by Ellery Adams
Jane took out her phone. “As much as I’d love to escape to a fictional world, Chef Pierce was my guest. Someone took his life, destroyed valuable antiques, and altered the course of the cooking competition. I want to identify this person and have them removed from Storyton Hall before more damage is done.”
Sinclair remained silent as Jane dialed Coco Kennedy’s room number. When no one answered, she tried the cell phone number.
Coco picked up after the fourth ring. Her hello sounded muffled.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Jane said with saccharine sweetness. “We’re trying to locate Mr. Anjou. Do you happen to know where he is?”
“Um, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”
Jane heard splashing sounds, and before she could respond, the call was disconnected.
“I’ll have to ask Sterling to go through surveillance footage again,” she told Sinclair. “If the two judges enter Ms. Kennedy’s room together and stay there, I’ll contact the sheriff. Would you ask Bentley for a copy of Chef Pierce’s health form? I’d like to figure out if one of his medications was an anticoagulant.”
Sinclair said, “Right away. And Mr. Butterworth is looking into the financial state of Chef Pierce’s restaurant. You should get some rest. Remember that tomorrow’s a brand-new day.”
Leaving Sinclair and the library behind, Jane climbed three flights of stairs to her great-aunt and great-uncle’s apartments. After a cursory knock, she let herself in.
The living room’s only occupant was Muffet Cat, and he was snoozing inside the lid of a board game box. The top had been nearly flattened by the twenty-pound cat, and Jane couldn’t help but grin.
Sensing her presence, Muffet Cat cracked an eye. This sliver of green conveyed his utter and complete indignation over having his nap disturbed. With his bed of game pieces, the ill-tempered cat reminded Jane of Smaug the dragon, slumbering on a mound of treasure.
Muffled voices drifted out from Aunt Octavia’s library. Jane knocked on the closed door and said, “It’s me.”
“Come in, my love!” Aunt Octavia called.
Jane entered the book-lined room to find the twins sitting cross-legged on the floor with notepads on their laps. Aunt Octavia stood next to a rolling corkboard covered in photographs. She held a laser pointer in one hand and a pair of brass spyglasses in the other.
“We’re finishing up for the day,” said Aunt Octavia. “The boys have done excellent work. You must see their prints.” She beamed at Fitz and Hem. “As for you two, the scopes are yours to keep. Use them to gain a different perspective on the world. The veins on a leaf, the spots on a ladybug, the moon’s craters. Look at everything and anything.”
The twins thanked her and raised their spyglasses to their eyes.
“Do I look like Blackbeard?” asked Hem.
Fitz shook his head. “You don’t have a beard.”
Jane put a hand on her boys’ shoulders. “These prints are really good. Nice work, you two. Now, are you ready to flop on your beds and read comics until supper?”
Fitz collapsed his spyglass. “We want to talk to Chef Michel before we go home. Miss Olivia said that he knows everything there is to know about jam.”
Hem nodded. “When we told her that we wanted to sell our jam at the berry jubilee, she told us to talk to him. Is that okay?”
Jane held up a finger. “Sure, but mind your manners.”
After promising to be polite, the twins rushed off.
Aunt Octavia sank into her reading chair. “I’m exhausted!” She gave her ottoman a pat. “Sit down, darling. You look as tired as I feel. And no wonder. I heard about the tragedy in the cookbook nook. Mrs. Hubbard told me all about it.”
“Of course she did,” Jane said without rancor.
Aunt Octavia shoved the laser pointer into one of the many pockets of her lime and hot pink housedress and retrieved a sugar-free butterscotch candy from another. As she unwrapped the candy, she said, “I am upset about those dishes. I hate the idea of losing relics from our family’s past to an act of violence, but compared to a man’s life, even a ten- or twenty-thousand-dollar piece of antique porcelain means nothing. And I’d trade all of our treasures if they could buy peace and happiness for my family.” She sighed. “It’s hard to be old, Jane. One’s body can no longer keep up with one’s mind. My greatest fear is that I’ll no longer be useful to anyone.”
