by Ellery Adams
“Even our oasis is vulnerable to the outside world,” Jane said. “As long as there are people, there will be violence.”
“I know,” Emory said. “I just thought it would be a rare occurrence in these parts. And I expected to face less serious crimes. The worst I thought I’d see would be domestic disputes or barroom brawls. Instead, I’ve assisted with multiple homicide investigations and I’ve been with the sheriff’s department for only two years.”
Sheriff Evans and the Robert Harley Society members left the theater, but Emory lingered behind.
“Do you regret your choice?” Jane asked.
“No,” the deputy immediately answered. “If I stood on those famous roads from Robert Frost’s poem—where they diverged in the woods, I’d take the untraveled one again. No matter what happens, I belong in Storyton.” Smiling sheepishly, she tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. With her rosebud lips and smooth skin, the lovely deputy looked like one of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s models. “I stopped to check on you and instead, you made me feel better. Let me know if I can do anything.”
Jane gazed at Emory intently. “You can. You can catch Bart Baylor’s killer. He didn’t deserve that death, Deputy Emory. I didn’t know him well, but the impression I had was of someone who liked to fix books, preserve the past, and help people when he could. He was my guest, and I failed him. I’m asking you to be his champion now.”
Deputy Emory responded with a solemn nod and hurried from the room.
As for Jane, she would have loved to watch Sterling conduct his experiment on The Devil’s Receipts, but she turned in the opposite direction of the garage. Enclosed in her office, she began to scour the Internet for references on Levi Ross.
There wasn’t much, and most of what Jane found centered on Levi’s bookstores. Levi didn’t post personal information on social media accounts and seemed to live a quiet life. At least, according to cyberspace.
The opposite was true for Aaron and Austin Sullivan. There were hundreds of links, photos, and references to the gregarious duo, and the more Jane scanned through articles of their charitable endeavors, the more she liked the siblings. Her search came to an abrupt halt, however, when she came across a Wall Street Journal piece entitled ONLY NATURAL FOODS DEALS WITH BACKLASH OVER UNNATURAL INGREDIENTS.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Jane murmured.
Embedded in the text of the article was a photograph of Aaron Sullivan at what looked like a press conference. The caption read, “Aaron Sullivan, public relations director of Only Natural Foods, blames supplier for presence of chemical in olive oil.”
According to the article, this was the second Only Natural Foods recall in the past six months. The company was currently under fire for their olive oil, a product labeled as 100 percent extra-virgin olive oil. After being tested, the oil was found to be 70 percent olive oil and 30 percent sunflower and soybean oils. Worse than this, copper sulfate was detected in the oil.
“Not a great ingredient for a company called Only Natural,” Jane said, examining the image of the olive oil bottle near the bottom of the article.
The piece went on to describe how Only Natural had been in hot water with the Department of Agriculture’s Food Safety and Inspection division that spring after a test revealed that their organic, sun-ripened tomato basil soup contained yellow dye number 5. That incident caused a major dip in the company’s stock value. The dip turned into a sharp decline following the olive oil incident. By the time she was finished reading, Jane realized that Only Natural Foods was trading at its lowest value since the company opened its doors in 1914.
Jane leaned back in her chair. She thought of how wealthy Bart had been and how his killer was likely motivated by money. That’s what Sheriff Evans believed, at least. As for Jane, she still felt there might be a connection between Bart’s death and The Devil’s Receipts. Someone knew he’d discovered the book’s secret identity and wanted to silence him. But if so, why? How could an old book threaten anyone?
“That damn book,” she muttered, a phrase she never thought she’d speak.
After printing the Wall Street Journal article to share with the Fins, Jane called the contractor in charge of the Walt Whitman Spa project and pretended that Doctor Wallace needed the contact information of the earthmover’s driver.
“When can we start work again, Ms. Steward?” the contractor asked after fulfilling Jane’s request. “The weather’s supposed to be great this week. Clear skies and smooth sailing.”
