Chapter 16
ANNIE STOPPED LAUGHING AND EXHALED LOUDLY. “I made so many sacrifices for Ryan Patrick. So many. Klara was just one of them.”
I put down the plant I was holding and shifted sideways, increasing the distance between us. My fingers closed around my spade and I brought it behind my back and held it at the ready. “Tell me about these sacrifices.”
She turned to me. Her face was cast in gloom, but her eyes blazed with a cold light. “I didn’t mean to kill Joel. The explosion was meant for Klara. She had to look perfect on camera and she always practiced her dishes the night before each show. I figured she’d do it that night, too.”
“So Joel’s death was a scheduling mix-up?” I couldn’t disguise my disbelief.
She shrugged. “Yes, it was. I had no idea Joel would do what Klara usually does. If she hadn’t made him feel so crappy about his menu, he would never have been there. I heard about what she said to him over dinner that night. The way she made him doubt his choices. That’s the kind of nasty person she was. The world’s better off without her.” Annie stood up, the hand rake dangling at her side, and gazed down at me. “I may have screwed up killing Klara the first time, but I got her on my second try. At your friend’s café. I hope it didn’t hurt her business too much. She seems nice. I even disposed of Klara’s coffee cup in a trashcan down the street so she wouldn’t be implicated. Remember when I ran after the ambulance?”
My mouth went dry and dozens of conflicting thoughts crowded my mind. I knew I needed to get away from Annie. I had to get to a phone and call the police. Slowly, so as not to startle her into reacting, I got to my feet. Refusing to show her any fear, I said, “You can tell me everything over dinner. I’ll go check on the food and bring our wineglasses out here. I could really use something to drink.” I gestured toward the house with my free hand and even managed a wobbly smile.
Annie moved with lightning swiftness. She grabbed my outstretched wrist, her fingers digging into my skin. “No, wait! You need to hear the rest of it. You need to understand.” She tightened her grip. For someone so slight, she had remarkable strength. Pain surged through my arm and I instinctively brought up the other hand, the one holding the trowel, and swung it at her. She ducked, seized the tool, and yanked it away. She gazed at it curiously and then tossed it into the bushes.
“I know you’ll sympathize with me,” she continued as if I hadn’t just tried to strike her. Her face was a mask of calm. Her eyes had gone cold and dark. “Once you know the whole story you won’t blame me. I know you won’t. Sit on the ground and listen to me.”
I eyed the hand rake that she still held. “But I really need to—”
Without warning, she pushed down on my shoulders and I let my knees fold. I didn’t dare put up a fight as long as she had the rake. It was a small tool, but it could still do plenty of damage.
“Look,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t. I just need to explain. I need someone to listen to me. Someone to be my audience.”
I nodded agreeably. If I kept her talking, I’d buy myself more time to figure out how to get her weapon away from her. “I can do that. I can listen to your story.”
As if she didn’t trust me to comply, she brandished the hand rake and pressed her fingertips against the tines.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assured her.
“I’ve been waiting for years for everyone to know who I really am. Especially Ryan.” She took a step closer, looming over me. “I didn’t tell Ryan I was Mieke’s granddaughter when he first hired me because I wanted him to fall in love with the person I had become. I wanted him to see me as a pretty, chic, hardworking, and interesting woman. I could have replaced Klara. I could have been so much better than she ever was. But I never got a chance to prove that to him. He only talked to me about her. It was always Klara this and Klara that.” Her brow furrowed. “I got rid of her for Ryan’s sake. She wasn’t good enough for him. She was cheating on him!”
“Why didn’t you just tell Ryan about Klara cheating? Wouldn’t he have left Klara then? Wouldn’t you have had a chance then?”
She shook her head rapidly. “You don’t really understand the kind of person he is, do you? He was so loyal to Klara. If I’d told him about her and Bryce, he would have always associated me with Klara’s betrayal. He would never realize what I’ve always known. That he and I belong together.”
“But Ryan doesn’t love you,” I reminded her softly. “Annie, you need to start thinking of a different future. Ryan isn’t going to come around to your way of thinking. You should move on. As you said yourself, you have so much to offer.”
Her chin dropped to her chest. “He’s still upset over that whore Klara, but he’ll get over her. He’ll soon realize that he does love me. That he can’t have a career without me. I’ll do everything she did and more. And I’m no crook. Those Dutch recipes belong to me. All the money they’ve made from those cookbooks belongs to me.” She swung the rake back and forth, her lips thinning in anger.
Raising my hands in a gesture of surrender, I said, “You’re absolutely right. They’ve gotten rich off your grandmother’s recipes and your family stories.” Dropping my arms, I changed tactics. “You told me what happened to Joel and that you poisoned Klara’s coffee with arsenic. But what I can’t wrap my head around is how a nice girl like you managed to get her hands on arsenic. How did you do it?”
She smiled. I think she wanted to impress me. She liked that she could surprise people with her intelligence and daring. “You should see the dumpy apartment building I live in. I have to do my laundry in a huge creepy basement. Imagine a place that hasn’t been cleaned out for decades. Bare lightbulbs and spiderwebs and tons of old crap.” She grimaced. “In the tool room, there’s a set of shelves full of pesticides and mousetraps and boxes of rat poison. I’m talking about the old-fashioned kind. It’s probably as old as the building and its main ingredient is arsenic. It was right on the label. I took it as another sign. Just like when I saw Ryan on TV when I was still living in Holland.”
“Yes, another sign.” I nodded, encouraging her to keep talking. My gaze darted to my back door and I wondered if I could beat her inside. I’d need a distraction because she was certain to be the faster runner. Annie was much younger than I was and in far better shape.
“I’ve been carrying a small container of poison in my purse ever since we left New York,” she continued. “This weekend seemed like the perfect opportunity to take action. I’ve stayed in the background for far too long and when I saw the cover of Klara’s new cookbook, I knew it was time to punish her. I didn’t really want to use poison, though. I wanted her to die cooking.”