Taking hold of her great-aunt’s hand, Jane stroked the paper-thin skin. “You are the matriarch, the Queen Bee, the Lady General overseeing the troops. We’d be lost without you! You and Uncle Aloysius are both walking encyclopedias. My sons are lucky to have such brilliant tutors. Useless? Please. You’re as useless as the Library of Congress.”
Aunt Octavia preened. “I knew Fitz and Hem would have a knack for photography. Tell me which prints you like the most. And don’t forget to look on the back of the board.”
Jane examined the series of nature photos on the front of the board. Most were of flowers, but a few featured an insect or a tree.
“I like the shot of the weeping willow, and the one of the dandelion seeds lit by the sun.” Jane scooted behind the board to examine the prints on the backside. These photos were taken from just outside a window or doorway, giving the observer a sense of immediate space and the space beyond.
Jane saw several interesting interpretations on the theme, but one print compelled her to draw in a sharp breath and move closer to the board.
“Which one is speaking to you?” asked Aunt Octavia.
Jane removed the print from the board and carried it to her great-aunt’s chair. “This one shows a view of a secluded garden bench that can only be seen from the window nook dividing the second-story suites.”
“It’s such a romantic spot.” Aunt Octavia looked at Jane and her smile faded. “What’s wrong? Lovers have always favored that bench. Haven’t you and Edwin lingered in the starlight and the perfumed air?”
Jane pointed at the couple. “These lovers are married. But not to each other.”
Aunt Octavia’s face fell. “Oh, no.”
Pointing at Levi, Jane added, “Even worse, this gentleman sent a death threat to the chef who was killed in the cookbook nook.” She dumped the pushpins in the bowl on Aunt Octavia’s desk. “This might be my least favorite photograph, but the sheriff will love it.”
Chapter 9
In her office, Jane scanned the photograph and sent it to the sheriff by email. Looking up from her computer screen, she saw Butterworth darkening her doorway.
“Mr. Sterling is on his way to the village to collect Mr. Anjou and Ms. Kennedy.”
“From?”
Butterworth’s right brow twitched. “The Daily Bread.”
Jane glanced at the ceiling. “Of all the places! We’ve searched every nook and cranny here and—wait a minute—how did they get there? None of our drivers took them, and they didn’t rent bicycles. Did they walk?”
Butterworth’s mouth was pinched in disapproval. “One of our drivers took them. He didn’t bat an eye upon receiving a ride request for two guests named James Beard and Julia Child. Luckily, Mr. Sterling answered the phone when Mr. Anjou called to arrange a pickup for a Mr. Robuchon and a Ms. Fanny Cradock. He knew Mr. Anjou’s voice at once.”
“Who’s Fanny Cradock?”
“A British television cook. Her show ran for two decades.” Butterworth’s gaze softened. “I remember it well.”
Jane stared at him in disbelief. “So the judges have been at Edwin’s café this whole time?”
“A good part of it, yes. I took the liberty of phoning Mr. Alcott, and he was quick to point out that if it takes hours for two people to drink a pot of tea, they’re either working on a complex mathematical problem or having a romantic assignation.”
“Did the judges show how they felt about each other in front of him?”
Butterworth sniffed. “According to Mr. Alcott, they were hardly the picture of discretion. He was understandably
vexed when they removed their shoes to play footsie under the table. Bare feet in a restaurant are most unsanitary. Have people lost all sense of propriety?”
“On the bright side, Mr. Anjou is no longer missing,” Jane said. “I’ll pass the news along to the sheriff. It’s been a very long day, and I’d like to go to bed knowing that everyone is safe.”
“I trust Sheriff Evans to see that order is restored.”
But when Jane called the sheriff to tell him that his prime suspect had been located, he responded with a bewildering lack of urgency.
“I’m in a meeting that promises to continue well into the evening, so I’ll speak with Mr. Anjou tomorrow. If you or your staff witness any suspicious behavior, contact the night sergeant. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Stunned, Jane turned to Butterworth. “I don’t get it. Why should Levi Anjou be given another night to dine on our food or sleep in our bed if he had something to do with Chef Pierce’s death? It isn’t right.”
