Book Retreat Mystery 07 - Murder in the Cookbook Nook

by Ellery Adams

  “You could be the Berry Jubilee mascot. No one can tell who’s inside that giant strawberry head.”

  “No, thanks. I’d get claustrophobic wearing that thing. I think the Hogg brothers take turns being the mascot,” Jane said, referring to the three siblings who owned the village grocery store. “Last year, the boys were positive it was Rufus because he has such big feet.”

  Edwin carried their coffee mugs to the sink. “The mystery of the mascot will have to take a back seat to yours. What can I do to help?”

  “If Mia brings the chefs in for lunch, eavesdrop as much as you can. Other than that, let’s steal an hour for ourselves this morning. I don’t want to be the manager of Storyton Hall right now. I just want to be a woman named Jane who loves a man named Edwin.”

  Edwin bowed over her hand. “My dear lady, would you do me the greatest honor by accompanying me to the festival of the berry?”

  “Only if you kiss me before we go.”

  With a rakish smile, Edwin pulled Jane to her feet. “I live to serve.”

  Later, after her sons had finished arranging their jam, Jane declared that the Storyton Hall booth was the most colorful, fun, and fragrant booth of the whole festival. In addition to her sons’ jam, there were berry-scented soaps, lotions, and bath salts from the Walt Whitman Spa. Seasonal items from Storyton Hall’s gift shop were also on display. These included Milton’s Gardens tea towels, tote bags, notecards, and candles.

  The two spa staff members operating the booth volunteered to give the twins some pointers, so Jane wished them all luck and promised to stop back in an hour.

  “We might be sold out by then,” Hem said.

  “Fingers crossed,” said Jane.

  She and Edwin held hands as they joined the crowd of locals and visitors surveying the booths lining both sides of Main Street.

  The festival attracted vendors from all over Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee. When it came to homemade jam, the twins had plenty of competition, but foodstuff weren’t the only items on offer.

  Artisans sold wood carvings, pottery, landscape paintings, and stained-glass suncatchers. Other vendors made items exclusively for children. One booth specialized in Berry Princess tutus and straw farmer hats while another offered hand-carved tractors and farm animals. Children lined up to have their faces painted and their hair braided. They asked for temporary tattoos and berry lemonade, hot dogs and berry cotton candy.

  “Aren’t you glad your sons are on the selling side of a booth today?” Edwin asked.

  “I’m really proud of them, but just because they want to earn money doesn’t mean they won’t eat their weight in mixed berry pie, raspberry cupcakes, triple berry smoothies, blackberry ice cream, and strawberry shortcake.”

  Edwin shrugged. “They’ll have to decide what they want more. Tasty treats or a video game system.”

  “I just hope they sell a few jars. I think their jam’s delicious, but I’m biased.”

  Jane paused at the next booth to admire a teapot-shaped cutting board. It would be right at home in Mrs. Hubbard’s kitchen. Then, she saw a cutting board shaped like an open book. A surname was stamped into the wood followed by the words Our Story Began On followed by the date.

  What a perfect gift for Eloise, Jane thought.

  As she looked around the booth, she saw cutting boards for all the Cover Girls. She even saw a standard poodle–shaped board that she could give Olivia Limoges as a token of gratitude.

  “Are you having trouble deciding, ma’am?” the vendor asked.

  Jane smiled at the young man. “I know which boards I want. I’m just not sure how to get them all to the car.”

  Edwin volunteered to be her packhorse, and once all the boards were cushioned in a layer of bubble wrap and stacked in a box, he headed to where the pickup was parked. Jane thanked the vendor and exited the booth, feeling a thrill of anticipatory delight. She knew her gifts would make other people happy, and this filled Jane with joy.

  Her elation vanished the moment she bumped into Sheriff Evans.

  He touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Ms. Steward, your sons are born salesmen. I stopped by the Storyton Hall booth to see you and was coaxed into trying a bite of jam. It was so good that I decided to buy a jar. Somehow, I ended up with six jars.” He shook his head in wonder. “At this rate, they’ll sell out by noon.”

