Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

“Ms. Steward?” The sheriff watched her in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “There’s a chance . . .” She trailed off and glanced at her phone. “I need to make a quick call.” She started dialing. “He might be with my family. Having tea.”

  Sheriff Evans tensed and remained standing.

  As for Jane, she couldn’t move from her chair. The phone rang and rang. No one picked up.

  “It’s a nice day. They could be on the back terrace,” she said, speaking more to herself than to the sheriff. Without hesitation, she broke one of Storyton Hall’s technology rules by calling Butterworth’s cell phone.

  As expected, it took him several seconds to answer. When he did, his voice echoed slightly and Jane assumed he’d hurriedly ducked into the staff corridor. “Miss Jane? Do you need assistance?”

  “Sheriff Evans will be taking Mr. Rolf into custody shortly,” Jane said, trying to sound like a woman in control of her emotions. “I’m worried that he’s having tea with my family. Perhaps on the terrace? Could you please check?”

  “Certainly.” Jane heard the sound of footfalls and knew that the butler was moving swiftly through the staff corridor. “Is there reason to consider Mr. Rolf an imminent threat?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane said. “But if he’s with my family, don’t take your eyes off that man.”

  Butterworth whispered that he’d keep his phone on, concealed in his uniform pocket, and would report to Jane the second he had news.

  The minutes seemed to stretch on and on before Butterworth’s voice finally came through her phone speaker again. “They’ve just sat down. Only three adults, Ms. Jane. The twins are in the kitchen with Mrs. Hubbard. Your great-aunt told me this before asking me to find you. Apparently, Mr. Rolf has selected books for you to peruse. And though I’ve stepped back into the staff corridor to speak with you, there are other eyes on that table.”

  Knowing Butterworth was referring to another Fin allowed Jane to relax just a little. “Please tell my great-aunt and -uncle to go ahead with their tea. I’ll join them as soon as I can.”

  “And Sheriff Evans? Is he willing to wait until teatime is over to arrest Mr. Rolf?”

  Because the phone was on speaker mode, Sheriff Evans had overheard the conversation. He now indicated his assent with a brief nod.

  “He is,” said Jane, and hung up.

  Jane stood up and faced the sheriff. “Can we avoid taking Mr. Rolf out through the main lobby? I’d rather ask him to walk with me through the herb garden to the garages. With your permission, that is.”

  The sheriff was not amenable to this plan. “You’d be too vulnerable.”

  “Not if Sterling tags along. And there’d be nothing unusual about a chauffeur heading to the garages.”

  The sheriff refused to relent. “Mr. Rolf poisoned one man and hit a second man with a truck. His behavior is impossible to predict, Ms. Steward. Which is exactly why I need to take him into custody. I’ll allow you one opportunity to isolate Mr. Rolf from the rest of the guests on the terrace, but that’s all. For the safety of you, your staff, and your guests, we need to proceed with caution.”

  Eager to get back to Storyton Hall, Jane meekly agreed. She then followed Sheriff Evans out of his office and into a large room with multiple desks where Deputies Phelps and Emory stood at attention.

  “Phelps, take a car and park by the garages. Emory, you’re with me.” The sheriff turned to Jane. “How did you get to town?”

  “I rode my bike. Could I catch a ride with you?”

  The sheriff gestured at Phelps. “Take the truck instead and load Ms. Steward’s bike into the back. We have a little time to spare. After all, I’ve seen the teatime spread at Storyton Hall. Not even a killer could walk away from that.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Evans agreed to wait in the herb garden for no more than five minutes. After that, he and Deputy Phelps would ascend the terrace stairs and ask Mr. Rolf to excuse himself from his present company in order to answer additional questions.

  “If he resists, we won’t hesitate to subdue him in front of your guests.” The sheriff issued his final warning as Jane hurried away.

  Now, breathless from exertion and fear, she approached Aunt Octavia’s favorite table. Set apart from the others in its own little alcove, the table provided privacy while still allowing a splendid view of the gardens, the great lawn, and the majestic blue hills.

