village,” Jane said. “We just crested the hill and saw smoke rising over the trees. I think it’s coming from the archery fields. Has anyone heard from the film crew in the past hour?”

Butterworth replied, “Mr. Lachlan was scheduled to walk over after his falconry lesson, but I’ll drive there posthaste and report back to you.”

Jane thanked him, pocketed her phone, and followed after the twins.

She would have made better time if she didn’t keep glancing skyward, but she couldn’t help it. The smoke was no longer shaped like ribbons or curls. It had grown thicker, billowing over the treetops like dragon’s breath.

Jane pedaled harder. The muscles in her legs ached. Her lungs burned. Sweat ran down her cheeks and dampened her shirt. The path was made of packed dirt, and her front tire flung dust onto her ankles and calves. The woods were quiet until the howl of sirens rent the air. Minutes later, two fire engines turned onto the service road leading to Storyton Hall’s grounds, and Jane’s imagination went wild.

The tent’s on fire. The filming will be canceled before it can begin. I’ll have to return the check to the production company. And it was such a nice check.

Apart from the money, Jane didn’t want to disappoint the guests who’d booked rooms months in advance for the privilege of watching some of the greatest chefs in America in action.

Everything had been running smoothly until today. Last week, a construction crew had raised the tent and hooked up the appliances. After the set designer and her team had finished staging the interior, the director and film crew had flown in from LA. The six chefs had arrived at Storyton Hall last night, and the judges had checked in this morning. The international trendsetter, taste guru, social media influencer, foodie, and celebrity host of Posh Palate with Mia Mallett, would make her grand entrance this evening.

After several lengthy email exchanges with Mia’s assistant, a young woman named Bentley, Jane came to understand that Mia Mallett’s public image was meticulously curated and zealously guarded. Known as The Girl with the Midas Touch, Mia was a twenty-seven-year-old billionaire and social media darling. If she endorsed a product, her millions of fans would immediately buy it.

As the manager of a five-star resort, Jane had met her fair share of actors, politicians, writers, musicians, and media sensations, but none had made requests quite like Mia Mallett’s. To guarantee her boss’s privacy, Bentley had booked the entire third floor of the East Wing. Only Jane, select Storyton Hall staff members, and Mia’s entourage were allowed to step foot on the floor while Ms. Mallett was in residence.

How will I fill those empty rooms if Mia checks out after a single night?

Jane pushed the thought aside. There was no sense in catastrophizing. All she could do was find out what was burning, and if the fire would affect tomorrow’s filming.

“Don’t be the tent,” Jane chanted as she rode on.

Her phone was mounted to her handlebars. When it rang, she pressed the speaker button and kept pedaling.

“The fire’s in the archery field,” Butterworth said. “Chief Aroneo has the situation well in hand, and the flames should be extinguished shortly. A gentleman from the temporary power supply company is talking to the chief. From what I understand, this is an electrical fire.”

Butterworth sounded so calm that Jane’s panic instantly subsided. “What kind of damage are we looking at?”

“The fire was restricted to the grass. It didn’t have the chance to reach the tent, but the smoke and ash have severely discolored one side.”

“Is the director there?”

Butterworth grunted in disapproval. “Mr. Scott is using his bullhorn to shout orders contradictory to those the chief is issuing. If I don’t intervene, the firefighters may turn their hoses on him. If they do, I won’t lift a finger to intervene.”

“We knew this reality show would be a challenge, but I expected to only see flames when the chefs flambéed food,” Jane said. “Please take charge until I get there.”

After five more minutes of exertion, Jane emerged from the shady forest into a clearing filled with smoke, noise, and sunbaked spectators.

Jane leaned her bike against a pine tree and jogged over to where Butterworth stood. Though the butler was in his mid-fifties, he was tall and powerfully built. Most people found his physical presence and gargoyle stare intimidating, but Mr. Scott was clearly the exception.

Even though Butterworth’s muscular chest was firmly pressed over the bell of Mr. Scott’s bullhorn, the director didn’t seem to realize that he was seconds away from having his legs swept out from under him.

“How am I supposed to tell people what to do?” he whined. “I’m in charge, man!”

Butterworth was as unmovable as a boulder. “As I said, sir, Chief Aroneo is in charge. You will surrender your bullhorn until he and his firefighters have given the all-clear.”

