by Ellery Adams
“Ignorance is far more dangerous,” Jane countered. “Are my sons safe because they know nothing of the secret library? No, they aren’t. Are my friends safe because they have no idea that I’m a Guardian? No. I’m not telling them my secret, but Edwin had time to think during his imprisonment, and he no longer wants to keep his double life from his sister.”
Sinclair spread his hands. “If this is Mr. Alcott’s choice, so be it. Eloise Alcott is a clever woman. She could prove to be invaluable during this event. But mind this, Jane. The larger we make our circle of trust, the easier it will be to break.”
His words echoed in Jane’s mind for the rest of the day. She pushed them aside to greet guests and to oversee the erection of the Art and Poetry of the Great War exhibit in the Great Gatsby Ballroom. This was to be the setting for tonight’s cocktail party and the unveiling of the war memorial that would later be given a permanent home in the community park.
Tonight, Jane would mingle with the historians and get a feel for their personalities. She’d invited the Cover Girls to join her, and they’d all accepted except for Betty and Anna. Betty had to tend bar at the Cheshire Cat, and Anna was bogged down with homework. Following the violent death of the previous pharmacist, Anna had been working with his replacement while taking online classes toward a doctorate in pharmacy.
“I warned you ladies that I might miss some book-club meetings, but I didn’t think I’d be giving up any possibility of a social life when I enrolled in this program!” Anna lamented over the phone. “Do me a favor, will you? If you get another millionaire bachelor with a heart of gold like you had at the last conference, call me!”
“I thought you had a thing for Sam?” Jane had asked, referring to the hunky proprietor of Hilltop Stables.
Anna sighed. “He’s been in love with Eloise since the fourth grade. It’s impossible to compete with that. Can you imagine falling so deeply that you can’t let go? No matter how much time passes?”
Jane thought of William. Theirs had been a true love, but seven years after his car had gone into that lake, she’d had him legally declared dead. She remembered signing the documents. She remembered feeling like she’d sealed up her heart. She hadn’t wanted to feel anymore, and she would never love again. And then Edwin Alcott had come along. Against her will, Jane had fallen for him.
Edwin.
She wouldn’t see him tonight. It was too risky. Butterworth would keep an eye on him, just as Lachlan would look after William.
Jane was having afternoon tea with Fitz and Hem in the kitchen when Lachlan asked to speak with her in private.
“Mr. Heath is a natural with our raptors,” he said. “After teaching him how to feed them and clean their aviaries, I left him at my place with a book on training birds of prey. I told him to stay in the cottage and to eat supper and watch whatever he wants on TV. He was thrilled to have these small freedoms, Miss Jane. I don’t think he’s had many.”
“No,” Jane said sadly. “But you can’t be responsible for him all the time, which means I have to tell Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius about him. I’m just worried that the revelation will kill them.”
Lachlan shook his head. “If you could handle it, so can they.”
Jane finished her tea and sent the boys upstairs to do their homework under Aunt Octavia’s watchful eye. Because Jane didn’t want to take any chances with their safety, the boys were to stay in the apartment until bedtime.
Jane ate a light supper before changing into a burgundy cocktail dress. Over Great War era cocktails like the Sidecar, French 75, Gin Rickey, and Bee’s Knees, Jane told the Cover Girls that the man who’d abducted the twins hadn’t been working alone and that there were likely villains at the conference.
“Here and now? These bearded, pipe-smoking professor types?” asked Phoebe, the owner of Canvas Creamery. “Why would they mess with your sons? I don’t get it.”
Having anticipated this question, Jane had an answer ready. “People who don’t know any better think I’m rich. I’m not sure how this rumor began. Does it have something to do with the construction of the Walt Whitman spa? Is it a result of all the media attention Storyton Hall has received the past two years? I have no clue. But I need your help.”
“We’ll do anything,” said Violet. She owned a beauty salon called Tresses and always looked chic. Tonight, she’d styled her hair in a bun with rolled sides, replicating a 1915 hairdo. “Tell us what you need.”