Jane glanced at her Hopes and Dreams board and suppressed a mournful sigh. She wasn’t going to let anything stop the spa from being built. “I’ll check in with the anthropologist and the sheriff and let you know the moment we’re given the green light. No one wants to see you and your crew back here more than I do.”
Next on Jane’s list was a call to Mrs. Pratt.
“Kyle Stuyvesant?” Mrs. Pratt repeated the driver’s name. “No, he doesn’t live in the village.” She paused long enough for Jane to feel weighed down by disappointment. Then, she added, “He might not live in Storyton, but he drinks here.”
Jane sat a little taller in her chair. “Drinks? At the Cheshire Cat?”
“If he could, he’d probably carve his name in his favorite bar stool,” Mrs. Pratt said with disapproval. “I’m all for a cocktail or two, but this man approaches drinking like it’s an Olympic event. And at the end of the night, he begs people to drive him home because he lives too far away to walk. It’s very irresponsible. And he’s mean to the cats to boot. He tries to kick them, but he’s always too unsteady to land a blow. He needs help, but he won’t admit to having a problem.” A derisive snort echoed down the line. “Ask Betty. She’ll gladly tell you about Bar-stool Kyle.”
However, Betty wasn’t glad. She was quite reticent, in fact.
“I don’t know, Jane,” she said. “Bob and I believe in the Tenders’ Code. It’s an unspoken agreement between barkeeps and their customers that most things spoken while under the influence of alcohol are best forgotten. I don’t work the bar as often as Bob, but when I do, I hear hard things. Things I’d never repeat. I feel like I’m part therapist, part legal counsel, and part doting aunt when I man the taps. I can’t betray the trust of my patrons by divulging what they’ve said during moments of weakness.”
Jane surprised Betty by laughing. “This is exactly what I love about you, Betty. You and the rest of the Cover Girls are such rare people. People of integrity. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to break your Tenders’ Code without an excellent reason. It has to do with the buried book and with a possible theft of an archaeological artifact.” Jane went on to repeat what the twins thought they’d seen.
“Kyle wasn’t on a Cheshire Cat bar stool when he took that object. He was lucid and sober,” Jane added. “If he took it, that is. I don’t want an innocent man to be accused without justification. However, if it’s true . . .”
“Then he has to turn it in because it might help identify the man buried in your garden,” Betty finished miserably. “As if you don’t have enough stress. I heard what happened to Mr. Baylor. Word has it that you were in the room with him when he collapsed. You poor thing. How are you holding up?”
Mrs. Hubbard was busy this morning, Jane thought, picturing the round-cheeked, round-bodied cook buzzing through the kitchen, sampling sauces, frying bacon, and pulling biscuits from the oven—all while keeping a phone pressed to one ear.
“I’m okay,” she told Betty. “I’ll see you at the workshop. I have to run because the sheriff’s here now. If you can help out with Kyle the next time he comes in—”
“Which will be five o’clock today,” Betty said with confidence. “With the spa job on hold, he’ll be on his favorite stool, reciting his favorite quote. It’s by Oscar Wilde and we hear it whenever he enters the Cheshire Cat. ‘Work is the curse of the drinking classes,’” she recited in a deep voice. “Anyway, Bob should have what you need by eight at the latest.”
Jane tha
nked her friend and hung up. For the next twenty minutes, she delved deeper into the history and financial structure of Only Natural Foods, where Aaron Sullivan worked as the head of public relations and Austin ran the advertising department. Jane realized that the Sullivan brothers had a similar background to Bart Baylor. All three men had parents who were majority stockholders in one of the nation’s leading food manufacturing firms. Not only that, but Bart and the Sullivan brothers had also attended the same university.
It was at this point that Jane found a tiny blurb—a bit of financial hearsay that representatives from Lilyfield Farms firmly denied—that there were talks of a merger between Only Natural and Lilyfield Farms.
Jane’s phone buzzed and she read the text Sterling had sent.
We’ve exposed the words. Come see.
Needing no further incentive, Jane grabbed the printouts and hurried through the staff corridors, out the loading dock door, and down the driveway to the garages.