Jane pasted on her most winsome smile and approached the two men. “Thank you, Butterworth. I’ve got it from here.” Turning to the director, she said, “I almost missed all the drama, and you haven’t even started filming yet.”

Butterworth retreated to a polite distance, bullhorn in hand, while Mr. Scott took in Jane’s sweaty face and dirty clothes. “Ms. Steward? Whoa. I didn’t recognize you, well, looking like that.” After raking his eyes over her once more, he pointed at the tent. “It’s been a helluva day.”

“How is it inside?”

The director chewed his lip. “Fine. But my opening shot is ruined. I wanted that Little House on the Prairie vibe. A picnic blanket here. A horse grazing there. A kid flying a kite. But I can’t work with burned grass. I’m filming a cooking competition, not Apocalypse Now.”

Since Jane had never seen the famous war film, she focused on the television show that would introduce Storyton Hall to hundreds of thousands of potential guests. “Maybe the burned grass could be a metaphor for cooking. Fire can transform food into something magical, right? When we were kids, putting a marshmallow on a stick and holding it over an open flame was one of the best things about summer. And adults love watching a chef prepare crêpes suzette. But too much fire, and that nice cut of Wagyu beef will taste like an old boot.”

Scott touched his hair, which rose high over his forehead like a cresting wave. “That won’t work for the opener, but I could use it when one of the chefs has a kitchen disaster.”

Jane cupped his elbow and gently steered him toward the tent. “Does that happen often?”

“We hope so. With every episode.” Scott grinned. “Drama makes for good television. If drama doesn’t happen naturally, we create it. Things like this fire rarely happen on set. Too bad I wasn’t filming. But I could always start another fire.”

As they rounded the corner of the huge tent to face a patch of black and sizzling ground, Jane said, “Don’t do that, Mr. Scott.”

“I’m just kidding. And call me Ty. By the time this show wraps, we’ll be good friends.” He flashed her a bright Hollywood smile that Jane didn’t find the least bit charming. Though she and the director were both in their late thirties, Ty looked younger than Jane. The skin on his face was smooth, his body was trim, and his hair—the color of a new penny—gleamed in the sun. The sleeves of his oxford shirt were rolled up to the elbow, exposing tan forearms and a gold Rolex. Designer sunglasses dangled from his breast pocket. He moved and spoke with the ease of a person who’s never known true hardship.

We’re not going to be friends, Jane thought. Aloud, she said, “Protocol requires that I stick with Mr. Scott. If I can help, let me know. I’m going to speak to Chief Aroneo.”

Putting his hands on his hips, Scott frowned at the stained tent and the smoking field. “Wait! You can help. Find me a company that can lay sod. Today. I want green grass for my opening shot. Cool?”

Jane bristled. She wasn’t this man’s lackey. “My first priority is to speak with the chief. After that, I need to clear my guests from the area. Don’t you have an assistant to handle phone calls?”

Ty Scott waved in the direction of the manor house. “Everyone’s busy. We start shooting tomorrow, remember? What about that grumpy butler? Can he help?”

Feeling wicked, Jane smiled and said, “You’re free to ask him.”

Leaving Tyler Scott to Butterworth’s mercy, Jane looked for Chief Aroneo and spotted him talking to a man in coveralls. The man was red-faced with fury. He pointed from the burned grass to the tent and then jabbed himself in the chest. The chief held out his hands to show that he was listening before accompanying the man inside the tent.

Jane glanced around, expecting her sons to be among the spectators. When she didn’t see two boys or two bikes, she assumed they’d gone home. She slipped into the tent.

Though she’d been inside before, Jane was still amazed by how much work had gone into creating this set. Storyton Hall used upscale tents for outdoor weddings all the time, but they didn’t have kitchen appliances, sinks with running water, granite countertops, or butcher block chopping stations. And that was just the cooking stations. The perimeter was lined with antique country furniture. Dry sinks, cupboards, pie safes, and hutches filled with stoneware, copper pans, milk glass vases, mason jars, and vintage kitchen scales. Other cabinets featured sets of jadeite, Lenox, Blue Willow, and Royal Albert dishes.

The ground had been leveled before the tent was erected so that a temporary floor could be installed. Between the floor, lighting, appliances, and décor, the tent was an interesting blend of an upscale restaurant kitchen and the kitchen in a country home.