  Jane apologized for rushing out of the theater the day before. “Fitz and Hem were being harassed by two journalists,” she explained. “I don’t know how they got on the property, but they were filming my sons and badgering them with questions.”

  The sheriff held up his hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ms. Limoges told me about the incident when I spoke with her earlier. If those young men hadn’t left town yesterday, I would have invited them to spend a little time at the station.”

  “I’m just glad they’re gone,” said Jane. “Did Ms. Limoges tell you everything you wanted to know?”

  “She did.” The sheriff’s eyes scanned the crowd. “She’s still a person of interest, and I told her as much. Didn’t seem to bother her one bit.”

  As much as Jane admired Olivia, she wanted to talk about something else. “Journalists and festivalgoers aren’t the only people visiting Storyton today. Last night, Mia stopped by my house to tell me—”

  She was unable to finish her sentence because Mrs. Pratt suddenly emerged from the crowd, shouting for the sheriff.

  “Thank goodness I found you!” she cried. “There’s a shoplifter on the loose!”

  “Something was stolen from a booth?” the sheriff asked.

  Mrs. Pratt stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I’m not talking about a pint of berries, Sheriff! The thief took antiques. Valuable antiques. From Roger’s shop!”

  Chapter 13

  Mrs. Pratt was too distraught to wait for the sheriff’s reaction. Having delivered her news, she turned and pushed her way through the throng, no doubt returning to the scene of the crime.

  Sheriff Evans made a quick call to his dispatch officer and followed Mrs. Pratt at a less frantic pace.

  Jane scanned the sidewalk in front of the Daily Bread. She couldn’t see Edwin but hurried to catch up with the sheriff anyway. Edwin would forgive her for not waiting, especially if what Mrs. Pratt said was true.

  Several months ago, Roger Bachman had converted the former bicycle sales and rental store into a treasure trove of antique and vintage items. The cabinets of the Old Curiosity Shop were stuffed with intriguing curios, and his new business had become the talk of the town.

  A day before his official grand opening, Roger had invited the Cover Girls to a private viewing of his new business venture. Roger, a history professor from New York, had first come to Storyton Hall for a conference. When the conference was over, he’d been very reluctant to leave. Not only had he fallen for a feisty widow named Eugenia Pratt, but he’d also become enamored of the village and its residents. Though he was now a Storyton merchant as well as Mrs. Pratt’s beau, Roger still taught two online classes for NYU. Because of this, many of the locals called him Professor.

  The shops in Storyton looked like cottages from the British Cotswolds. Each two-story structure had a front garden surrounded by a picket fence. A flagstone path led customers through the garden gate to a painted front door. The Old Curiosity Shop’s door was Antique Gold, a shade meant in inspire visions of priceless treasure.

  “How can it be closed?” a woman whined as she peered through the front window. “I see people inside.”

  A second woman, who’d been admiring the bee balm, yarrow, coneflowers, and wild phlox in the garden, scurried over to her companion and tugged on her sleeve. “We’d better come back later, Doris.”

  Seeing Jane and the sheriff pass through the garden gate, Doris was even more interested. When Sheriff Evans reached the front door, she asked, “What’s going on in there?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out,” Sheriff Evans replied with a defe
rential tip of his hat.

  Doris and her companion retreated to the garden bench where they settled down to watch. With their upright posture and eager expressions, they looked like dogs waiting to be thrown a bone.

  Mrs. Pratt yanked the door open before the sheriff had the chance to knock.

  “Roger’s on the phone with his insurance company,” she said, waving Jane and the sheriff inside.

  Jane put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Are you okay? Did you see the theft?”

  Mrs. Pratt’s eyes blazed, and she pointed to where a bronze urn with a marble base sat on the counter. “I wish I had! I would have clobbered the louse with that trophy.”

  Sheriff Evans took out his notepad. “Do you know what was taken?”

  “Yes. The shelf cards for each item were left behind. I guess the thief—or thieves—didn’t need a description. They knew what they were after.”

  Mrs. Pratt led the sheriff to a cabinet on the far side of the shop. Roger arranged the cabinets by theme and used elegant signs to identify each theme. The sign on this cabinet was decorated with cutlery and read THE ART OF FINE DINING.

