Murder in the Reading Room

by Ellery Adams

  They were having a grand time, and Jane hated knowing that she was about to put a serious damper on their merriment.

  The final item of the auction was a ski hat with an attached knit beard done in yellow yarn. When this was sold, Clarence praised his fellow historians for their generosity, and everyone clapped.

  “Ladies and gentleman, please remain in your seats. Jane Steward, the manager of Storyton Hall, has an important announcement.”

  Clarence stepped away from the lectern.

  Jane held out a red tissue paper poppy. “‘In Flanders fields the poppies blow,’” she began. “As you know, the red poppy became a symbol of the blood spilled in the war to end all wars. The poppy I hold is meant to honor a man who lost his life during yesterday’s battle. It is with my deepest sympathy that I tell you of the passing of Mr. Ray Pizzolato.” There was a collective gasp, and Jane hurried on. “Mr. Pizzolato met with an accident during the reenactment. He passed away from a head injury before he could receive medical attention. It’s my hope that all who knew Mr. Pizzolato can draw comfort in knowing that he died doing what brought him the most joy.”

  At that point, Jane passed the mic to Archie. She’d spoken with him earlier about her plans to honor Ray Pizzolato, and he’d immediately offered to help.

  “Mr. Pizzolato’s parents are en route from Tennessee,” he said. “They’ve been driving all night and won’t have much to look forward to when they get here. The other officers and I would like to ask a favor. If you knew Mr. Pizzolato at all, would you write a few words about him? We have blank notecards on the table by the hostess podium. We’ll collect the finished cards and put them in a book for Ray’s parents.”

  Michael Murphy waited for the historians to turn and locate the table before saying, “I didn’t know Ray Pizzolato, but I hear that he had a lust for life, a passion for teaching, and a deep love of history. We can honor his memory by emulating his traits. Tomorrow, during your free day, why not feed a falcon? Go kayaking on the Storyton River. Land a big fish. Hike one of the trails. Make it a day worth remembering.”

  After Archie moved away from the podium, the diners stayed seated. They seemed dazed. Unable to shift to their next activity. One man finally stood and headed for the table of blank notecards. His motion broke the spell and other historians soon followed him.

  Jane stood in place, watching and waiting. She expected to field questions, and it wasn’t long before three men approached her.

  “Ms. Steward, this is terrible news,” said one of the men. “We knew Ray from other reenactments. He was enthusiastic, but he was also a rule follower. Which is why we can’t understand how he was killed. How did the accident occur?”

  “There’s only so much I can tell you,” Jane said with genuine regret. “Mr. Pizzolato received a head injury at some point during the battle. We think he passed out in the woods, out of sight. It’s possible that he was concussed and never regained his senses.”

  Jane didn’t want these men picturing their acquaintance lying in the dirt while blood swelled inside his brain, so she offered them no additional details. Instead, she asked, “Did any of you see him during the battle?”

  A slender man with curly brown hair nodded. “We fought together for an hour. Ray was having a ball. He was a young man in his prime, which is why this is such a shock.”

  “I’ve studied battlefield injuries in great depth,” said another man with pale skin and round glasses. “I’m not asking for details out of simple curiosity. Could you explain how Ray received a head wound? We use air-soft weapons and egg grenades.”

  “We’re assuming he was thrown from his horse,” said Jane. “By we, I’m referring to the office of the Medical Examiner. I wish I had more answers for you. I truly do. If you’d like to speak with the sheriff, I can give you his number.”

  The man with the curly hair took Sheriff Evans’s information, and then Jane showed them the printout of the German officer she’d yet to identify. None of the men recognized him.

  Jane watched them walk away. The curly-haired man patted the man with glasses on the back. The men were mourning the loss of a friend. They hadn’t known Ray intimately, but they’d known him well enough to feel sorrow over his passing.

  Who’s next? A niggling voice whispered in Jane’s mind, and she knew it was time to take control.

  She found Butterworth in his customary position by the front door. “We’ve heard from Mr. and Mrs. Pizzolato,” he said. “They’re due to arrive around four.”