Tomorrow, bucketloads of fresh flowers would augment that home kitchen feel.

“They’ll be everywhere,” the set designer had told Jane. “In vases. On top of cupboards. In baskets. It’s how we’ll get that outdoorsy summer vibe inside the tent.”

“Are the flowers coming from the Potter’s Shed?” Jane had asked. She wanted the local businesses to profit from the show along with Storyton Hall.

The set designer had consulted her clipboard. “Yes. Sunflowers, bachelor’s buttons, coneflowers, and Queen Anne’s Lace. But if Mia wanted Venus flytraps, she’d find a way to get them. Things tend to appear at the snap of her fingers.”

“I wish she could snap her fingers and erase this fire,” Jane muttered as she approached Chief Aroneo and the angry man in the coveralls.

The men were standing at one of the cooking stations, their backs to Jane. A large sheet of paper was spread across the counter and the man in the coveralls was tracing something with his finger.

“I’ve been doing this job for twenty years, Chief. I know how to avoid an overload. There’s no way I plugged all that juice into one generator. None of my guys did either.”

“How can you be so sure?” the chief asked. “Things seem pretty chaotic around here.”

The man shrugged. “It’s always this way around TV and movie people. Lots of yelling. Lots of freaking out over nothing. We ignore most of what they ask for because it goes against every safety protocol in the book. Scott wanted so many lights in this tent that the butter would have melted as soon as it came out of the fridge. I tell him what he wants to hear, but I stick to the contract.” He tapped the paper. “The contract called for these lines. That’s max capacity for the transformer.”

“So who added an extra line?”

The man rolled up the paper. “Not me or my guys. Twenty years and not one fire, Chief. Maybe somebody wanted a fire, but it wasn’t us.”

“What’s going on?”

Startled, the men spun around to face Jane.

“Please,” she added. “I need to know if the fire was deliberate.”

Jane saw the answer in the chief’s face before he said a word. After glancing at the other man, he said, “I’ll open an investigation, but considering all the people who’ve traipsed over this field lately, I don’t expect to find much.”

Someone called for the chief on his radio, and he excused himself and exited the tent. The man in the coveralls was staring intently at his cell phone when he suddenly went rigid.

“Just like I said,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t me or my guys.”

Moving closer to the man, Jane introduced herself. “This is my resort, and I’m responsible for everyone here, so I’d like to know what caused that fire.”

The man nodded. “I’m Jeff with Ashley Power Solutions. Our company provides temporary power for movies and TV shows. I’m in charge of this job. How much do you know about electrical systems?”

“Nothing.”

Jeff showed her the image on his phone screen. “Pretend this box with all the wires and circuits is the brain of our system. These bigger cables have to plug in here. These skinny wires plug in here. And so on. All the wires have to be coated. Everything has to be clean and kept out of the weather. No water can get inside. Okay. See this red wire?” He tapped a red wire in a nest of black wires. “It shouldn’t be there. Way too much juice went into the brain at this spot. That’s where the fire started. See how black the board is around that wire? But there’s more.”

Though Jane didn’t like where this was headed, she had to hear the man out. “Go on.”

“Somebody helped create the overload by making sure the brain got wet. We haven’t had a drop of rain since we’ve been here, but when the chief takes a closer look at this box, he’ll see what I’m seeing. Wrong wire in the wrong place plus liquid. That’s a recipe for an electrical fire.”

“But aren’t these boxes locked? To avoid tampering?”

Jeff looked aggrieved. “Once everything’s up and running, yeah. But we were still tweaking things to make Mr. Scott happy. Anyone could have walked by, swapped a wire, and left a chunk of ice on top to melt into the box. I’m sorry to say this, but somebody has it out for this show.”

After Jeff left the tent, Jane sent a text to Butterworth.

Staring at her screen, Jane cursed her own stupidity. She knew better than to tempt the fates by wondering what else could go wrong.

Besides, she already knew the answer.

It was everything. Everything could go wrong. And that’s when people got hurt.

Pushing her damp hair off her forehead, Jane glanced around the empty tent. “I’d like a summer without violence. A nice, easy summer filled with weddings, barbecues, and beach reads. Can I have one of those?”

The stain on the tent wall, which crawled from floor to ceiling like some multi-limbed shadow creature from a child’s nightmare, felt like a sign that her wish had little chance of coming true.

After freshening up at home. . .