Jane asked them to cozy up to anyone who seemed unusually aloof or reserved. “If the guests feel like they’re being watched, they might think twice before doing something illegal or immoral. Ours is a kill-them-with-kindness campaign. We’ll get to know their names, their interests, and their movements. This should help prevent shenanigans.”
“What if I like a man who misbehaves?” Mrs. Eugenia Pratt teased. She was the most senior member of the Cover Girls and the group’s most devoted fan of romance novels. She was also a notorious gossip, second only to Mrs. Hubbard.
“Seduce any man you want,” Jane said. “That’ll make my job easier. And I should point out that the male-to-female ratio at every event will be four-to-one.”
Eloise slid an arm around Phoebe’s waist. “Don’t share that statistic with Anna. She’ll be even more disappointed to miss out on the excitement.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Mrs. Pratt knowingly. “Have you seen the new pharmacist? He’s a dead ringer for Clark Gable without the mustache.”
As her friends launched into a discussion on male facial hair, Jane’s eye was drawn to a tall man with a neatly trimmed, dark beard and a shiny pate. Jane told her friends to enjoy the art and poetry and drifted off.
The exhibit pieces were either mounted on folding display panels of rose-colored fabric or projected on large white screens. To bolster the effect of the screens, the room had minimal lighting.
Even in the dimness, Archibald Banks stood out. Though Jane saw no resemblance to Butterworth, she wondered why the Fins had recruited someone who was unlikely to blend in with any crowd.
Jane studied the painting on the projection screen opposite Archibald. It was a futuristic image of a horse being attacked by bayonets.
“It’s hard enough to see images of men fighting men, but it’s even harder to look at an animal under attack,” Jane said without turning to Archibald. “Especially by bayonet.”
“It’s a powerful piece,” he said. “I believe Umberto Boccioni meant to upset the viewer. This piece is unlike his previous ones. Typically, the horses in his paintings represented labor and the working class. Not war.”
“It’s powerful, but I keep returning to the piece over there.” Jane pointed at another projection screen.
Archibald followed her gaze. “The Ypres Salient at Night. What about the painting speaks to you?”
Jane thought for a moment. “It’s full of contradictions. You have your soldiers in the trenches on the bottom half. Above, in the night sky, a shell is bursting. It looks like the Star of Bethlehem. The star has been painted that way in lots of nativity scenes. But in this piece, it’s not a star. It’s a weapon. It’s announcing the death of countless men. It’s horrible and beautiful.”
Archibald nodded with approval. “You have a good eye for art, Ms. Steward. I’m Archibald Banks, but my friends call me Archie.”
As Jane shook his hand, she noted that Archie had the same piercing blue eyes as Butterworth.
Archie gestured at the Storyton Band and said, “I’d better go. They’re playing my song.”
Having sat in on the band’s practice session, Jane recognized the patriotic strains of “Keep the Home Fires Burning.” Just below the raised stage where the band members sat, two men stood at a podium, watching Archie’s approach. Jane had already spoken with the men several times that day, as they were both officers of the BackStory Club. With his tweed coat, wool vest, and bow tie, Clarence Kelley looked every inch the college professor. Michael Murphy, the bearded redhead, had o
pted for monochromatic attire by pairing a black turtleneck with black jeans. Jane guessed both men to be in their fifties.
When Archie reached the podium, Clarence signaled to Butterworth, who was conducting the band. When the song was over, Clarence took the microphone and welcomed his fellow historians to Storyton. Next, he gestured at Michael Murphy. “My colleague and I have traveled across the United States for the past two years with this centennial celebration. There has never been a dull moment.” He turned to his friend. “It has been an honor to work with you.”
Michael’s cheeks turned ruddy. He acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
“Though our third Musketeer, Archibald Banks, couldn’t join us on the road as much as he would have liked, he had a noble reason for missing some of the tour. Mr. Banks had a masterpiece to create. That masterpiece, ladies and gentlemen, is here tonight.”