Sterling was watching for her approach. He ushered her into his lab and locked the door behind her.
“The book is more unique than we originally thought,” Sinclair said. He sat on a backless stool, gazing fixedly at the cookbook through an LED magnifying lamp. Jane could see brown squiggly shapes on the pages. But what she saw made no sense. Typeface wasn’t squiggly. It was neat and uniform.
“Is that handwriting?” she asked.
Sinclair finally looked at her. “Yes. Apparently, this is a bound version of the original draft. It’s quite rough in places. Lines are crossed out here and ingredients added there. The editor must have had a hell of a time making sense of it all. Mr. Sterling and I have made two important discoveries. Mr. Sterling? Would you care to explain? You figured out that the writing had been done in turnip juice.”
“A lucky guess.” Sterling gestured at the book. “The recipes are all brand specific. They repeatedly recommend the use of ingredients produced by three food manufacturers. Mr. Sinclair and I have made a list of the manufacturers as well as the ingredients we believe could have been harmful if ingested in large quantities. I’ll have to do more fact-checking on those, however.”
Jane moved closer to the magnifying lamp and Sinclair immediately vacated his stool to give her a clear view of the exposed writing.
SAUCE FOR A BOILED CHICKEN. PUT THE FOLLOWING INGREDIENTS INTO A MORTAR: ANISEED, DRIED MINT, AND A SMALL QUANTITY OF MUSTARD SEEDS. COVER WITH RACKLEY’S VINEGAR . . .
“I assume the Rackley’s Vinegar is the adulterated product.” Jane stepped away from the lamp. She hadn’t liked the book from the moment she’d heard its negative moniker. Now, the thought that it could have been used to poison children, the chronically ill, and the elderly made her dislike it even more.
Sinclair, who’d always been adept at reading Jane’s expressions, edged closer to her. Perhaps he sensed that she needed comfort, but guessed that she also didn’t want to appear weak. “Though we haven’t delved into Rackley Manufacturers yet, Mr. Sterling believes that copper was added to many of their products. Their pickled vegetables, for example. The copper would have made them a brighter, more robust green.”
Jane turned her back on the book to face Sterling. “What effect does ingesting copper have on people?”
“In mild cases, it can cause stomachaches, nausea, vomiting, headaches, and fever. In more severe cases, anemia, liver or kidney failure. And death.”
Jane wanted to rip the book to shreds. It was an utterly foreign sensation, and though it quickly passed, she felt ashamed. The book wasn’t at fault. The men behind its creation were. “I could understand why someone would take this book to their grave. It is literally filled with poison. I find myself wondering if that chemist, Otto Frank, the doctor who exposed the companies behind the food adulteration, didn’t end up at Storyton Hall in an effort to hide that book. But if that was the case, then why would he have an arrowhead embedded in his scapula?”
Neither Sterling nor Sinclair could supply an answer.
“Sterling, I’d like you to research the companies behind the creation of this cookbook,” Jane said, cutting her eyes at the book in question. “They might be long gone, but the practice of adulterating food is very much alive. In fact, we’re currently hosting two guests whose family has been in the food business since 1914.”
Sinclair cocked his head. “You’re referring to the Sullivans, I take it?”
“I am.” Jane handed Sinclair the Wall Street Journal article and patiently waited for him to read it. When he was done, he frowned and passed it to Sterling. Though Sinclair conducted background checks on every guest, there was simply too much information and too many guests coming and going to know every nuance of their lives.
“The sheriff should see this article,” Sterling said. “Maybe those playboy philanthropists pressured Mr. Baylor to do what was necessary for the merger of their companies to take place. When he refused their proposition, they decided to eliminate the competition. The Sullivan brothers had motive and opportunity. If we could link them to the cyanide, we’d give the sheriff the necessary evidence to tie up this case by day’s end.”