I made a sympathetic noise. “You couldn’t have known that Joel would use the stove reserved for her demonstration.”
She shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t have rigged the oven if I’d known he’d use it. Poor Joel. He didn’t deserve that kind of ending.”
That was too much for me. The anger I’d been suppressing since she’d begun her twisted confession welled up inside of me. “Nobody deserves to be murdered,” I said. “You could have brought Klara down by proving that she and Ryan were using your grandmother’s recipes. You could have told everyone that she was a fraud. She would have been ruined.”
“And so would Ryan. I wouldn’t do that to him!” Annie began to scrape bark from the tree trunk using the hand rake. “Klara had to pay for stealing the recipes.” She scratched off another chunk of bark. “For stealing my oma.” The scratches bit deeper and deeper into the flesh of the tree. “For stealing my future. For treating Ryan like crap. For treating me like I was lower than dirt. She had to be punished.”
“There are other ways to bring people to justice.” I put my hands on the grass behind me, preparing to push myself off the ground and dash for the house. “Listen, Annie. You should turn yourself in to the police. If you did, things would go better for you. You were able to talk to me about this. Don’t you want to tell your story to everyone? Don’t you want people to know how you’ve been mistreated?”
“You obviously don’t understand me.” Abruptly, she crouched in front of me, bringing her face close to mine. “I did it all for love. Why can’t you see that?” Annie’s hot breath, tinged with the odor of wine, wafted across my face. Her wild eyes pleaded for me to take her side, but I was done listening. I was through pretending to sympathize. She’d killed two people. She’d wreaked havoc on my town and created an atmosphere of fear and distrust for days. I was through with letting her be in charge.
I pushed against her chest with both hands, putting my body weight behind the thrust and she fell to the ground. The hand rake landed a foot away from her fingertips and I reached for it. That was a mistake. I should have just run.
Annie grabbed me by the ankle and I lost my balance. My face and chest slammed on the grass, knocking the breath out of me. Before I could inhale more than a shallow gulp of air, she straddled my back and placed the tines of the hand rake against the skin of my neck. The bite of cold steel on my flesh forced me to go still.
Annie leaned down and whispered into my ear. “I can’t go to jail. Ryan needs me. And I can’t let you tell anyone about me. I know who your boyfriend is. I’m not dumb.” She tapped the tines once, twice. “You pretended to be my friend, Ms. Wilkins. You’re a fake, just like Klara.”
Her comparison frightened me. I had to get out from under her. I knew I’d need to gather a surge of power to throw her off and I used a few precious seconds to garner strength from the people who meant the most to me. Images flashed in my mind. Trey and his impish smile. My mother and her twinkling eyes. Sean’s face on the pillow in the morning. Makayla throwing her head back as she laughed. Empowered by these visions, I gave an immense thrust and rolled to the side.
The sudden shift was too much for Annie and I felt her weight slide away. Scrambling to my feet, I ran.
I’d just made it into the kitchen when her hand closed around my hair. I jerked backward, unable to close the door.
“I can’t let you get away,” Annie hissed.
I grabbed the phone cradle from the wall and brought it behind my head with all my might. It connected with her hand and she let go with a snarl of rage. A second later, she swung at me with the hand rake and I ducked, lurching farther into the room and barreling against the kitchen table. I’d barely regained my feet when Annie raised the rake above her head, preparing to come at me again.
“I’m home!” Trey’s voice, followed by the door slamming, burst through the house.
Annie hesitated and I shot forward. “Trey! The killer’s here!” I shouted. No matter what happened to me, she would not hurt my son. “Run! RUN!”
The awareness that another person was in the house must have sent Annie into a panic. She dropped the garden tool and vanished through the kitchen door.
I nearly collided with Trey in the hall. “Mom! Are you okay?” He looked me up and down, his eyes filled with fear and worry.
“Yes. It was Annie. She’s outside. I need to call the police.”
Before I could make a move to stop him, Trey dashed out of the house. “NO!” I yelled and reached for my cell phone. I spoke as swiftly as possible to the emergency operator and then hung up. Grabbing a carving knife, I followed my son into the darkness.
“Trey!” I called desperately. “TREY!”
“We’re here!” he bellowed from the front.
I ran around to find Trey on the porch. Trey had used his belt to secure Annie’s wrists to the swing’s chain and though she struggled for a minute, the fight ebbed out of her with amazing speed. Suddenly, her entire body went limp and she began to cry. I heard her whimper for Ryan over and over.
“She’s a murderer?” Trey whispered when he’d recovered from the initial shock of subduing Annie. “I can’t believe it.”
“She told me everything,” I said wearily. “It’s over now.”
Trey pried the knife from my hand and pulled me to him. “You sure you’re all right? You’re not hurt?”
I shook my head. “You’re my hero,” I told him with a smile. “You came home just in time.”
Trey looked pleased. “Yeah, it’s all in a day’s work.”
We stood like that, arm in arm, until the sound of sirens cut through the night.
? ? ?
LESS THEN FIFTEEN minutes later, a police officer Mirandized Annie and helped her into the back of his cruiser. Trey and I rode with Sean and we were all quiet on the drive to Dunston. Trey held my hand the whole way and I closed my eyes and rested my head against the leather seat. I knew the ordeal was far from over and I couldn’t relax until our statements had been given and Sean had Annie’s signed confession in hand.
When Sean got to the station, he put the car in park and swiveled around to face Trey. “You’re a fine young man, Trey Wilkins. I’m grateful for your assistance in apprehending a dangerous criminal and for protecting the woman who means more to me than anyone else in this world.” He stretched out his hand. “I wanted to say something to you at the house, but I had to maintain a professional demeanor.”