  Peering through the cabinet’s massive glass doors, Jane could see a glittering assortment of sterling silver, porcelain, and crystal. The lower shelves were reserved for platters, decanters, punch bowls, and flatware sets. The middle shelves were reserved for oyster, salad, dinner, and dessert plates. Teapots and teacups came next. The final shelves held an eclectic array of salt cellars, butter dishes, crumb catchers, pastry cutters, knife rests, tongs, carving sets, and other serving utensils.

  “The chocolate pot was taken,” said Mrs. Pratt, indicating an empty spot on the teapot shelf. “It was a lovely thing too. French sterling. Eighteenth century. Had tiny feet and a wooden handle. The entire surface was embossed with an intricate floral design. Roger priced it at a thousand dollars. That’s more than fair for a piece in excellent condition. You can read the full description on the shelf card.”

  “How big is a chocolate pot?” asked the sheriff.

  “Too big to slip in a pocket.” Mrs. Pratt showed him a teapot of a similar size. “The thief must have had a bag.”

  Considering a festival was taking place, hundreds of people were carrying bags at this very moment. Handbags, paper bags, reusable grocery bags, etcetera.

  “What about the security cameras?” Jane asked Mrs. Pratt.

  “They were on and recording, and I hope they captured the thief in action. I haven’t seen the footage because Roger didn’t want to play it until Sheriff Evans arrived.” Mrs. Pratt tapped the curio case positioned under the window. “The other item came from here.”

  The sheriff leaned over the case and studied its contents. “From that space in the middle?”

  “Yes. I know it looks cluttered, but Roger says there isn’t much profit in pillboxes. That’s why he bought a collection of unusual boxes and stuffed them all in this case. I don’t remember what the stolen box looks like, but I heard Roger describe it to the insurance agent as an art nouveau pillbox with a carved fish on the lid. Like the chocolate pot, it’s made of sterling silver.”

  Jane read the price on the tiny card. “Three hundred dollars. That means the thief stole thirteen hundred dollars in merchandise.”

  “Which I might be paying for out of pocket,” said Roger from behind the counter. “Considering my deductible and the hoops I have to jump through to prove the value of the items, I may not file a claim.”

  Moving to his side, Mrs. Pratt said, “I’m sorry, my dear.”

  Roger gave her hand a squeeze. “This won’t be the first time I’ll encounter this kind of shrinkage. It happens to the most eagle-eyed shopkeepers. Or so I’ve heard. I just hope it doesn’t happen too often.”

  “Has the shop been busy since you opened this morning?” Jane asked.

  “It’s been a madhouse,” Roger said with remarkable cheer. When it dawned on him that the chaos had likely made it easier on the thief, his face fell.

  “We should focus on the sales you made and on all the new customers you added to your mailing list.” Mrs. Pratt gave her beau an encouraging smile. “A bad penny always turns up, so sooner or later, the thief will be caught.”

  Sheriff Evans, who’d been studying the angle of the two security cameras, turned to Roger and said, “Shoplifting is unacceptable. Our business owners work too hard for people to just help themselves to the merchandise. This behavior might not be unusual in New York City, but you’re a Storyton citizen now, and I’d like to find this thief. Today, if possible. Can we take a look at what your cameras caught this morning?”

  Roger and the sheriff disappeared into the stockroom while Jane examined the other pill boxes, hoping to understand what was special about the one the thief had chosen.

  No two boxes were alike. Like the pilfered fish-shaped box, some were made of sterling. Others were made of enamel, celluloid, or gold. Most were two inches in diameter or smaller. They were all beautiful and delicate, and Jane could easily imagine an Austen or Brontë character carrying such an item in her reticule.

  Her gaze fell on a box with a mother-of-pearl bird on the lid, which sat between an enamel box featuring a hunt scene and a silver box shaped like a terrier.

  “They all have animal designs,” she mused aloud.

  Mrs. Pratt peered down at the case. “How darling is that kitten with the pink bow?”

  Jane was puzzled. “I don’t get it. That Tiffany pillbox with the chick standing on the egg is three times the cost of the stolen box.”