“Perhaps not. But we should give the sheriff the benefit of the doubt. He must have a plan, and he’s not obligated to share it with us.”
“I wish he would. We’ll probably be fielding calls and emails from the media tomorrow, which means I’d better draft a statement. As for keeping an eye on our celebrity guests, should Lachlan hang out in the surveillance room while the rest of you get some sleep?”
“We’ll divide the task,” said Butterworth. “None of us will rest until the killer is caught, but you should. Tomorrow is likely to be another trying day.”
Jane gave him a weary smile. “A small part of me hopes the sheriff doesn’t show up until after the filming. Considering the early start time, the chefs must be cooking breakfast. The filming is taking place on the grass near the terrace, and I’d love to see how the literary theme will influence the challenge.”
“Just as long as it’s not Green Eggs and Ham,” grumbled Butterworth.
“Oh, no!” Jane laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re still haunted by that single taste of the twins’ Dr. Seuss Day food?”
Butterworth shuddered. “That discolored lump of sludge clinging to my fork was not food. I had to replace the battery in my electric toothbrush following that culinary catastrophe.”
Jane tried to suppress a giggle but failed.
“Seeing as your spirits have been restored, I’ll say good night.”
“Good night, my friend.”
Jane sat at her desk, lost in the memory of her sons celebrating Dr. Seuss Day as first graders.
“Where has the time gone?” she murmured to herself.
Turning to face her computer, Jane prepared an email for her staff. She couldn’t provide many details about Chef Pierce’s death, so she simply paraphrased the statement from the sheriff’s department. After adding a line expressing sympathy to Chef Pierce’s friends and family, she told her staff to redirect all media inquiries to the sheriff.
With this done, she took advantage of the quiet to wonder why Sheriff Evans hadn’t picked up Levi for questioning. Either he didn’t consider the judge dangerous, or he didn’t believe Levi was responsible for Chef Pierce’s death.
Refusing to dwell on the possibility that the sheriff had no leads, Jane turned off the lights and headed for the bustle and clamor of the kitchens.
There, she found Fitz and Hem at a prep counter, ladling jam into jars while Chef Michel looked on.
“The secret to making good food comes from here.” Chef Michel touched his chest. “And here.” He gave them a goofy grin.
“I don’t get it,” said Fitz.
“You should love the food you cook, and you should have fun making it. If you cook with a happy heart, your food will taste of happiness. If you cook only for money or to impress people, your food can lose its joy. People can taste a smile in your food. If you’re grumpy, your food will be heavy and dull. This jam? It will taste like you two. It will be fresh and bright as the sunshine. People will line up for miles to buy a jar.”
Spotting Jane, Chef Michel cried, “Welcome to the jam factory! Your sons and I have had a wonderful time. They’ve made me feel less homesick.” He indicated the rows of jam jars. “As you can see, they are almost ready for tomorrow’s festival.”
Fitz picked up ajar and handed it to Jane. “How does it smell?”
The glass was still warm to the touch. Jane inhaled the sweet aroma of fresh berries and said, “Smells like a carefree summer.”
Hem gave her a funny look. “Can you tell which berries we used?”
“Raspberries. But it’s a dark shade, so I think you added blackberries too.”
Fitz held up two fingers. “That’s two out of three.”
Jane pursed her lips. “Strawberry?”
The boys made Xs out of their arms and honked.
Chef Michel laughed. “You sound like angry geese.”
“Blueberries,” Hem said. “They’re from over the mountain. The farmer delivered a whole bunch this morning.”
Chef Michel frowned. “What does this mean? Over the mountain?”
“It’s how locals refer to the world beyond our village,” Jane explained. “Over the mountain is where you find strip malls, car dealerships, fast food chains, etcetera. Storyton is a small town with a slow pace, which is how we like it.”
“I hope it’s not slow tomorrow. Not with all this jam to sell. Right, Chefs?”
The boys cried, “Right, Chef!”
Fitz untied his apron and dropped it on the counter. “We’ll print out labels after dinner. Our jam has the best name ever. Tell her, Hem.”
Hem puffed out his chest and cried, “Where the Wild Berries Are!”