Trey smiled and accepted Sean’s hand. “Understood, Officer Griffiths. And I’m going to turn Mom over to your care when I head back to school at the end of the week. Do you think you can keep her out of trouble?”
The two men grinned and I feigned offense. “Hello. Stop talking about me like I’m not here. Can we go in and do what needs to be done to put an end to this thing?”
Trey got out of the car, but Sean lingered for a moment. “I have a plan to make sure you stay safe, Lila. In the future, I don’t want to come to your house with my weapon and cuffs. I’d like to show up bearing wine and roses.”
“Well, it just so happens that my calendar is wide open, so bring on the wine and the roses,” I said and leaned forward to kiss him.
That was the only highlight of the next two hours. I gave my statement to an extremely thorough female officer who made me repeat every word of my conversation with Annie over and over again until I couldn’t take it anymore. When she asked me to review the entire evening for the fifth time, I pushed my cup of cold decaf away and folded my arms over my chest. “No,” I said firmly. “I’m done. I’d like someone to drive my son and me home, please. Now.”
The woman tried to stare me down but failed. “Of course.” She handed me a pen. “If you could just sign and date the bottom of your statement, I’ll see if your son is ready.”
I followed her out to the lobby where Trey sat on one of the chairs, his gaze fixed on his iPhone. Looking up, he said, “I wasn’t sure if they arrested you by mistake. Iris and I have been texting for like, an hour.”
“Officer McBride here knows how important it is to cover all the bases in this case.” I turned to the female policewoman. “Is Officer Griffiths free?”
Her frosty composure melted a little. “He’s still in with the suspect, but he told me to see you home. He also wanted me to tell you to leave the lights on the front porch on.”
I nodded and Trey and I followed her out of the building.
“What’s with the porch light? Is that a secret code between the two of you?” Trey asked.
Smiling, I said. “Not really. It’s just his way of saying that no matter how late it is, he’ll be coming over tonight.”
“He’s really into you, Mom,” Trey said and nudged me playfully in the side.
I linked my arm through his. “I’m a lucky woman. Tonight, I’ll have a cop and a hero under one roof. What more could I ask for?”
“Supper,” Trey replied and handed me a granola bar. “I know you didn’t get a chance to eat, so I bought that from the vending machine.”
I stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Unable to help myself, I said, “This reminds me of a cute little poem by an unknown author. It goes:
‘A rose can say “I love you,”
orchids can enthrall,
but a weed bouquet in a chubby fist,
yes, that says it all.’
The policewoman stopped in the middle of unlocking her car. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears. “That is so sweet,” she said. “As soon as I drop you off I am going to call my mother.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed to Trey. “I need to do that, too. I think your grandmother was in the middle of trying to warn me that I was in danger when I hung up on her to answer the door bell.”
Trey opened the car door for me. “Guess she was right, considering you were about to invite a killer inside.”
? ? ?
I WAS SO exhausted that I didn’t hear Sean come into the house. In fact, I slept so deeply that it wasn’t until I heard the murmur of low voices in the kitchen the next morning that I realized he’d lain beside me for hours without my even knowing it.
It was after eight when I tiptoed to the kitchen. The house felt quiet, as if it were holding its breath, and I didn’t want to disturb the tranquility. However, when I heard Sean say, “I need to ask you something really important, Trey, and I don’t want you to tell your mother about it,” I stopped in the middle of the hall. Why would my boyfriend want to talk to my son in secret?
“Trey, I love your mom. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before. She’s smart, kind, generous, and incredibly beautiful. And seeing as you’re the man of the house, I’d like to ask for your permission to marry her.”
My breath caught in my throat. When Trey didn’t answer right away, I felt the stirrings of panic. But then I heard, “That’s so cool, ah, Sean. I can tell she totally loves you back. You guys are good together. So yes, I’d be happy if you got married.”
“Thanks, Trey. I’m really looking forward to starting a new chapter with your mom. She makes me a better man in every way.”
I rushed back to my bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and shouted joyfully into my pillow. How would I ever be able to go into the kitchen without the biggest smile on my face?
Fortunately, I was saved by Sean who came into the room carrying a cup of coffee.
“Finally awake?” He grinned. “You didn’t move an inch all night. You were in a deeper sleep than a hibernating bear.”
“But I feel like myself again,” I said, accepting the coffee and a good-morning kiss. I wanted to put the cup down, pull him onto the bed, and kiss him some more, but I didn’t want him to suspect I’d been eavesdropping. “Please tell me you got a confession. Tell me that Inspiration Valley can return to normal.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s over. The other chefs caught the first train out of Inspiration Valley. Ryan and his kids are gone, too. We have a signed confession and plenty of evidence to back it up.”
“Thank the Lord,” I said in relief. “Does it sound weird for me to admit that I feel sorry for Annie? Ryan and Klara used what was precious to her—her grandmother, her family recipes, and memories that belonged to her childhood. All Annie ever wanted was for Ryan to see her and to return the all-consuming love she felt for him, but she never existed in his eyes.”
Sean looked thoughtful. “She chose to leave her family and her past behind based on an unhealthy obsession with a married man, Lila. And two people died because of that obsession. Annie was wronged. That much is true. But in actuality, she behaved like a spoiled child who didn’t get her way. Instead of throwing a tantrum, she committed murder. Twice.”
I nodded, unable to disagree. And as I considered his words, I thought of another young woman who had behaved like a spoiled child. “Sean, what about my slashed tires? Did anyone have a chance to informally question Zoe Bright?”
He leapt up, pulling the notepad from his pocket. “With all the goings-on surrounding Annie, I forgot to tell you. Vicky gave me Zoe’s address and I went to see her myself. Apparently, the sight of a uniformed police officer at the door compelled her to confess to the vandalism before I even asked about it. She apologized profusely, and admitted acting in a fit of frustration because her attempts to rewrite her novel had failed and she had no one to lash out at except you.”
