Murder in the Paperback Parlor

Book 2: A Book Retreat Mystery

by Ellery Adams

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, Jane Steward is organizing a week of activities for fans of love stories at her book-themed resort. But her Regency readers barely have time to brush up on their Jane Austen before tragedy strikes Storyton Hall. Rosamund York, one of the most celebrated authors in attendance, is killed.



Rosamund had as many enemies as she did admirers, including envious fellow novelists, a jealous former lover, and dozens of angry fans. It's up to Jane, with the help of her book club, the Cover Girls, to catalogue the list of suspects and find a heartless killer quickly-before the murderer writes someone else off.

Release date: August 4, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

WELCOME TO STORYTON HALL

OUR STAFF IS HERE TO SERVE YOU

Resort Manager—Jane Steward

Butler—Mr. Butterworth

Head Librarian—Mr. Sinclair

Head Chauffeur—Mr. Sterling

Head of Recreation—Mr. Lachlan

Head of Housekeeping—Mrs. Pimpernel

Head Chef—Mrs. Hubbard

SELECT MERCHANTS OF STORYTON VILLAGE

Run for Cover Bookshop—Eloise Alcott

Daily Bread Café—Edwin Alcott

Cheshire Cat Pub—Bob and Betty Carmichael

The Canvas Creamery—Phoebe Doyle

La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique—Mabel Wimberly

Tresses Hair Salon—Violet Osborne

The Pickled Pig Market—the Hogg brothers

Geppetto’s Toy Shop—Barnaby Nicholas

The Potter’s Shed—Tom Green

ONE

“You expect me to break that with my bare hand?” Jane Steward, manager of Storyton Hall and mother of six-year-old twin boys, pointed at a piece of wood in disbelief.

“I certainly do,” replied Sinclair, Storyton’s head librarian. He was looking at Jane with the fixed stare he reserved for guests who made too much noise in one of the resort’s reading rooms or had mishandled a book.

Storyton Hall had thousands of books, and Sinclair knew the location and condition of every volume. He cared for the books as though they were priceless treasures. And to those who worked and visited Storyton, that’s exactly what they were. People came from across the globe to spend a few days in the stately manor house tucked away in an isolated valley in western Virginia. Surrounded by blue hills and pristine forests, Storyton Hall was heaven on earth for bibliophiles.

Jane glanced around and for a moment, nearly forgot that she was standing directly beneath the carriage house in a room that didn’t appear on the official blueprints. In fact, only a few people knew of its existence. Like Sinclair, they used the practice space to hone their martial arts skills. Butterworth, the butler, was particularly fond of attacking the seventy-pound weighted bags hanging from the ceiling. Sterling, the head chauffeur, preferred to spar with nunchucks, and Sinclair’s weapon of choice was a set of throwing knives he kept hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of The Art of War.

Not too long ago, Jane would have found the idea of practicing roundhouse kicks utterly ridiculous, but now, as she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall-length mirror, she knew that there was nothing amusing about her situation. It was also clear from Sinclair’s expression that he expected her to break the board with her bare hand, and he expected her to do so without delay.

“It’s easy, Mom! Fitz and I did it on our first try.”

Displeased by the idea of being shown up by her sons, Jane frowned. “All right, I’m ready.”

Sinclair held the rectangular piece of pine by its sides and braced himself for impact. “Check your stance,” he ordered. “The power comes from your body. Whip your trunk around and you’ll break the board without injuring your hand. Focus on a spot in the center of the board. See your hand going through the wood and continuing to move forward. Don’t stop. If you think about stopping, you won’t succeed. Lead with your palm, not your pinkie finger.”

“Got it.” Taking a deep breath, Jane trained her eyes on the board. She saw the grains in the wood and visualized the exact location she intended to strike. Raising her right arm, she pivoted her entire right side toward the back wall. Concentrating on whipping her hip and shoulder around as quickly as possible, she drove her hand, palm facing the ceiling, into the board. It parted with a satisfying crack, and a large splinter of wood flew past Jane’s cheek and landed on the floor mat near Hem’s feet.

He picked it up, tested its sharpness with his index finger, and promptly jabbed it into his brother’s side.