  “I doubt they’ll want tea but offer it to them anyway. I’m taking mine on the terrace with Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia, and I’d like Ramsey Parrish to be our guest. I want him released. Immediately, please. He should freshen up before joining my family. Can Billy cover for you for a bit?”

  “He’s searching for a lost suitcase, but he should be back shortly.”

  Jane felt like she’d been struck by lightning. She suddenly knew why Parrish had come to Storyton Hall. She knew what he hoped to find in the secret library.

  “The lost suitcase,” she murmured. “Why didn’t I see it before?”

  Butterworth issued a sharp cough to keep Jane from dashing off. He clearly didn’t want to act on her orders without an explanation.

  “Is this course of action wise?” he asked.

  “Here’s how I see things,” Jane said, her eyes flashing. “I can continue letting Parrish push pawns on his chessboard until another person dies, or I can totally change the game. He expected to be taken captive. He planned to have Archie killed. He thought the death of a Fin would give him leverage. We have no idea who the next intended victim is, but I’m sure there is one. My only move is to turn his plan upside-down.”

  “An interesting strategy,” Butterworth said. “And one with many risks.”

  Jane smiled. “Luckily, I have the Fins. And Edwin. And the Cover Girls. It’s time for all of this Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy nonsense to come to an end. I’m going upstairs to speak with my great-uncle. Please see to Mr. Parrish.

  If Ramsey Parrish was pleased to be sitting on the back terrace on a glorious fall afternoon, he didn’t show it.

  After introducing him to Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia, Jane offered to pour his tea. “It’s not the blend you’re used to, but I hope you find it satisfactory. Sugar?”

  Parrish accepted his tea along with a zucchini and bacon mini quiche, a ham and mustard finger sandwich, and a caramelized banana macaroon. He passed on the French onion mini muffins, the turkey and cheddar biscuit, and the buttermilk scones with apple butter.

  Jane let her guest sample his tea before saying, “Mr. Parrish, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m not going to fulfill all of your requests. However, I’m willing to help you gain possession of the materials you want most. If they’re related to a Lost Generation author, now is the time to tell me. I’m discussing this in front of my family because we’ll all work together to get you what you want. Afterward, you can leave our home in peace.”

  During Jane’s speech, Parrish had worn that smug half-smile she found so irritating. He turned from her to gaze out over the great lawn. “You would hand over one of your treasures? Just like that?”

  “To restore harmony to Storyton Hall? Yes, I would.” Watching him closely, Jane added, “Are you searching for Ernest Hemingway’s lost suitcase?”

  Parrish’s smile slipped. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “You zealously collect the works of Lost Generation authors. You especially admire authors who’ve served in the military. You’ve either quoted or praised Ernest Hemingway multiple times in my presence. The contents of the lost suitcase are extremely valuable. Irreplaceable. And to a collector like you, incredibly desirable. To you, the contents of that suitcase would be worth killing for.”

  A glimmer appeared in Parrish’s eyes. It was a glimmer Jane recognized. It shone from the eyes of all bibliophiles when they talked about a book they loved. A book that had moved them. Changed the
m. Forever imprinted itself on their memory.

  “Do you have it?” The question betrayed Parrish’s desire.

  Jane shook her head. “Our Hemingway materials are on display in the Henry James Library. I looked in other places for anything he might have written but found nothing. However, my great-uncle has his father’s papers in his study. Cyril Steward was a consummate traveler. If the lost suitcase were entrusted to him, the clue of its whereabouts would be hidden in those papers.”

  “Excuse me,” said Aunt Octavia. She sounded annoyed. “I was resting when you spoke with Aloysius, which means I can’t follow this conversation at all. What is significant about a suitcase?”

  Jane held out her hand, palm up, toward Parrish, inviting him to explain.

  “In 1922, Ernest Hemingway was a journalist,” Parrish began. “During his coverage of a peace treaty in Switzerland, he met a magazine editor who expressed an interest in reading his fiction. Hemingway wired his wife, Hadley, and asked her to bring his work from Paris to Switzerland by train. For some absurd reason, Hadley packed everything Hemingway had written up to that point—both originals and carbon copies—into a suitcase.”