I frowned. “That’s a vicious way to vent her frustration. Should I be worried?”
He shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, Zoe won’t trouble you or the agency anymore. She’s decided to give up on writing and plans to focus her energy on making jewelry. In any event, I charged her with vandalism for which she’ll most likely do community service.” He flipped pages. “She also offered to pay for the tire replacement and wanted you to pass her contact information on to the garage so they could send her the bill.” He tore a slip of paper from the notepad and placed it on the bedside table.
“That’s good news,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry the writing didn’t work out for her, but I have to say I’m glad I won’t be seeing her again. Jewelry making is probably a better career path for her anyway. The necklace she crafted for me is actually quite beautiful.”
Sean kissed me on the forehead and headed for the door. “I have to go. Don’t make plans for dinner tonight, because now that things have quieted down, I’m going to arrange a special evening for us.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, bringing the coffee mug to my mouth in an attempt to hide my grin.
? ? ?
THE WALK TO work kindled my senses. Warm sunlight dappled the sidewalks, birds sang their morning songs, and the scent of lilacs and peonies permeated the air. Shopkeepers were opening their stores and there was a general atmosphere of buoyancy and joy around town. It was contagious, and I couldn’t keep from smiling. There was no longer a murderer on the loose, the chefs had all left, and Sean was going to ask me to marry him. My feet barely touched the ground as I envisaged our romantic night together.
When I stopped in Espresso Yourself, Makayla waved me past a line of customers. “I’ve been waiting for you. I heard about what happened with Annie at your house last night, and I’m sorry you had to go through that kind of scare,” she said, her green eyes sparkling. “But you’re safe and our town is ours again, so nothing can dampen my mood. Ever since I danced with Jay by the fountain, I have been walking on sunshine.”
“I can imagine,” I said, thinking I was right there with her. I glanced at all the people in her café. “I have something to tell you, but not now. Can we have lunch today?”
“You bet.” She handed me a cup. “Here’s a caramel mocha latte to prepare you to read the magnificent, one-of-a-kind manuscript that’s waiting in your email inbox.”
A thrill of anticipation ran through me. “Did you finally send me your book?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now that things have calmed down around here, I figured it was time.”
? ? ?
I HURRIED TO my desk and turned on the computer. Feeling giddy with anticipation, I opened Makayla’s attachment and began to read.
Her book was a collection of interconnected short stories set in a coffee shop. The Barista Diaries recounted the lives of seven coffee shop customers as told by a sensitive young woman who’d gained an intimate glimpse of their hopes and setbacks by listening to them talk day after day. There were poignant tales of love, humorous narratives of mishaps and exploits, and moving family dramas. I was delighted to discover that Makayla was a skillful and talented writer. Her sincere voice transported the reader into the world of her fictional café and convinced me to care about each and every character.
After the third story, about an elderly man who discovers a happy secret while having coffee with his son, I sat back and took a sip of my latte, envisioning Makayla’s book in print. I knew I could sell this book and mentally compiled a list of publishers who might be interested. A smile crept over my face. Despite all that had happened this weekend, I still loved my job. What could be more gratifying than making a writer’s dreams come true?
Flora knocked on my door. “I’ve baked a special treat for everyone. We’re all gathering in the kitchen,” she said. “Come join us.”
“Absolutely.” I got up and eagerly followed her. “What did you make?”
“Some Dutch cookies from a recipe out of Klara’s cookbook. I thought it would be nice to honor her this way.” She sighed as we entered the kitchen, where Jude, Franklin, and Zach sat at the table, coffee mugs in hand. “Of course, that was before I found out she was a fraud and her recipes and stories had all been plagiarized. My, my, but it’s all such a shame.”
“The recipes are still good, aren’t they?” Zach asked. “I hope so, because the Zachmeister’s breakfast was hours ago.”
“Yes, dear, they’re wonderful. Annie’s grandmother was the source of the recipes and I’m sure she was a great cook.” Flora removed the lid from a round flowered tin, releasing the scent of cinnamon and almonds. “These are jan hagel koekjes. ‘Koekjes’ means ‘cookies,’” she explained.
The cookies were flat diamond shapes covered with toasted almonds. I bit into one of the crispy treats. The cookie’s buttery sweetness, combined with cinnamon and nuts, was delectable. “It melts in your mouth,” I said, taking another bite.
“They’re baked as one big piece,” Flora said. “After you spread out the dough on a cookie sheet, you sprinkle the almonds on top and bake the whole thing. When it’s done, you cut the dough into diamonds and serve.”
“These are totally amazing. I hope you made more than one batch!” Zach exclaimed as he chewed. “Klara may have been a crook, but there’s nothing wrong with her cookbook.”
Franklin took a sip of his coffee. “That’s true. The book is very engaging. The stories about Annie’s grandmother make it more than a simple book filled with photos and recipes. It’s a snapshot of someone’s memories.” His eyebrows knit together. “Just not Klara’s. How I wish I had known the truth about it all.”
“I wonder if the sales will be affected when the news that Klara stole the material goes viral,” said Flora as she poured hot water from the kettle over the teabag into her favorite mug.
“They’ll probably go through the roof,” said Jude. “Remember what happened with A Million Little Pieces by James Frey? He claimed he’d written a memoir and then people found out it wasn’t true. The book sold like crazy. Even bad press is good for sales.”
“Yes, but there might be legal ramifications as well.” Franklin reached into the tin and took out another cookie. “Especially if Annie decides to sue Ryan and the publishers for rightful ownership.”
I wiped crumbs from my hands. “I don’t think she’ll do that. Not as long as she’s in love with Ryan.”
“She may change her mind about that after spending time in prison,” said Jude. He entwined his fingers behind his head and stretched back. “All I can say is that this stud of an agent is glad that it’s over and we can get back to doing what we do best.”
Franklin nodded his agreement. “I don’t think I could survive another day with those chefs.”