“Ow!” Fitz howled and immediately retaliated by administering a front snap kick to his brother’s wrist. The splinter came dislodged from Hem’s hand and was snatched midair by Sinclair.

“What have I told you gentlemen about martial arts?” he asked, his voice steely with disapproval.

Hem dropped his gaze and tried to appear penitent. “We should only use it for self-defense.”

“Or if our safety is . . . threatened,” Fitz added, looking smug over having remembered the second half of the creed Sinclair recited at the end of every class. Too late, Fitz realized that he should have adopted a contrite expression as well.

“Next class, you two will drill the entire time while your mother learns a new kick.” Sinclair turned to Butterworth, who’d just finished pummeling a practice bag. It was still jerking on the end of its chain as though it had been electrocuted. “Mr. Butterworth? Would you be so kind as to demonstrate a spinning hook kick?”

“Certainly,” said Butterworth. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his left leg. In a flash, he whipped his right leg around in a sweeping, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. When he struck the bag with the ball of his foot, Jane was sure he’d knock it clean off its chain.

“You need to train until that kick is second nature,” Sinclair said.

“Perhaps that kick should wait until after the Romancing the Reader week,” Jane said. “I don’t want to pull a muscle before the Regency Fashion Show. I’d be a poor representative of La Grande Dame if I limped down the catwalk in the gown Mabel toiled over for months.”

Amusement glinted in Sinclair’s eyes. “Ah, the fashion show. I’d nearly forgotten about that particular event—probably because every female under our roof can speak of only two subjects: the male cover model competition and the habits, interests, and whereabouts of Mr. Lachlan.”

Taking the broken pieces of wood from Sinclair, Jane laughed. “Weeks before Lachlan first stepped foot on our property, you predicted that many ladies would fall in love with him.”

Sinclair sighed. “Indeed I did. I also assumed that after two months, his allure would have dimmed somewhat. Obviously, I underestimated Mr. Lachlan’s appeal.” He shot her a sly glance. “How do you find him?”

Jane made a shooing gesture at her sons. “Run home and change. If you get your chores done in time, I’ll hand over your allowance before we drive to the village. A little bird told me that the Hogg brothers are hosting an indoor picnic lunch and special contest for all kids twelve-years-old and under. The winner will receive a new bicycle from Spokes and a gift certificate from the Pickled Pig.”

The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks and raced off. Butterworth followed at a more dignified pace, his spine straight and his shoulders squared. Jane recognized that Butterworth was leaving his role of combat expert behind in favor of his butler persona and wondered if such a marked change came over her when she finished one of her training sessions.

I doubt it, she thought. I’m still getting used to living a double life. Sinclair, Butterworth, and Sterling have been doing it for decades. And now, Lachlan has joined our secret circle.

Once the sound of the boys’ shouts and jostles faded, Jane finally answered Sinclair’s question. “I find Lachlan a bit of an enigma. He’s hardworking, courteous, and organized. He’s also a master salesman. For such a quiet person, I’m amazed by his ability to talk people into sleigh rides and cross-country skiing ventures. Usually, wintertime means less business at the recreation desk, but not since Lachlan’s arrival. He’s certainly increasing our revenue.”

“I’d hazard a guess that our female guests would happily risk losing the feeling in their extremities if it meant spending time with Mr. Lachlan.” Sinclair flicked a switch on the wall and the practice bags began to rise to the ceiling. “Are you immune to that shy smile, that roughish hair, or those striking blue eyes?”

“He’s quite attractive,” Jane admitted. “But I have no real sense of him. He doesn’t volunteer an ounce of personal information and he’d rather traipse through the woods than socialize with the rest of the staff. I know he’s an outdoorsman, but I hadn’t realized he’d be so . . . hermitlike.”

Together, she and Sinclair walked to the door where they’d left their shoes and socks. Once their bare feet were covered and they’d bundled up in wool coats, Sinclair locked the door behind them. “Mr. Lachlan was an army ranger. He served on covert missions in both Iraq and Afghanistan. I was aware of his history before casting my vote in favor of hiring him. I don’t think his past will impede his performance as head of recreation, and he’s an excellent asset when it comes to guarding you and your family.”