  Aunt Octavia stared at Parrish in astonishment. “There was nothing left behind? All of Hemingway’s eggs were in one basket?”

  “Everything was in that suitcase,” said Parrish.

  Leaning forward, Aunt Octavia whispered, “What happened to it?”

  For a moment, Jane could almost believe that Ramsey Parrish wasn’t her enemy. As he settled into a storyteller’s posture, relaxing his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw, he became transformed. His passion for this author was almost palpable.

  “Hadley’s story is that she left the suitcase on the platform for a minute while she nipped into a shop to buy water.” Parrish’s tone was laced with disgust. “When she returned, the suitcase was gone. No one witnessed the theft. Perhaps it was an innocent mix-up. There was nothing about the suitcase that made it seem valuable. It was hardly a Louis Vuitton trunk—just a well-used case.”

  “That poor woman,” said Aunt Octavia. “That mistake probably haunted her for the rest of her life.”

  “It did,” Jane said. “I listened to one of Hadley’s last interviews when I was in college. When asked about the stolen suitcase, her confident voice wavered. Even though Hemingway went on to write new material, she doesn’t think he ever forgave her for losing those early works.”

  Parrish’s face clouded over. “She didn’t deserve forgiveness. Despite her claims that she was distraught over her colossal mistake, I believe she deliberately left that suitcase on the platform. Another person was meant to take it. It remains a mystery as to whom, but the bigger mystery involves the contents. When the suitcase was stolen, Hemingway’s first novel had not yet been published. However, after he became a household name, one would expect those early works to emerge—to be put up for sale in a legitimate forum or on the black market.”

  For once, Jane wasn’t interested in Mrs. Hubbard’s tempting treats. Her focus was entirely on Parrish. “If the suitcase was intentionally taken, then someone was determined to possess its contents. Hemingway claimed that it contained his juvenilia—coming-of-age stories—but was he working on something else? What was in that case?”

  “I have my suspicions,” said Parrish cagily. “What I would very much like, Ms. Steward, is to see the contents for myself.”

  Jane sipped her tea, glancing at Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia over the rim of her cup. They both responded with slight nods. “If Hemingway’s lost work is at Storyton Hall, you may have it. If we can find these papers, I will give them to you. If you acquire them, will you promise to stop persecuting my family?”

  Parrish weighed his answer for a long time. “My order will disapprove if I return with so little when such an abundance of riches is housed in these walls.” He looked at the mountains, and a wistful expression crossed his face. “However, I’ve been searching for Hemingway’s missing work my entire adult life. It has been my grail quest. If you can deliver his missing material to me, you will have earned your peace.”

  “How did you come to the conclusion that Storyton Hall held Hemingway’s papers?” asked Uncle Aloysius. “We’ve never run across them.”

  “A letter from your father to my grandfather contains an unusual reference to Hemingway.”

  Jane looked at Parrish in amazement. “Cyril and your grandfather were friends?”

  “Friendly,” Parrish corrected.

  Uncle Aloysius got to his feet and held out his hand to Parrish. “Shall we also be friendly in the name of our shared goal?”

  Ramsey Parrish stood. With great solemnity, he took Uncle Aloysius’s outstretched hand.

  “Jane, Mr. Parrish and I will be cloistered in my library, sorting through my father’s papers,” said Uncle Aloysius. “This is just the sort of treasure hunt I enjoy. Word clues. Literary references. Voices echoing through the ages.”

  Uncle Aloysius touched the back of Aunt Octavia’s chair, ready to pull it out for her. However, she made no move to rise. “I don’t understand why Cyril would hide these papers where only he could find them. Still, I’d like to read whatever you find. It’s not every day that undiscovered works by one of America’s greatest authors are pulled out of a hole in the wall or from under the floorboards. Above all else, we are readers. You wouldn’t deny us this chance to read these literary gems, would you, Mr. Parrish.” This was spoken as a statement, not a question.