“And I, for one, would be happy if we don’t have to organize another festival for a very long time,” I said.
“Here, here,” said Zach, toasting me with his coffee cup. “Well, people, Zachmeister’s gotta run. Time is money.” As he rushed out the door, he almost collided with Bentley. “Sorry, boss,” he said and disappeared down the hall.
Bentley watched him go and then crossed the threshold. Flora held out the tin. “Would you like a cookie?”
“I’ll take one to eat later,” Bentley said as she reached her manicured fingers into the container. “Lila, Jude, what’s the status on the Marlette sequel? Have you signed Jay Coleman as a client yet?”
“We’re meeting with him this afternoon to do just that. His proposal is superb.” Jude looked at me. “Jay emailed it to us last night. Have you had a chance to read it? I know you were somewhat preoccupied.”
I shook my head. Jude was referring to my encounter with Annie, but in truth, I had been so wrapped up in Makayla’s submission that I hadn’t looked at anything else in my inbox. “It’s next on my agenda. I can’t wait.”
“His plotline is tightly woven and complex. He’s also managed to thoroughly replicate Marlette’s voice.” Jude turned back to Bentley. “We’re confident that Marlette’s remarkable characters will continue to live through Jay’s writing. And I believe that the publishers will concur.”
“Good. Let me know when it’s all finalized.” Bentley’s departure spurred us to end our break. After a few more pleasantries, we all stood and dispersed.
At my desk, I enthusiastically focused on my computer. I clicked on Jay’s proposal and its thousands of words and characters sprang onto my bright white screen. I wondered how many other queries and proposals were in line behind his, how many other fresh voices were just waiting to be discovered. Voices with powerful stories to tell, fascinating characters to bring to life, and intricate mysteries to solve.
Feeling utterly content, I settled in my chair and began to read.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for spending time in Inspiration Valley. I’m Ellery Adams. Sylvia May and I coauthor the Lucy Arlington mysteries, and I hope you enjoyed Lila’s latest adventure. It’s amazing what can happen in a pastoral small town, isn’t it? After all the excitement, Lila is fortunate enough to be able to return to her office at Novel Idea and bury her nose in a book.
In the meantime, I’d like to introduce you to my newest mystery series: the Book Lovers’ Resort Mysteries. These books take place at an exclusive resort called Storyton Hall. What’s Storyton Hall, you ask? Picture a stately English manor house—a sprawling behemoth of a building—and then move it, stone by stone, to the Virginia countryside. Next, fill each room with books. Hundreds of books. Thousands of books. And then decorate each room so that it reminds you of a famous author. You’ll end up with places like the Jane Austen Drawing Room, the Ian Fleming Lounge, and Shakespeare’s Theater. Next, fill the many bedrooms with comfy chairs, soft bedding, fresh flowers, and boxes of complimentary chocolates. When all is ready, throw open the massive front doors, offer the guests a glass of champagne, and join them as they enter this readers’ utopia.
But be warned. You’re stepping into this haven for book lovers—this place of meandering garden paths, decadent afternoon teas, and secret passageways—at your own risk. For you see, a murderer has checked in along with you.
My friends, I invite you to take a brief sojourn into the delightful and occasionally deadly world of the Book Lovers’ Resort Mysteries by offering the first chapter of Murder in the Mystery Suite. A word of caution, however. Once you visit Storyton Hall, you might be so captivated by the resort’s beauty and charismatic staff that you may never want to leave.
Yours,
Ellery Adams
THERE WERE BOOKS EVERYWHERE. HUNDREDS OF books. Thousands of books. There were books of every size, shape, and color. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, standing straight and rigid as soldiers on the polished mahogany shelves, the gilt lettering on their worn spines glinting in the soft light, the scent of supple leather and aging paper filling the air.
To Jane Steward, there was no sweeter perfume on earth. Of all the libraries in Storyton Hall, this was her favorite. Unlike the other libraries, which were open to the hotel’s paying guests, this was the personal reading room of her great uncle Aloysius and great aunt Octavia.
“Are you ready, Sinclair?” Jane mounted the rolling book ladder and looked back over her shoulder.
A small, portly man with a cloud of white hair and ruddy cheeks wrung his hands together. “Oh, Miss Jane. I wish you wouldn’t ask me to do this. It doesn’t seem prudent.”
Jane shrugged. “You heard what Gavin said at our last staff meeting. The greenhouse is in disrepair, the orchard needs pruning, the hedge maze is overgrown, the folly is hidden in brambles, and the roof above the staff quarters is rotting away. I have to come up with funds somehow. Lots of funds. What I need, Sinclair, is inspiration.” She held out her arms as if she could embrace every book in the room. “What better place to find it than here?”
“Can’t you just shut your eyes, reach out your hand, and choose a volume from the closest shelf?” Sinclair stuck a finger under his collar, loosening his bow tie. Unlike Storyton’s other staff members, he didn’t wear the hotel’s royal blue and gold livery. As the resort’s head librarian, he distinguished himself by dressing in tweed suits every day of the year. The only spot of color that appeared on his person came in the form of a striped, spotted, floral, or checkered bow tie. Today’s was canary yellow with prim little brown dots.
Jane shook her head at the older gentleman she’d known since childhood. “You know that doesn’t work, Sinclair. I have to lose all sense of where I am in the room. The book must choose me, not me it.” She smiled down at him. “Ms. Pimpernel tells me that the rails have recently been oiled, so you should be able to push me around in circles with ease.”
“In squares, you mean.” Sinclair sighed in defeat. “Very well, Miss Jane. Kindly hold on.”
Grinning like a little girl, Jane gripped the sides of the ladder and closed her eyes. Sinclair pushed on the ladder, hesitantly at first, until Jane encouraged him to go faster, faster.
“Are you quite muddled yet?” he asked after a minute or so.