Sinclair hurried up the stairs, checked to see that the coast was clear, and waved for Jane to step through the narrow gap behind a workbench. After she was through, he pushed a button obscured by a rusty saw blade and the workbench swung back against the wall.

Jane had only learned about the surprising number of hidden rooms and passageways located around Storyton Hall and its outbuildings during the past few months. Until last October, she’d been completely ignorant of the fact that certain people she’d known her entire life were a part of a group called the Fins. These men had pledged to protect the members of the Steward Family with their lives. And since Jane had been born into a family that had been guarding a secret library and its treasures for centuries, she and her sons were also under the Fins’ protection.

The first time Sinclair had led Jane to the attic turret and pushed open the door to the fireproof and temperature-controlled vault, Jane had nearly fainted. It wasn’t every day that one discovered the existence of unpublished Shakespeare plays, gilt-covered Gutenberg Bibles, or the endings of famous, but incomplete novels. Treasures entrusted to the Stewards for all sorts of reasons—to keep them from being stolen, damaged during wartime, or sold on the black market.

There were also books deliberately kept from the public eye—radical works filled with disturbing and dangerous ideas. Jane had read a few lines from one of them and was shocked and angered by the author’s proposition that women were vastly inferior to men. The author went on to encourage mass sterilization of any female lacking a genius IQ. Considering the book had been written by a prominent English scientist during the first stirrings of the women’s emancipation movement, its publication could have crippled an entire gender.

After that unpleasant read, Jane had stuck to perusing the secret library’s incredible selection of rare fiction. A voracious reader since early childhood, it galled Jane that she didn’t have enough free time to delve more deeply into the astounding collection stored in airtight containers in a nearly inaccessible room hundreds of feet from the ground.

It had taken Jane several weeks to reconcile herself to the fact that it was more important that she protect the library’s contents than examine them. After all, to a lifelong book lover, the library was the Eighth Wonder of the World, and Jane referred to it as such when speaking to her great-aunt and -uncle or to the Fins.

Suddenly, the thought of her aunt made Jane start. She glanced at her watch and let loose a small cry. “I’m going to be late! Aunt Octavia will be furious if she doesn’t get the best seat in the house for Edwin Alcott’s soft grand opening.”

Jane jogged around the building that had once served as the estate’s hunting lodge. The lodge was so spacious that Jane’s uncle had divided it into two residences. Sterling, the head chauffeur, lived in the front half while Jane and her sons inhabited the back. Jane loved the privacy this arrangement afforded her little family. She loved her side door entrance that led into her bright, cheery kitchen. She loved the open living room with its comfy sofas and book-lined walls. She loved her herb and flower gardens, which were protected from prying eyes by a tall hedge. Most of all, she loved how the house had seemed to open its arms to her after her husband’s tragic death. A pregnant widow, Jane had returned to Storyton Hall in search of comfort and a fresh start. She’d found both within its walls and in the hearts of its people.

Now, bursting into her cheerful, yellow kitchen, Jane cast a longing glance at the coffeemaker and then bounded upstairs to change.

“Boys!” she hollered as she ascended. “I hope you’re dressed. I also hope your beds are made. If that room’s a mess, you’ll get a smaller allowance.”

Indignant cries came from behind the twins’ closed door, and Jane knew they’d opted to put off their chores and were now regretting that decision.

“And I will be checking under your beds,” she added for good measure as she hurried through her bathroom and into her small walk-in closet. “What to wear? What to wear?”

After selecting a pencil skirt in gray wool, a cowl-necked sweater, and a pair of riding boots, Jane fastened her strawberry blond hair into a loose chignon, added a pair of hoop earrings, and then dabbed on gardenia-scented perfume. Satisfied by what she saw in the mirror, she exited the bathroom and yelled, “Fitzgerald and Hemingway! Prepare for inspection!”

There was a crashing sound from the boys’ room and when Jane pushed open the door, her twins cast guilty looks at the closet.

“We’re ready, Mom!” Hem said, throwing his arms around her neck. “You smell nice.”

“And you look pretty,” Fitz chimed in.