  For the first time since Jane had met Parrish, he smiled with genuine warmth. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you.”

  Uncle Aloysius led Parrish away while Jane and Aunt Octavia lingered at the table until the twins joined them. The boys spoke of their school day, talking over each other about recess, the monster-sized spider discovered in the girls’ restroom, and their spelling test.

  “I have a surprise for you two,” Jane said when she could get a word in.

  Hem reached for another scone. “What is it?”

  Jane pulled the plate away. “One is enough. Besides, you’ll want to be extra hungry for dinner. It’s being cooked by your favorite chef.”

  “Mr. Alcott?” the twins asked in unison.

  Jane nodded, and the boys cheered. Edwin always included the twins in meal prep. The three of them had a wonderful time. They made a huge mess, but it was worth it.

  After tea, Jane waited until the twins had finished their homework and were relaxing in front of the TV before changing into exercise clothes and heading down to the mews.

  Lachlan was in the middle of a falconry lesson. William was serving as his assistant. Jane stood at the back of the crowd as Lachlan raised the arm upon which Freyja, a Cooper’s hawk, was perched. After sending Freyja on two short flights, Lachlan lined up the guests. William slipped a leather glove on a woman’s left arm, and the Cooper’s hawk hopped from Lachlan’s limb to the woman’s.

  “Don’t be nervous,” William said as the hawk settled on the woman’s forearm.

  “I’m trying,” she said with an anxious laugh. “I just can’t take my eyes off her beak. Or those talons!”

  William smiled kindly at her. “Don’t worry, they can’t get through the glove.”

  Seeing that the woman was still uncomfortable, William put a glove on the next person in line, and the bird was transferred.

  Jane waited until the lesson was almost done before waving William over.

  “Want to take a walk? I thought I could tell you a few more things about your life.”

  William happily accepted, and Jane led him to her favorite hiking trail—the Walden—that wound through the hills behind Storyton Hall.

  For the first part of their hike, they were too absorbed by the beauty of the woods to speak. Sunbeams slanted through the trees, burnishing the leaves a soft copper color. The air smelled of pine tree sap and damp soil.

  William was the first to break the silence. “How long will I be staying?”

 
; “As long as you’d like,” Jane said. “Is there anywhere else you want to go?”

  He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, there was an undertone of sadness in his voice. “I’d like to see where I grew up. And where I went to college. I want to visit all the places I lived before the accident. That might help me fill in the blanks.”

  Parrish’s grail quest is Hemingway’s lost suitcase, Jane thought. William has a quest too. To find his lost memories.

  Jane wanted him to succeed. “I think we could arrange that. For today, why don’t I tell you about the time you got into a full-blown argument with your history professor? You were a freshman, and he was a famous scholar who’d written dozens of books on the Middle Ages. You challenged one of his theories, and the two of you went at it.”

  William soaked in every word of her story, his eyes shining with amusement as he listened to the details he desperately wanted to remember.

  “Did we have lots of classes together?” he asked.

  “Not really. I was an English major. You were a history major. You loved all of your history classes and practically lived in the library. You also worked there part-time on evenings and weekends.”

  Jane went on to describe William’s dorm rooms, his roommates, the posters he’d hung on his walls, and the music he liked best. Nothing sparked a memory, and by the time their hike was done, Jane felt more than a little dejected.

  William thanked her for trying and begged her not to give up on him. Hearing this, she was tempted to wrap him in a fierce hug. But she couldn’t touch him. She had no idea how touching him might impact the scars that had calcified over her heart—scars created by his loss. She might not love this man, but she’d loved the man he used to be. Every time she was close to him, it was like being with a living ghost.

  She left him at the mews with the promise to talk again soon.

  Returning to her house, she saw the light shining through the kitchen window.

  Inside, Edwin stood in front of the stove, sautéing chicken in one pan while boiling water in another. The twins were trimming string beans. The room was filled with steam and the clanking of utensils. Edwin’s deep voice interwove with the boys’ higher voices. To Jane, it was a beautiful sound.