  “Maybe the thief really likes fish.”

  “And tea.” Jane said. She quickly corrected herself. “Not tea. Hot chocolate.”

  Moving over to the large cabinet, Jane saw that the stolen chocolate pot had been one of two. The remaining pot was porcelain. Dainty pink flowers bloomed from its base and its domed silver lid was hand-chased with floral designs. If not for its shape, one might mistake it for an antique teapot. Jane read the shelf card detailing its age, condition, and price before turning back to Mrs. Pratt.

  “This chocolate pot is worth more than the one taken by the thief. And its bone handle is removable, which would have made it easier to drop into a shopping bag or oversized purse.” Jane reread the shelf card belonging to the missing pot. “Both of the stolen pieces were sterling silver. Is that significant?”

  Mrs. Pratt looked grim. “Only if the thief plans to melt them down.”

  Jane hated the thought of such lovely pieces of history being rendered into lumps of metal. “I hope that’s not the case.”

  “Me too. If so, the thief isn’t very smart. Two gold pillboxes would be worth more than the two silver pieces they took.”

  “Then what’s special about them? One was made in France. One was made in the US. They’re not from the same time period or similar in style. Chocolate and pills. I don’t see a connection.”

  An idea started to surface in Jane’s brain but darted away again like a spooked fish.

  “Looks like our thief is female,” Sheriff Evans announced as he and Roger emerged from the stockroom.

  Mrs. Pratt gasped. “What gave her away?”

  Roger laid an image printed in black-and-white on the counter. “I don’t have a color printer, so this is the best we can do. See the customer with the sunhat? We think she came in for some freetail therapy.”

  “She kept her back to the security cameras at all times,” the sheriff explained. “In a crowded shop, this would go unnoticed. She didn’t rush. She examined several cabinets on her way to the case on the far end. I think she went for the pillbox first. It would have been the easier item to steal. When she got to the case with the chocolate pot, she put her shopping bag on the floor. She examined several items before returning them. Or so it seemed. When she bent down to retrieve her bag, the chocolate pot might have been dropped right in. We couldn’t see her hands clearly because they were hidden by the long, loose sleeves of her blouse.”

  “A Bohemian thi
ef,” Mrs. Pratt grumbled.

  Jane studied the grainy image of the woman. Her blouse hung over her hips and completely obscured her figure. Her dark jeans were unremarkable. She was of average height. If she removed her hat and changed her top after leaving Roger’s shop, she’d be impossible to pick out of a crowd.

  “What about her shoes?” Jane asked.

  “They don’t show up.”

  Mrs. Pratt jabbed a finger at the front door. “Do we go out there and start pulling off sunhats? Because I’ll do that in a heartbeat. You can deputize me if need be.”

  Sheriff Evans gave her an indulgent smile. “I admire your gumption, Mrs. Pratt, but I doubt our thief is wandering around in her current attire. In the event she is that foolish, my team will handle it. I’ve sent them copies of this image and Deputy Emory is already searching for the suspect.”

  Mrs. Pratt didn’t care for the sheriff’s answer at all. “She’s one deputy! There are hundreds of people walking around. I hope you’re dusting for prints.”

  “I will, but I don’t expect to find a clear set. Mr. Bachman explained that none of the cases lining the wall are locked because he wants his customers to be free to examine any item that catches their eye. Locked cases lead to fewer sales.”

  “That’s right,” said Roger. “The most valuable things are locked up in there.” He gestured at the row of waist-high showcases that divided his checkout area from the rest of the shop. “I thought it was a good system. Until today.”

  Jane hated the note of dejection in Roger’s voice. Walking over to a cabinet filled with desk accessories, she said, “It’s still a good system. Take that inkwell shaped like a boar, for example. I want to tilt back his head and see where the ink was kept. I want to have a closer look at his eyes. Are they glass? And the card says that the piece is stamped on the bottom. Wouldn’t serious buyers want to turn the piece over to look at that stamp?”

  “I’d rather not change my ways because of one bad apple,” Roger said. “I prefer to believe that most people are honest and leave it at that.”