Jane descended by two rungs but didn’t open her eyes. “I think I’m still in the twentieth-century American authors section. If I’m right, we need to keep going.”
Sinclair grunted. “It’s getting harder and harder to confuse you, Miss Jane. You know where every book in this library is shelved.”
“Just a few more spins around the room. Please?”
The ladder began to move once more. This time, however, Sinclair stopped and started without warning and changed direction more than once. Eventually, he succeeded in disorientating her.
“Excellent!” Jane exclaimed and reached out her right hand. Her fingertips touched cloth and leather. They traced the embossed letters marching up and down the spines for a few, brief seconds, before traveling to the next book. “Inspire me,” she whispered.
But nothing spoke to her, so she shifted to the left side of the ladder, stretching her arm overhead until her hand brushed against a book that was smaller and shorter than its neighbors. “You’re the one,” she said and pulled it from the shelf.
Sinclair craned his neck as if he might be able to read the title from his vantage point on the ground. “Which one did you pick, Miss Jane?”
“A British mystery,” she said, frowning. “But I don’t see how—”
At that moment, two boys burst into the room, infusing the air with screams, scuffles, and shouts. The first, who had transformed himself into a knight using a stainless steel salad bowl helm and a T-shirt covered with silver duct tape, brandished a wooden yardstick. The second boy, who was identical to the first in every way except for his costume, wore a green raincoat. He had the hood pulled up and tied under his chin and carried two hand rakes. His lips were closed around a New Year’s Eve party favor and every time he exhaled, its multicolored paper tongue would uncurl with a shrill squeak.
“Boys!” Jane called out to no effect. Her sons dashed around chairs and side tables, nearly overturning the coffee table and its collection of paperweights and framed family photos.
Sinclair tried to get between the knight and the dragon. “Saint George,” he said in a voice that rang with authority, though it was no more than a whisper. “Might I suggest that you conquer this terrifying serpent outdoors? Things are likely to get broken in the fierce struggle between man and beast.”
The first boy bowed gallantly and pointed his sword at Jane. “Fair maid, I’ve come to rescue you from your tower.”
Jane giggled. “Thank you, Sir Fitz, but I am quite happy up here.”
Refusing to be upstaged by his twin brother, the other boy growled and circled around a leather chair and ottoman, a writing desk, and a globe on a stand in order to position himself directly under the ladder. “If you don’t give me all of your gold, then I’ll eat you!” he snarled and held out his hand rakes.
Doing her best to appear frightened, Jane clutched at her chest. “Please, oh fearsome and powerful dragon. I have no gold. In fact, my castle is falling apart around me. I was just wishing for a fairy godmother to float down and—
“There aren’t any fairies in this story!” the dragon interrupted crossly. “Fairies are for girls.”
“Yeah,” the knight echoed indignantly.
Jane knew she had offended her six-year-old sons, but before she could make amends, her eye fell on the ruler in Fitz’s hands and an idea struck her.
“Fitz, Hem, you are my heroes!” she cried, hurrying down the ladder.
The boys exchanged befuddled glances. “We are?” They spoke in unison, as they so often did.
“But I’m supposed to be a monster,” Hem objected.
Jane touched his cheek. “And you’ve both been so convincing that you can go straight to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Hubbard that I’ve given my permission for each of you to have an extra piece of chocolate-dipped shortbread at tea this afternoon.”
Their gray eyes grew round with delight, but then Fitz whispered something in Hem’s ear. Pushing back his salad bowl helm, he gave his mother a mournful look. “Mrs. Hubbard won’t believe us. She’ll tell us that story about the boy who cried wolf again.”
“I’ll write a note,” Jane said. The boys exchanged high fives as she scribbled a few lines on an index card.
“Shall I tuck this under one of your scales, Mister Dragon?” She shoved the note into the pocket of Hem’s raincoat. “Now run along. Sinclair and I have a party to plan.”
Sinclair waited for the boys to leave before seating himself at his desk chair. He uncapped a fountain pen and held it over a clean notepad. “A party, Miss Jane?”
Jane flounced in the chair across from him and rubbed her palm over the cover of the small book in her hands. “This is Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile.”
“Are we having a Halloween Party then?” Sinclair asked. “With pharaohs and mummies and such?” He furrowed his shaggy brows. “Did the boys’ getups influence your decision?”
“Not just a costume party. Think bigger.” Jane hugged the book to her chest with one hand and gestured theatrically with the other. “An entire week of murder and mayhem. We’ll have a fancy dress ball and award prizes to those who most closely emulate their fictional detectives. Just think,” she continued, warming to her idea. “We’ll have Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, Lord Peter Wimsey, Nick and Nora Charles, Brother Cadfael, Miss Marple, and so on. We’ll have readings and skits and teas and banquets. We’ll have mystery scavenger hunts and trivia games! Imagine it, Sinclair.”
He grimaced. “I’m trying, Miss Jane, but it sounds like a great deal of hubbub and work. And for what purpose?”
“Money,” Jane said simply. “Storyton Hall will be bursting at the seams with paying guests. They’ll have the time of their lives and will go home and tell all of their friends how wonderful it was to stay at the nation’s only resort catering specifically to readers. We need to let the world know that while we’re a place of peace and tranquility, we also offer excitement and adventure.”
Sinclair fidgeted with his bow tie again. “Miss Jane, forgive me for saying so, but I believe our guests are interested in three things: comfort, quiet, and good food. I’m not certain they’re interested in adventure.”
“Our readers aren’t sedentary,” Jane argued. “I’ve seen them playing croquet and lawn tennis. I’ve met them on the hiking and horseback-riding trails. I’ve watched them row across the lake in our little skiffs and walk into Storyton Village. Why wouldn’t they enjoy a weekend filled with mystery, glamour, and entertainment?”
The carriage clock on Sinclair’s desk chimed three times. “Perhaps you should mention the proposal to your great aunt and uncle over tea?”