Though this sounded too good to be true, Jane was willing to indulge in fantasy for a moment. The trouble was, she wouldn’t feel relieved to see Aaron or Austin hauled off in the back of the sheriff’s cruiser. Their demise wouldn’t raise Bart from the dead or restore the atmosphere of happy camaraderie that had been fractured by an act of premeditated violence.
“I have a feeling that things will shift before our eyes multiple times as this day progresses,” Jane said. “By the end of it all, I might be at the Cheshire Cat, sitting next to Bar-stool Kyle.”
“To investigate or to drown your sorrows?” Sterling quipped.
There was no humor in Jane’s voice when she said, “Maybe both.”
Chapter Eleven
Jane had less than an hour before she was supposed to join the Cover Girls for one of the most anticipated events of the conference: a letterpress workshop.
Jane had been looking forward to the workshop since she’d first heard of it. Though she very rarely participated in the same activities as her guests, this was a learning experience she couldn’t resist. However, she wouldn’t feel right spending the afternoon enjoying herself if there was a fresh lead to follow, so when she saw Deputy Phelps standing guard outside the William Faulkner Conference Room, she asked for an update.
“The sheriff’s still with the victim’s friends,” Phelps said. “It took a while before they were able to calm down and talk. They were pretty upset and the sheriff realized that we needed to relocate. When that dining room is empty, there’s an echo.”
“And the sounds of grief carried,” Jane guessed. “I understand that you can’t fill me in on what’s being discussed in the conference room, but what about Mr. Baylor’s laptop? The sheriff mentioned the possibility of having it examined last night.”
Phelps issued a hapless shrug. “There’s nothing on that machine that I wouldn’t show my granny. Most people have something worth hiding on their computers. Whether it’s a secret bank account, an ex-girlfriend’s phone number, or a browsing history that reveals, er, certain interests, I’ve never scanned a computer as—well, there’s no other way to say it—as nerdy as Mr. Baylor’s.”
This didn’t offend Jane. It made her smile. “In other words, he used his computer to focus on his passion for books?”
“He also watched tons of travel videos and listened to music,” Phelps said. “He searched for photos on architecture and nature too. And he had a bunch of art images. Mostly pieces that were famous for their symmetry. He also read up on his OCD. All the latest research. Like he was always looking for new treatments and coping strategies.”
Jane’s smile faded. “It takes a strong man to acknowledge his problems and to do his best to manage them.” When Phelps didn’t reply, she returned to the subject of the investigation. “What about Lilyfield Farms? Bart wasn’t directly involved in the busin
ess, but were there any indications that he kept track of the company?”
“He checked the stock prices, but not often. It wasn’t a part of his daily routine,” Phelps explained. “He did receive e-mails from Lilyfield Farms. Most were about charity events.”
Jane mulled this over. “The Sullivans are involved with several charities. I did some research last night and discovered that their family owns the majority shares of a large food manufacturing firm—just like the Baylor family. Did you notice any correspondence between Bart and Only Natural Foods?”
“None,” Phelps said.
Bart could have deleted it, Jane thought. I could see him permanently erasing anything that increased his anxiety.
“What about Aaron or Austin Sullivan?” she pressed. “Did they contact Bart about topics other than the Robert Harley Society?”
Phelps stiffened and Jane realized that she’d pushed too hard.
“Never mind.” She held up her hands in a show of apology. “I shouldn’t be asking so many questions. It’s hard to sit and wait for things to progress. I wish I could be of more help.”
Relaxing, Phelps told Jane that he’d let her know when the sheriff needed her.
Knowing she’d been politely dismissed, Jane toyed with the idea of sneaking into the broom cupboard in the hall. The cupboard had a false back that led into a narrow passageway dividing the two conference rooms. This secret space had been designed as both a hidey-hole and a way of eavesdropping on those gathered in either room. Jane had previously used it to listen in on the sheriff’s interviews, but she didn’t dare try to sneak into the broom cupboard with Phelps standing so near. He might see her go in, and Jane doubted that proclaiming herself a diehard enthusiast of The Chronicles of Narnia would serve as a sufficient explanation as to why she’d suddenly ducked into a cupboard.