A spotlight illuminated a large object positioned alongside the podium. It was covered by a white sheet and guarded by Sterling and Lachlan.
“The sculpture bound for Storyton’s community park is called Steadfast,” Clarence continued. “It shows us another kind of soldier. The hard-working, never-faltering horse of the Great War. These majestic animals carried men and equipment—surviving the harshest of conditions. The stables of Storyton and its environs produced many notable war horses. This monument is dedicated to them. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Archibald Banks’s Steadfast!”
Sterling whisked off the sheeting, and the crowd burst into applause.
Though Jane had already seen the sculpture, she clapped as loudly as her guests. The metal horse had a steampunk vibe. It was made of gears, wrenches, and what she later learned were scraps of metal from original Great War tanks and airplane debris. Archibald had melted bullets to form the eyes. Somehow, the act of transforming a potential weapon into art had brought a spark to those eyes. The polished metal orbs seemed to contain a glint of light. Of life.
“A monument for a beast of burden. Ridiculous,” said someone behind Jane. The arrogant tone was unmistakable.
Jane turned around and raised her glass in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Parrish.”
“Good evening, Ms. Steward. I thought I was here to mingle with historians, not a group of bleeding hearts. Would you like my opinion on animals?”
Glancing at the horse, its skeletal ribs barely concealed by a piece of sheet metal, Jane knew that Archibald was conveying starvation and suffering. The entire body of the horse was a hodgepodge of hardship. And of courage.
Since she didn’t want to hear Parrish’s answer, Jane planned to walk away before he could speak. However, he grabbed her by the elbow and said, “I view animals as trophies. Because man is the king of the jungle. Man is the hunter, and animals are his prey.” He paused and grinned at her. “I’m a hunter. Which one are you, Ms. Steward? Hunter? Or prey?”
Chapter Eight
By the second day of the event, the staff at Storyton Hall declared the historians their quietest and most courteous guests of all time.
“They’re so tidy,” a housekeeper remarked to a sous chef.
“Smart too,” added a member of the waitstaff. “I delivered in-room meals to two of them last night, and their desks were piled with books and papers. They bring books everywhere they go. They even read while they eat. It’s like having a resort full of librarians or college professors.”
Jane heard this exchange as she was passing through the kitchens. Normally, she’d greet all the staff members, but she was too distracted to be cordial.
She’d dreamed of Tuck again the previous night and had woken with a burning need to know how the Asheville police were handling his death.
After several frustrating minutes explaining herself to the officer answering the non-emergency line, Jane was transferred from one officer to another. No one wanted to deal with her, and when she was finally put through to yet another person’s voicemail, she hung up and started all over again.
This time, when she reached the desk officer, she said that she wished to speak with Officer Reece. Reece was the baby-faced policeman she and Lachlan had met at Tuck’s house.
“Reece, here,” he said when Jane was put through.
When her name didn’t ring a bell, Jane reminded him that she’d called in Tuck’s death. “I’d like an update on Gerald Tucker’s case. I haven’t been able to get him off my mind. Did you reach his next of kin?”
There was a pause as Reece decided how to proceed. Opting for the I’m-too-busy-to-deal-with-you approach, he said, “He doesn’t have any, ma’am. They’ve all passed on. The Biltmore estate has generously offered to cover his funeral expenses. Is that all?”
Jane could practically hear the unspoken “little lady,” tacked on to the end of Reece’s question. Though her ire was rising, she remained calm. “Have you ruled on his death?”
“Natural causes,” was Reece’s terse reply.
“Were medical or lab tests conducted, or was this ruling based on his advanced age?”
Jane knew she’d made a mistake before the words had left her mouth. Playing naïve or coy might have gotten her more information, but she couldn’t stand condescending men like Reece.
“Ma’am, all I can say is that proper procedures were followed. If there’s nothing else, I have a—”
“Yes, there damn well is something else!” Jane decided to let it all out. “Mr. Tucker’s death is suspicious. How can you explain the extra coffee cup in his kitchen? Or that his coffeemaker had been unplugged mid-brew? Or his staged body posture? No one dies sitting upright with a book on their lap and their head resting on the chair back.”