Jane nodded in agreement. “Brilliant idea. Aunt Octavia is most malleable when she has a plate piled high with scones and lemon cakes. Thank you, Sinclair.” She stood up, walked around the desk, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He touched the spot where his skin had turned a rosy shade of pink. “You’re welcome, Miss Jane, though I don’t think I was of much help.”
“You’re a librarian,” she said on her way out. “To me, that makes you a bigger hero than Saint George, Sir William Wallace, and all of the Knights of the Round Table put together.”
“I love my job,” Jane heard Sinclair say before she closed the door.
? ? ?
JANE TURNED IN the opposite direction of the main elevator and headed for the staircase at the other end of a long corridor carpeted in a lush crimson. She was accustomed to traveling a different route than the paying guests of Storyton Hall. Like the rest of the staff, Jane moved noiselessly through a maze of narrow passageways, underground tunnels, dim stairways, attic accesses, and hidden doors to keep herself as unobtrusive as possible.
Storyton had fifty bedrooms, eleven of which were on the main floor. And even though Jane’s great aunt and uncle were in their late seventies, they preferred to remain in their third-story suite of apartments, which included their private library and cozy sitting room, where her aunt liked to spend her evenings reading.
Trotting down a flight of stairs, Jane paused to straighten her skirt before entering the main hallway. Along the wood-paneled walls hung with gilt-framed mirrors, gilt sconces, and massive oil paintings in ornate gilt frames, massive oak doors stood open, inviting guests to while away the hours reading in the Jane Austen Drawing Room, the Ian Fleming Lounge, the Isak Dinesen Safari Study, the Daphne Du Maurier Parlor, and so on. There was also a Beatrix Potter playroom for children, but that was located on the basement level as most of the guests preferred not to hear the shrieks and squeals of children when they were trying to lose themselves in a riveting story.
Jane greeted every guest with a hello and a smile though her mind was focused on other things. She made a mental checklist as she walked. The door handles need polishing. A lightbulb’s gone out by the entrance to Shakespeare’s Theater. Eliza needs to stop putting goldenrod in the flower vases. There’s pollen on all the tables and the guests are sneezing.
She’d almost reached the sunporch when the tiny speakers mounted along the crown molding in the main hallway began to play a recording of bells chiming. Jane glanced at her watch. It was exactly three o’clock.
“Oh, it’s teatime!” a woman examining a painting of cherry blossoms exclaimed. Taking the book from a man sitting in one of the dozens of wing chairs lining the hall, she gestured for him to get to his feet. “Come on, Bernard! I want to be get there first today.”
Jane knew there was slim chance of that happening. Guests began congregating at the door of the Agatha Christie Tea Room at half past two. Bobbing her head at the eager pair, she walked past the chattering men, women, and children heading to tea and arrived at the back terrace to find her great aunt and uncle seated at a round table with the twins. The table was covered with a snowy white cloth, a vase stuffed with fuchsia peonies, and her aunt’s Wedgwood tea set.
“There you are, dear!” Aunt Octavia lifted one of her massive arms and waved regally. Octavia was a very large, very formidable woman. She adored food and loathed exercise. As a result, she’d steadily grown in circumference over the decades and showed no predisposition toward changing her habits, much to her doctor’s consternation.
“Hello, everyone,” Jane said as she took a seat. This was the only time during the day in which she would sit in view of the guests. Very few people noticed the Steward family gathering for tea, being far too busy filling their plates with sandwiches, scones, cookies, and cakes inside the main house.
Fitz plucked her sleeve. “Mom, can I have another lemon cake?” He glanced at his brother. “Hem, too?”
“Fitzgerald Steward,” Aunt Octavia said in a low growl. “You’ve already had enough for six boys. So has Hemingway. Let your mother pour herself some tea before you start demanding seconds. And you should say ‘may I’ not ‘can I.’”
Nodding solemnly, Fitz sat up straight in his chair and cleared his throat. Doing his best to sound like an English aristocrat, he said, “Madam, may we please have another cake?”
This time, the question was directed at Aunt Octavia. Before she could answer, Hem piped up in a cockney accent. “Please, Mum. We’re ever so ’ungry.”
Aunt Octavia burst out laughing and passed the platter of sweets. “Incorrigible,” she said and put a wrinkled hand over Jane’s. “Are you going to the village after tea? Mabel called to say that my new dress is ready and I can’t wait to see it. Hot pink with sequins and brown leopard spots. Can you imagine?”
Jane could. Her aunt wore voluminous housedresses fashioned from the most exotic prints and the boldest colors available. She ordered bolts of cloth from an assortment of catalogues and had Mabel Wimberly, a talented seamstress who lived in Storyton Village, sew the fabric into a garment she could slip over her head. Each dress had to come complete with several pockets as Aunt Octavia walked with the aid of a rhinestone-studded cane and liked to load her pockets with gum, hard candy, pens, a notepad, bookmarks, and nail clippers. Today, she wore a black and lime zebra-striped dress and a black sun hat decorated with ostrich feathers.
And while Aunt Octavia’s attire was flamboyant, Uncle Aloysius dressed like the country gentleman he was. His slacks and shirt were perfectly pressed and he always had a handkerchief peeking from the pocket of his suit. The only deviation from this conservative ensemble was his hat. Aloysius wore his fishing hat, complete with hooks, baits, and flies, all day long. He even wore it to church and Aunt Octavia had to remind him to remove it once the service got under way. Some of the staff whispered that he wore it to bed as well, but Jane didn’t believe it. After all, several of the hooks looked rather sharp.
“What sandwiches did Mrs. Hubbard make today?” she asked her great uncle.