Jane said, “I love it. Maybe your next batch could be Huckleberry Fun.”
The twins groaned while Chef Michel shook his head. “That’s almost as bad as mine, and I came up with Blueberry Jam for Sal.”
Jane laughed. “Okay, wild boys. You need to clean up before you leave. Thank you, Chef Michel. It was really nice of you to help my sons.”
He grinned, dimples appearing on both cheeks. “Truly, it was my pleasure.”
Jane went home and put on her pajamas. She was cracking eggs into a bowl when the boys tumbled into the kitchen.
“Why are you in your pajamas?” asked Hem.
Jane poured a splash of milk in the bowl. “I’m tired because I got up so early. I’m going to pack it in after dinner. I trust you two and know you’ll go to bed on time.”
Fitz watched Jane mix the eggs and milk. “Are we having breakfast for dinner?”
“Yep. And if you guys want to put on your pajamas, we can eat in the living room and watch that Japanime show you like.”
“Naruto and TV dinner? Awesome!”
The twins exchanged high-fives and thundered up the stairs.
Jane poured the egg mixture into a frying pan. As it bubbled, she thought about how most of the Storyton Hall guests would be dressing for dinner now. How many of them avoided the mirror because they didn’t like what they saw in their face? Were they weighed down by guilt, sorrow, or fear? How many were thinking of Chef Pierce at this moment?
The toaster ejected two pieces of golden-brown bread, and Jane’s focus returned to dinner prep.
She ate without really tasting the food and was unable to follow the plot of the animated show.
“I think my brain’s shutting down.”
Fitz paused the show and turned to her. “We’ll clean up, Mom. You should go to bed.”
Hem nodded. “Yeah, we got it. And can we have ice cream for dessert?”
“Sure. And thanks. It’s nice to have two men looking after me.”
As Jane headed for the stairs, Fitz asked, “Should we leave a light on for Mr. Edwin?”
“No, he’ll be at the restaurant till late. Don’t forget about your jam labels. Love you. Good night!”
The twins’ replies were swallowed by high-pitched squeals coming from the television.
In her room, Jane qu
ickly read through Mia’s email outlining tomorrow’s challenge. It was going to be an early start for everyone involved.
Jane set her alarm and then sent a group text asking the Fins to report. Sterling replied that Levi Anjou was in the Rudyard Kipling Café with Coco, Ty, and several members of the film crew. Knowing the Fins wouldn’t lose sight of Chef Pierce’s potential murderer, Jane wished them a good evening and turned off the light.
It was such a relief to stretch out in bed. The sheets were cool and welcoming, and Jane was grateful to lower her heavy head onto her pillow. She expected to drift off right away, but her mind refused to quiet.
In the dark, Jane questioned the morality of allowing the competition to continue after Sheriff Evans made it clear that Chef Pierce’s death wasn’t an accident. But she could hardly stop tomorrow’s challenge without a valid reason, and she couldn’t be honest with her guests without sabotaging the sheriff’s investigation.
She’d have to go on playing the gracious hostess while she and the Fins watched Levi Anjou’s every move.
This was her last cohesive thought before sleep claimed her.
In the morning, she didn’t wake to the clanging of her alarm. Something far more pleasant eased her out of slumber. She became aware of another body next to hers. There was another source of warmth under the covers. Another rise and fall of breath. And then, there was the weight of a hand on her hip.
Edwin, came the happy thought.
As if he’d heard, Edwin pulled her body closer. He didn’t move or speak. He just held her.
Jane knew that Edwin had worked until after midnight. Even though he must have been dog tired, he’d used the key Jane had given him and slipped into her bed, comforting and supporting her simply by being there. His loving embrace was exactly what Jane needed.
Until she felt a different kind of need.
Turning in the circle of Edwin’s arms, Jane gave him a long, deep kiss. And for a little while, nothing existed outside their world of blankets, sheets, and pillows.
* * *
Jane had no idea how early Ty had gotten up to oversee the placement of props and equipment on the terrace and lawn, but she assumed the cup of coffee in his hand wasn’t his first. Judging by his rapid speech and inability to stand still, he was on cup four or five.