  Jane smiled mechanically at her guests, the majority of whom had finished their tea and were reading or quietly conversing as they enjoyed the temperate weather and the serene vista.

  Looking around, Jane saw that Butterworth had taken up a sentinel position on the terrace. He stood in a discreet space between two columns and appeared to be gazing outward, though Jane knew he was fixedly watching one particular table. His stoic posture reassured her. Nothing untoward had occurred since their phone conversation and nothing would occur as long as Jane could separate Felix Rolf from her family.

  When she came upon the table, she could see that it had been cleared of foodstuff. In place of plates and platters, Felix Rolf had fanned an array of books across the starched tablecloth. Aunt Octavia was gazing at them with rapture while Uncle Aloysius toyed with one of the feathery flies poking out of his fishing hat.

  Glancing up at Jane’s approach, Aunt Octavia cried, “Look at the treasures I just bought for the boys! They have no idea what delights await them!” She elbowed Felix in the forearm while keeping her gaze on Jane. “Mr. Rolf read me just like a book. He sensed that I was more a Hardy Boys gal than a Nancy Drew gal and he was right! I read them both, of course, but if I had to choose, I’d pick the boys every time.”

  “That’s because you were once a tomboy, my sweet,” Uncle Aloysius said indulgently. “You could climb trees like a squirrel and skip rocks like a major league pitcher.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Aunt Octavia blew her husband a kiss.

  Felix smiled during this exchange, and Jane, who would normally jump at the chance to examine the books on the table, stared at the book dealer. She stared at his cloud of untamed hair and his wild brows and tried to envision him acting out a pair of unspeakable crimes. Could a man with the ability to make Aunt Octavia so merry, a man who bought and sold such magical books, be the same person who lined Bart Baylor’s gloves with cyanide or mowed down Kyle Stuyvesant with a truck? And for what? To keep a bookstore afloat?

  Jane watched Felix Rolf smile with what seemed like genuine warmth and wished—not for the first time—that people weren’t capable of such incredible depths of duplicity.

  Suddenly, Felix looked up and caught her assessing gaze. His smile faltered. She saw his expression turn anxious. But his concern wasn’t for himself. “Ms. Steward? Are you all right?” He got to his feet and hastened to pull out a chair for her.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, recovering her composure. “I just have too much on my mind. However, I could use your assistance with a book-related matter. If you have a spare moment, that is. Aunt Octavia, could you guard the gems Mr. Rolf wanted to show me for a few minutes?”

  Aunt Octavia, who’d clearly been on the verge of protesting, immediately changed tack. “Of course, my dear.”

  “Forgive me. I will make things right. I promise you,” Felix said by way of farewell to Jane’s great-aunt.

  It was such an odd remark that Jane asked him about it as they descended the terrace steps with Butterworth following at a short distance behind them.

  “I intended to sell your lovely aunt the full set of the Grosset and Dunlap Hardy Boys novels, but one of the books has gone missing. I didn’t notice until I laid out the set in order. The books were packed in New Orleans, and I checked the inventory as I always do upon arriving at Storyton Hall. Everything was accounted for. I can’t explain how it’s suddenly disappeared.”

  By this point, they’d reached the bottom of the wide staircase and Jane had turned toward the herb
garden. She held open a low gate, and when Felix passed through it to find Sheriff Evans and Deputy Phelps standing on the other side, he glanced back at Jane in surprise.

  “Is this about my book?” he asked her. “Has my copy of The Sign of the Crooked Arrow been stolen?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sheriff and his deputies had just pulled away when the twins burst through the loading dock doorway and ran over to their mother.

  “Was that Mr. Rolf?” Hem panted.

  Hem hadn’t even finished with his question when Fitz asked one of his own. “What did he do?”

  Jane looked down at her boys. The sun threaded gold into their sandy brown hair and highlighted the freckles on their noses. Their eyes, which reflected a mixture of curiosity, mischief, and innocence, made it difficult for Jane to formulate an immediate reply.

  The world isn’t an innocent place, she thought, and held her arms out to her sides.

  “Take a hand,” she said to her sons. “I want to talk to you.”