Jane knew perfectly well that should she peek inside the closet, a cascade of toys, books, and dirty clothes would tumble out, but she was running too late to do anything about it. Glancing down at her sons, she tousled their hair and said, “I will delay the inspection until this afternoon in exchange for a kiss.”

Because the twins were in the “girls have cooties” phase, Jane knew she was asking for a significant boon. After a brief hesitation, her sons gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then immediately held out their hands.

“Can we have our allowance now?” Hem asked. “Please?”

“I don’t keep dollar bills in my boots. I’m not a—” Jane stopped herself before the word “stripper” rolled off her tongue.

Fitz cocked his head. “Not a what?”

“A walking bank,” Jane said and ushered the boys downstairs.

Five minutes later, the trio arrived, red-cheeked and panting, in Storyton Hall’s main lobby.

Aunt Octavia was already there, of course, looking regal in an indigo coat with a fur-trimmed collar, cuffs, and hem. She made a big show of examining her watch and then glanced across the room at the grandfather clock and muttered, “‘I wasted time and now time doth waste me.’”

“I hope Mr. Alcott’s café is a salubrious establishment,” Butterworth said to Aunt Octavia as he held open the front door for their little party. “Mrs. Hubbard is most concerned that your healthy eating plan will be compromised.”

Aunt Octavia glowered at the butler. “This has nothing to do with my diabetes. Mrs. Hubbard is just put out because she wasn’t invited. She’s a fine woman, but all she wants to do is gossip about the event to anyone passing through the kitchens of Storyton Hall.”

Butterworth was smart enough to drop the subject. Instead, he informed them that their car was ready and wished them a pleasant lunch. No one would have guessed that the butler, impeccably dressed in his blue-and-gold Storyton livery with his hair neatly combed and his shoes polished to a high shine, had been mercilessly pummeling a practice bag earlier that morning.

The twins jumped into the back of a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow while Jane settled Aunt Octavia in the passenger seat. Behind them, Sterling was helping an elderly couple out of his favorite Rolls, a Silver Cloud II. He tipped his cap at Jane. She waved and then drove down the resort’s long, tree-lined driveway.

At the end of the driveway, Jane slowed as the car approached the massive wrought-iron gates bearing the Steward crest—an owl clutching a scroll in its talons. The family motto, which could also be found on the guest room key fobs, had been inscribed in an arch-shaped banner over the owl’s head.

Aunt Octavia pointed at the crest. “Let me hear our motto, boys.”

“De Nobis Fabula Narratur,” the twins replied, doing their best to pronounce the Latin words correctly. “Their Story Is Our Story.”

Aunt Octavia smiled. “Excellent. When we get to the village, you may see what I have in my change purse. If you can count the coins correctly, they’re yours. I hear that the Pickled Pig market has a marvelous display of Valentine’s Day candy.”

Jane glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a gleam appear in her sons’ eyes.

“Speaking of Valentine’s Day, are the preparations for Romancing the Reader complete?” Aunt Octavia asked.

“For the most part,” Jane said. “Our guest of honor, Rosamund York, is being a bit of a nuisance.”

Aunt Octavia didn’t seem surprised. “She’s a diva. Wants fresh roses in her suite each day. Will only drink a specific brand of spring water. Prefers not to mingle with her fans outside of her scheduled events. Her publicist sees to her every whim and handles all of Ms. York’s communication. Am I getting warm?”

Approaching a sharp curve known as Broken Arm Bend, Jane reduced her speed. “You’re spot on. How did you know?”

“Mrs. Pratt is a diehard Rosamund York fan. I had the misfortune of running into her at the bookshop. When I foolishly mentioned Romancing the Reader, she turned positively giddy. I’ve never seen a fiftysomething woman bounce in such a manner.” She frowned. “It was rather disturbing.”

Jane smiled. “Mrs. Eugenia Pratt is a devout fan of the entire romance genre. She reads three to four books a week, but I hadn’t realized that she knew intimate details about her favorite authors as well.”

“I’m sure she’d like to get intimate with the male cover models,” Aunt Octavia said with a snort.

“What does ‘intimate’ mean?” Fitz asked.