He patted his flat stomach. Uncle Aloysius was as tall and slender as his wife was squat and round. He was all points and angles to her curves and rolls. Despite their contrasting physical appearances and the passage of multiple decades, the two were still very much in love. Jane’s great uncle liked to tell people that he was on a fifty-five-year honeymoon. “My darling wife will tell you that the egg salad and chive is the best,” he said. “I started with the Brie, watercress, and walnut.” He handed Jane the plate of sandwiches and a pair of silver tongs. “That was lovely, but not as good as the fig and goat cheese.”
“In that case, I’ll have one of each.” Jane helped herself to the diminutive sandwiches. “And a raisin scone.” Her gaze alighted on the jar of preserves near Aunt Octavia’s elbow. “Is that Mrs. Hubbard’s blackberry jam?”
“Yes, and it’s magnificent. But don’t go looking for the Devonshire cream. The boys and I ate every last dollop.” Her great aunt sat back in her chair, rested her tiny hands on her great belly, and studied Jane’s face. “You’ve got a spark about you, my girl. Care to enlighten us as to why you have a skip in your step and a twinkle in your eye?”
Jane told her great aunt and uncle about her Murder and Mayhem Week idea.
Uncle Aloysius leaned forward and listened without interruption, nodding from time to time. Instantly bored by the topic, Fitz and Hem scooted back their chairs and resumed their knight and dragon personas by skirmishing a few feet from the table until Aunt Octavia shooed them off.
“Go paint some seashells green,” she told Hem. “You can’t be a decent dragon without scales. We have an entire bucket of shells in the craft closet.”
“What about me?” Fitz asked. “What else do I need to be a knight?”
Aunt Octavia examined him closely. “A proper knight needs a horse. Get a mop and paint a pair of eyes on the handle.”
Without another word, the twins sprinted for the basement stairs. Jane saw their sandy heads disappear and grinned. Her aunt had encouraged her to play similar games when she was a child and it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to see her sons doing the same.
“Imagination is more important than knowledge,” was Aunt Octavia’s favorite quote and she repeated it often. She said it again now and then waved for Jane to continue.
Throughout the interruption, Uncle Aloysius hadn’t taken his eyes off Jane once. When she finished outlining her plan, he rubbed the white whiskers on his chin and gazed out across the wide lawn. “I like your idea, my dear. I like it very much. We can charge our guests a special weekly rate. And by special, I mean higher. We’d have to ask a pretty penny for the additional events. I expect we’ll need to hire extra help.”
“But you think it will work?”
“I do indeed. It’s splendid,” he said, smiling at her. “It could be the start of a new tradition. Mystery buffs in October, Western readers in July, fantasy fans for May Day.”
“A celebration of romance novels for Valentine’s!” Aunt Octavia finished with a sweep of her arm.
Uncle Aloysius grabbed hold of his wife’s hand and planted a kiss on her palm. “It’s Valentine’s Day all year long with you, my love.”
Jane felt a familiar stab of pain. It was during moments like these that she missed her husband the most. She’d been a widow for six years and had never been able to think of William Elliot without a pang of sorrow and agony. Watching her great uncle and aunt murmur endearments to each other, she wondered if ten years would be enough time to completely heal the hole in her heart left by her husband’s passing.
“Jane? Are you gathering wool?” Great Aunt Octavia asked.
Shaking off her melancholy, Jane reached for the teapot and poured herself a nice cup of Earl Grey. “I’m afraid I was. Sorry.”
“No time for drifting off,” Uncle Aloysius said. “There’s much to be done to prepare for this Murder and Mayhem Week of yours. And might I say.” He paused to collect himself and Jane knew that he was about to pay her a compliment. Her uncle was always very deliberate when it came to words of praise or criticism. “Your dedication to Storyton Hall does the Steward name proud. I couldn’t have asked for a more devoted heir.”
Jane thanked him, drank the rest of her tea, and went into the manor house through the kitchen. She tarried for a moment to tell the staff how delicious the tea service was and then walked down the former servant’s passage to her small, windowless office.
Sitting behind her desk, Jane flexed her fingers over her computer keyboard and began to type a list of possible events, meals, and decorating ideas for the Murder and Mayhem week. Satisfied that Storyton Hall’s future guests would have a wide range of activities and dining choices during the mystery week, she set about composing a newsletter announcing the dates and room rates. She made the special events appear even more enticing by inserting colorful stock photos of bubbling champagne glasses, people laughing, and couples dancing at a costume ball. She also included the book covers of some of Christie’s best-known works as well as tantalizing photographs of Storyton’s most impressive dinner and dessert buffets.
“They’ll come in droves,” she said to herself, absurdly pleased by the end result of the newsletter. “Uncle Aloysius is right. If this event is a resounding success, we can add on more and more over the course of the year. Then, we’ll be able to fix this old pile of stones until it’s just like it was when crazy Walter Egerton Steward had it dismantled, brick by brick, and shipped across the Atlantic. We’ll restore the folly and the hedge maze and the orchards.” Her eyes grew glassy and she gazed off into the middle distance. “It’ll be as he dreamed it would be. An English estate hidden away in the wilds of the Virginia mountains. An oasis for book lovers. A reader’s paradise amid the pines.”
She reread the newsletter once more, searching for typos or grammatical errors, and, finding none, saved the document. She then opened a new email message and typed “newsletter recipients” in the address line. It gave her a little thrill to know that thousands of people would soon read about Storyton Hall’s first annual Murder and Mayhem Week.
After composing a short email, Jane hit send, releasing her invitation into the world. Within seconds, former guests, future guests, and her newspaper and magazine contacts would catch a glimpse of what promised to be an unforgettable seven days. Tomorrow, she’d order print brochures to be mailed to the people on her contact list who preferred a more old-fashioned communication.
I’ll have contacted thousands of people by the end of the week, Jane thought happily. Thousands of potential guests. Thousands of lovely readers.
But the lovely readers weren’t the only ones who’d be receiving Jane Steward’s invitation.
A murderer would get one, too.