Reece expelled a long and exaggerated sigh. “Are you in the medical field, ma’am?”
“No, I’m not. But I have common sense, and common sense points to a suspicious death.”
Reece had had enough. “Ma’am, if you’d like to discuss your theories with someone, you should contact Bruno Volkov of the Biltmore Company Police.”
Jane was about to ask for a number and the definition of Company Police when the name suddenly struck her. Bruno. How many Brunos could there be in Biltmore? Was Ramsey Parrish’s hired thug also a member of Biltmore’s Company Police force?
She was unable to ask Officer Reece for clarification because he’d already disconnected the call.
Turning to her computer, Jane searched for Biltmore Company Police but found no information on their officers. She was just about to look up Bruno Volkov when Sterling knocked on her door.
“Biltmore has its own Company Police,” she told him. “What does that mean?”
“It’s basically a private police force. Instead of working for a town or city, the officers work for a private company. Though licensed and armed, they can only make arrests on company property.”
Jane thought about this. “Which means they shouldn’t have jurisdiction over a suspicious death.”
“Are you referring to Gerald Tucker?”
“Yes.”
Sterling took a seat in the guest chair facing Jane’s desk. “Mr. Tucker’s death doesn’t look suspicious from the outside. With no witnesses crying foul play, the police are likely to make the least-controversial ruling. I can’t really blame them. Is there concrete evidence indicating murder?”
“No,” Jane admitted.
“And blaming Mr. Parrish would make you seem fanciful, if not downright crazy,” Sterling went on. “I hate to play devil’s advocate, Miss Jane, but is it possible that you’re assuming murder without proof?”
Jane was about to spit out a hasty reply when she stopped to consider Sterling’s question. What hard evidence was there to indicate that Tuck had been poisoned? None. The police didn’t launch investigations based on hunches or gossip. They used hard evidence to build cases.
“Thanks, Sterling. After thinking about it, I see that my hatred for Ramsey Parrish has colored all of my experiences at Biltmore.”
Sterling got to his feet. “Don’t let Par
rish pull you down to his level. You’ll beat him because you’re the better human being.”
Filing this advice away, Jane busied herself with checking items off her to-do list. Work was coming along nicely on the Walt Whitman spa. The first phase should be complete in time for Jane to offer a Winter Rejuvenation package. After scheduling a meeting with the future spa manager to discuss putting her organic spa products in the hotel’s boutique by the end of the month, Jane paid bills and reviewed several inventory request forms.
By the time she was done, she realized that the morning centennial events were over. The historians would now be enjoying a leisurely lunch in the Rudyard Kipling Café or in the Madame Bovary dining room.
Jane and Mrs. Pratt, the only Cover Girl without a job, were attending one of these. Examining the choices weeks ago, which included Political Cartoons of the First World War, Posters and Flags of the Great War, and Wartime Culinary Challenges, they’d opted for the culinary event.
Mrs. Hubbard was in charge of the hands-on cooking class. She started her lesson by passing out white aprons.
“I’m sorry that we’re in the smaller kitchen, but we’re prepping for dinner in the main kitchen,” she explained to her students. “I hope you’re ready for noise. Commercial kitchens aren’t exactly quiet. Maybe you’ll feel like you’re in a military mess hall, eh?”
Mrs. Hubbard studied her class, which was predominantly male. “I’m sure that many of you gentlemen are skilled cooks. But today, we’re pretending it’s wartime and that you’re the woman of the house. Your man has gone off to fight for his country, and life at home is no cakewalk. You have to learn how to balance the budget, make repairs, and feed your family. Items are disappearing from the shelves in the general store, but you have to learn to make do. You have to make the best of the situation.”
A man raised his hand. “Are we pretending to be American women?”
“For this exercise, you’re a British gal,” Mrs. Hubbard said with a smile. “Those poor women had it harder than our ladies when it came to rationing.”
The man nodded in agreement.