“Being close to,” Jane said as they entered the village. She pulled the car into the only vacant parking spot in front of the Pickled Pig and pivoted in her seat to address her sons. “Mr. Hogg is expecting you. Remember, he’s providing you with lunch and will then introduce you to his new pet. You’ll have a chance to enter the name-the-pet contest and afterward, you can fill a small bag with candy from the bulk bins.” She held out a warning finger. “I expect you both to be on your best behavior. If I hear any unfavorable reports, I will hold your candy hostage until further notice.”

The boys responded with the briefest of nods before Hem turned to Aunt Octavia. “Can we count your coins now?”

Aunt Octavia passed them her coin purse. “Just bring it into the market with you, my dears. I don’t want to be any later for lunch than we already are.”

Delighted, the boys jumped out of the car and ran into the market, nearly barreling into an older gentleman with a walker. Jane said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t get into too much mischief and relocated the car to a spot in between Run for Cover, Eloise Alcott’s bookstore, and Daily Bread, Edwin Alcott’s new café.

Eloise must have been watching for them out the restaurant’s window, because she whipped open the front door before Jane could reach for the handle. Jane’s best friend was a lovely woman in her early thirties with chin-length dark hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her gray eyes were kind and intelligent and she smiled often. She was devoted to Storyton Village, her customers, and the Cover Girls book club. One would expect her devotion to extend to her older brother, Edwin, as well, but Edwin and Eloise weren’t exactly close. Edwin was a travel writer and had spent most of his adult life journeying around the globe. He could be impatient, blunt, and cryptic.

So naturally, Eloise was flabbergasted when her brother announced his intention to buy the failing café next door and completely transform the space in time for the Romancing the Reader week.

“You won’t believe what Edwin’s done,” Eloise exclaimed as she ushered Jane and Aunt Octavia inside. “It’s like entering another world. An exotic oasis right here in Storyton.”

Eloise was right. When Jane entered the café, she gasped in wonder. Gone was the aging-diner look of the former establishment. The faded linoleum flooring had been replaced with dark rich hardwood and an assortment of kilim rugs. Chairs with wicker backs and plump ivory cushions were pulled up to hammered-copper tables. The walls were covered with antique maps and framed postcards. Potted palms stood like soldiers at regular intervals along the longest wall. At the back of the café, mosquito nets served as a divider between the main dining area and a lounge space. In this intimate alcove, British Colonial chairs with animal print cushions were grouped around a black steamer trunk.

“Are we supposed to eat there?” Aunt Octavia gestured at the lounge area.

“It’s a place for people to relax with a cup of tea or a smoothie. A conversation corner, so to speak,” Edwin said, coming forward to greet his guests. He gave Aunt Octavia a deferential bow and then reached for Jane’s hand. “I’m glad you could make it.” He cast his gaze around the café, watching people take in little details that Jane had missed upon first glance, like the border of hand-painted tiles around the perimeter of the room, the antique birdcage, or the urn-shaped wall sconces. “What do you think?” he asked, turning back to Jane.

“It’s wonderful,” Jane said.

Edwin offered Aunt Octavia his arm. “May I escort you to the best seat in the house?”

Aunt Octavia inclined her head. After distributing menus to everyone, Edwin disappeared into the kitchen and a middle-aged man wearing a white linen shirt and linen trousers entered the dining room. He flashed them a bright smile from beneath a splendid moustache, introduced himself as Magnus, and declared that he’d be coming around with mango and cardamom smoothies for them to sip while they studied the menu.

Jane was delighted to find that all the sandwiches had been named after famous poets and were far more interesting than the dry roast beef and Swiss melts the previous owner had served. She found it difficult to decide which one to try first.

“I’m having the Rumi,” Aunt Octavia declared. “You?”

“The Pablo Neruda.”

The food was delicious. When Edwin came out of the kitchen to check on his customers, he was greeted by a burst of applause.

“You’re going to be mobbed by all the romance fans next week!” Mrs. Pratt, another member of Jane’s book club cried. The rest of the Cover Girls would have loved to be dining alongside Mrs. Pratt at this moment, but unfortunately, they had to work. “This setting is straight out of an Elizabeth Peters novel. Are you a romantic, Mr. Alcott?” Mrs. Pratt batted her lashes at Edwin.