  Fitz and Hem exchanged concerned glances. Their mother rarely demanded physical affection and was willing to receive hugs and kisses when they felt inclined to offer them. They’d also told her earlier that summer that they were too old to hold hands with her or any other adult.

  “We know we’re supposed to look both ways before crossing the street,” they’d explained one day when the three of them stood on the opposite side of the street from Geppetto’s Toy Shop.

  “And we’ll never get lost. We know every road in Storyton! We could draw a map better than an explorer!”

  At the time, Jane had recognized that her sons were asking for a small measure of independence. She’d granted it to them. Now, however, she held their hands for her own sake. She let go only when they arrived at the low brick wall surrounding the herb garden.

  “Let’s sit for a minute,” she said.

  The boys unslung their book bags, dropped them on the gravel path, and got comfortable on the wall. Hem hugged his knees to his chest while Fitz stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands.

  “Sheriff Evans took Mr. Rolf to the station to keep everyone safe,” Jane said. “Our guests, family, and staff. The sheriff had to do this because he believes that Mr. Rolf hurt two people. You’ve both read The 39 Clues, The A to Z Mysteries, and the Encyclopedia Brown books, so you know that a detective gathers clues and evidence before making an arrest, right?”

  “So the sheriff found clues that Mr. Rolf was hurting people?” Fitz squinted in the afternoon sun as he looked up at Jane. “Was there a clue in his wig? Because I thought it was a wig all along.”

  Hem rolled his eyes. “It’s not a wig. I asked Aunt Octavia, and she said it’s real. I bet he hid things in his books. You could put stuff in those pop-up books. In the spaces behind the pictures. Like a piece of paper.”

  Jane didn’t want the boys to become distracted, so she clapped her hands together once and said, “The point I’d like to make is that Mr. Rolf wasn’t the man we thought he was. All of us, including Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius, thought he was a nice man. Right?”

  Fitz opened his mouth to speak. Guessing that he meant to boast about knowing that something was off about the children’s book dealer from the start, Jane gave her son a warning glare. He said “right” in a small voice.

  Hem took more time to respond. “I liked him because I liked his books, but I think he was extra nice to Aunt Octavia because he wanted her to buy his books.”

  This was an astute observation and Jane told Hem as much.

  “I liked his books too. What will happen to them, Mom?” Fitz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jane said, feeling saddened by the thought of a shop filled with rare and wonderful books left abandoned for a prolonged period of time. She imagined vibrant covers dulled by dust and bookshelves festooned in cobwebs. She saw a CLOSED sign with sun-bleached letters. As the days passed, the air inside the shop would grow staler. The gloom would grow deeper. The atmosphere of neglect would spread like shadows until the worst would happen: people would forget that such a marvelous shop had ever existed.

  Hem touched Jane’s hand, bringing her out of her morose reverie. “Mom? Are detectives ever wrong?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re people, and people make mistakes. Even when they try their best not to.”

  “What if the sheriff made a mistake?” Hem asked.

  “If he did, then he’ll let Mr. Rolf go free.”

  Fitz abruptly swung his legs to the ground. He was no longer relaxed. “But that would mean the bad guy is still free.”

  This was the moment Jane had feared. Though the boys had been receiving martial arts training from Sinclair, archery lessons from Sterling, and outdoor survival skills from Lachlan, they saw these as mostly recreational. They were aware of their future Guardian roles, but were too young to take them seriously. However, they were old enough to be told that they’d have to be more careful around strangers. Especially since strangers constantly surrounded them.

  “Yes,” Jane finally answered Fitz. “And until Sheriff Evans can prove that Mr. Rolf is responsible for hurting people, we should keep our eyes open for unusual behavior. We’ve talked about what you should do if a stranger tries to grab you—”

  “Yell for help!” Hem cried.

  “And give them a quick jab in the throat if they’re close enough,” Fitz added, repeating Sinclair’s instructions. “After that, we run like the wind.”

  Hem nodded enthusiastically. “To a place with lots of people. Or to a place where we can’t be seen.”