“No,” Edwin said. “That malady is for younger men.”

“Come now,” Mrs. Pratt pressed. “A man with such an obvious appreciation for poetry must believe in romance.”

“Lord Byron understood. He wrote, ‘the heart will break, but broken live on.’” Edwin smiled at Mrs. Pratt, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the honey lavender crème brûlée.”

As Edwin vanished into the kitchen, Jane wondered who’d broken his heart. And when.

“Dark, brooding, and handsome. He’s a modern-day Heathcliff,” Aunt Octavia said and then studied Jane. “You’d do well to stay clear of that one. Heathcliffs don’t make good husbands or father figures for young and impressionable boys.”

To her horror, Jane blushed. “What makes you think Edwin Alcott ever crosses my mind?”

Aunt Octavia barked out a laugh. “I may be old, fat, diabetic, and contrary, but I’m not blind. I’ve known men like Edwin Alcott. Indeed, I have. They’re trouble, Jane. Trouble with a capital T.”

“I had enough of that this past autumn,” Jane said as the server appeared with their dessert. “But Romancing the Reader will be completely different than our Murder and Mayhem week. We’ll be hosting a company of ladies devoted to happy endings. It’ll be a lovely, festive, and harmonious time. Not a single dead body in sight.”

Daily Bread

SOUPS

The Robert Burns—cheddar and beer

The John Keats—chicken and wild rice

The Phillis Wheatley—sweet potato corn chowder

SALADS

The Robert Frost—tomato, watercress, and fennel with lime vinaigrette

The Walt Whitman—fried green tomato with chipotle dressing

The Anna Akhmatova—roasted beet with mint and chèvre

SANDWICHES

The Homer—Greek salad on pita

The Dante Alighieri—prosciutto, smoked mozzarella, and sun-dried tomatoes

The Pablo Neruda—Chilean beef or chicken, steamed green beans, Muenster, hot peppers, and avocado

The Rumi—smoked turkey, sliced apple, and goat cheese

The Li-Po—shrimp and vegetable wrap, soy-laced mayo

The Emily Dickinson—egg salad with pickled celery and Dijon mustard

DESSERT—CHEF’S CHOICE (FOR THE ADVENTUROUS ONLY)

A selection of exotic teas or fruit smoothies can be enjoyed in the main dining room or in the conversation area

TWO

Jane and the rest of the diners thanked Edwin for the excellent lunch and offered to pay for their meals, but he wouldn’t hear of it, so the satisfied customers left generous tips for Magnus and filed out of the café. Jane knew word of Edwin’s triumph would spread through the village before she and her family made it back to Storyton Hall.

Aunt Octavia, who’d savored every bite of her lunch, was wearing a self-satisfied smile. Jane suspected the expression had something to do with the two honey lavender crème brûlée desserts her great-aunt had polished off, but decided not to scold her for deviating from her diet. Mrs. Hubbard, Storyton’s head chef, would have Aunt Octavia back on track by suppertime.

“Keep the motor running,” Aunt Octavia said when Jane drove to the Pickled Pig to pick up the twins. “I don’t feel like going inside just to see whatever bunny, bird, or rodent the Hogg brothers have adopted as their store mascot.”

As it turned out, he was none of those animals. When Jane caught her first glimpse of the new pet sitting obediently in the center of a ring of children, his pink noise quivering in excitement and his curly tail wagging like a dog’s, she laughed with pure delight.

“Mom!” Fitz cried when he saw her. “He’s a pot-bellied pig! Isn’t he awesome?”

Jane nodded. “He’s splendid.” She turned to her other son. “How was your lunch?”

“Fine.” Hem only had eyes for the pig. “Mr. Hogg has been telling us all about his pet. He can take him on walks on a leash, and he says that pigs are super smart.”

“Like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web,” Fitz added.

At that moment, Tobias, the youngest of the three Hogg brothers, noticed Jane squatting next to her two sons.

“Hi, Ms. Steward. Feel free to get a little closer to our new pig. He’s very fond of a good belly rub.”

The children scooted out of the way and Jane knelt in front of the adorable animal. He grunted noisily as she scratched