  Jane made a time-out gesture. “What I want you to be on the lookout for is much sneakier behavior. I’m talking about not trusting people just because they seem nice. Do you understand what I’m saying? Unless you’ve known the person for a long time, you have to be careful. Got it?”

  Sensing the seriousness of the moment, the twins replied “yes, ma’am” in unison.

  “Good.” Jane ruffled their hair to lighten the mood.

  “Mom!” Fitz protested, and she tickled him just under the armpit until he squealed.

  She went after Hem next, prodding his most ticklish spot, which was the top of his thigh.

  “Race you home!” she shouted when they were both helpless with laughter.

  Though she had a good ten-second head start, she didn’t stand a chance. The boys were as fleet-footed as juvenile cheetahs. They zipped by her, issuing zealous whoops of victory as they ran.

  Jane slowed her pace to savor the moment. Watching the small, lithe figures of her sons race over the great lawn and hearing their laughter rise into the September air like a bouquet of balloons, she was nearly overwhelmed with love.

  I am so lucky, she thought as the boys turned to wave at her before disappearing into the house.

  Jane walked to her mailbox. She’d just pulled out the mail when a shadow detached itself from beneath a large holly bush. Muffet Cat ambled over to where Jane stood and gazed up at her. His eyes sparkled like peridots, marred by a smudge of black pupil.

  “Hello, Muffet Cat. Have you come to see if I received any tuna coupons?”

  The portly tuxedo rubbed the length of his body along the mailbox post and yowled. Jane started when she heard the plaintive note of the feline’s meow. This was a noise Muffet Cat reserved for times of acute distress.

  Pinning the mail against her chest, Jane bent down and stroked Muffet Cat with her free hand.

  He stopped rubbing the post and rubbed against her legs instead. He didn’t respond to Jane’s caresses by purring and he wasn’t begging for food. And yet he clearly wanted something. Unfortunately, Jane had no idea what it was.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” she asked him.

  Again, he repeated his anguished yowl. He then nudged Jane on the arm holding the mail and several pieces fell to the ground.

  One of these included a postcard.

  Muffet Cat stepped on it with his front paws and began to gr
owl.

  “More cryptic messages, Edwin?” Jane murmured. “See? Even the cat thinks you could put more effort into your communication.”

  Giving the agitated feline a gentle push, Jane picked up the postcard and examined the image. Like Magnus’s card, this one looked vintage and depicted a scene from Ankara. It wasn’t the interior of a mosque, however, but a scene from a bazaar. There was a stall featuring baskets of colorful spices. The powdered spices were piled into high mounds and Jane wondered what it would be like to lean over, close one’s eyes, and inhale a breath of pure saffron, cinnamon, or cardamom.

  She flipped the card over, eager to read Edwin’s message, when Muffet Cat let out another growl and trotted away, affronted.

  “What did I do?” Jane called after him. She felt bad, for the animal was obviously upset. But Muffet Cat did what he did best, which was to ignore her and vanish as suddenly as he’d appeared.

  After gathering the rest of the mail, Jane returned her attention to the postcard.

  J—

  My original objectives have changed. There is more work than I’d originally expected, so I won’t be returning to Storyton for a long time. I can’t ask you to wait for me, so please consider yourself free. I’ll always be grateful for the time we had.

  Yours, E

  Jane touched the mailbox to prove to herself that she hadn’t suddenly entered some terrible alternate reality. The feel of the warm metal against her fingertips told her that she wasn’t dreaming and that Edwin’s second message was every bit as bizarre as his first. Except that it was far more hurtful. Was he truly saying good-bye to her in a postcard?

  This doesn’t even sound like him, her inner voice protested.

  She turned back toward Storyton Hall, hoping to draw comfort in its solidness. It had been the fairytale castle of her childhood. It was now her legacy. She loved every brick, stone, and piece of timber that fashioned its main section and two wings. She cherished its clock tower, its turrets, and even its endless problems and costly repairs. It was home. Home to her, her family, and to thousands of books. It was a sanctuary to those who traveled from all over the globe, searching for peace. She need only wake in the morning and it was there, waiting for her.