by Ellery Adams
“I think you’re right.” She touched Sterling on the arm to get his attention. “I saw two wall maps hanging in the room where I found the twins. One was a world map and the other, a US map. Each was marked with Templar crosses.”
Sterling and Butterworth exchanged unhappy glances.
“They could be meeting places or treasure depositories. Locations where others from Rackley’s faction operate.” He gestured at the burning house. “We’ll never know.”
“Mr. Butterworth, why don’t you return to Storyton Hall with Miss Jane and the boys?” Sterling said. “I’ll call in the fire and wait for the sheriff.”
Jane raised a warning finger. “Unless he’s a Fin, the only man permitted inside my home tonight is Doc Lydgate. My sons have been through enough. As have I. Tell the sheriff that I’ll speak with him in the morning.”
“Understood.” Sterling took out his phone and began to dial.
Jane ran to the car where her sons were waiting. Lachlan stood guard by the driver’s door.
“I shouldn’t have left Rackley alone,” Butterworth said as Jane reached for the door handle. “We’ve missed our opportunity to question him. I apologize, Miss Jane.”
Opening the door, Jane saw her boys stretched out on the car seat. Lachlan had used his jacket to cushion their heads. They looked like they’d fallen asleep during a long car trip.
Jane turned and put her arms around Butterworth. “All that matters is that Randall is gone and my boys are safe. Thank you, my friend.”
For once, Butterworth’s rigid posture relaxed. He gave her a powerful hug before releasing her.
“Let’s go home,” Jane whispered.
Butterworth nodded, his eyes shining with what might have been tears—Jane wasn’t sure because he looked away too swiftly—and waited for Jane to settle in the backseat with Fitz and Hem before he joined Lachlan up front.
As Lachlan drove down the curved road toward the village, Jane watched Randall’s house recede in the distance. As the burning house, which lit up the hillside like a primitive beacon, fell out of sight, Jane felt like her worst nightmare might finally be over.
Her fear, lodged firmly in her gut, lingered until Doc Lydgate confirmed that the twins were sedated and otherwise unharmed. In the privacy of the boys’ bedroom, he conducted a full examination and decided that Fitz and Hem should wake in the comfort of their home.
“The effects of the sedative are unlikely to wear off for hours,” he told Jane. “And when they come to, your sons might not remember what happened. What they do recall may just be confusing fragments. You’re their mother, Jane, and a damned good one. You’ll know what to say when they ask questions. My only piece of advice is to not let them see how scared you’d been. Be calm for their sakes. Make them breakfast. Follow your regular routine. Children feel safest in a predictable environment. I’d recommend they skip school tomorrow, however. They might experience headaches or sore throats and should take it easy for a day.”
Jane took all the doc’s advice to heart. She changed the boys into their pajamas, washed their faces, and put them to bed.
She also washed and changed. Afterward, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat in the chair in the corner of the twins’ bedroom. She sat, sipped wine, and watched her sons sleep. She listened to their breath and to the little noises they made as they slumbered. She closed her eyes only once. To whisper a fervent prayer of thanks.
Jane thought she’d stayed awake the entire night. However, it was clear she’d dozed off when a hand shaking her shoulder jerked her out of a fragmented dream.
“Why are you sleeping in our chair?” Hem asked.
Jane squinted, turning away from the beams of morning sun sneaking in through a crack in the curtains. Her sons stood in front of her. Their hair was disheveled and their cheeks were flushed pink with sleep.
All she could do was smile.
“Did you have a weird dream too?” Fitz asked. “Because Hem and I did. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “Come into my room. We’ll snuggle and you can tell me all about it.”
Huddled together under her covers, Jane listened as her sons talked. When they were done, it was her turn to speak. When she was finished, Fitz and Hem were unusually quiet.
After a time, Fitz said, “I have more questions, but I’m really hungry.”
“Me too,” said Hem. “Can we have pancakes?”
“Of course.” Jane wanted to squeeze them even tighter, but she resisted the temptation and threw back the covers. “You can ask me questions while I make you a special shape. What kind of pancake art would you like this morning?”
The boys pondered this for several seconds until Fitz cried, “Can you make them look like ice cream cones? We never got our ice cream last night!”
Suppressing a laugh over her son’s indignation because he’d been denied his dessert, Jane led her boys down the stairs and into a new day.
* * *
“I still can’t believe it,” said Eloise. She’d closed her shop, as had the other Cover Girls with businesses, and come to Jane’s house bearing comfort in the form of food and company.
“You can’t?” Anna spluttered. “I worked with that creep for years. I thought Randall Teague was a bore and know-it-all, but a thief? A murderer? A child abductor?” She shook her head. “I’m going to need therapy after this.”
Mrs. Pratt looked at Jane. “Why did he take the boys? What did he want? Money?”
Jane and the Fins had prepared for these questions. They’d had to, seeing as Sheriff Evans had expected a detailed statement as soon as Jane was finished with breakfast.
“Justice,” Jane said. “At least, that’s what he believed it was.”
Mabel’s mouth fell open. “How could kidnapping two little boys ever be considered justice?”
Jane put her fingers to her lips, silently asking Mabel to lower her voice. Though the twins were in their room, listening to an audiobook Eloise had brought them as a surprise, Jane didn’t want them to overhear unnecessary details about their ordeal. “Randall’s last name wasn’t really Teague. It was Rackley. In Edwardian England, the Rackley family was one of the major food manufacturers behind the publication of Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts. After the warehouse fire where all the cookbooks burned, Otto’s articles in the Times were given more weight and the food companies were forced to change their ways. Without adulteration, their bottom line suffered. The Rackleys went bankrupt and their reputation was forever tarnished. Because of this, Randall felt the cookbook belonged to him, as did anything buried with Otto Frank. After all, Otto ruined the Rackley family.”
“But that was ages ago!” Violet cried. “People can’t go around seeking revenge for something that happened so far in the past.”
“Sure they can,” Betty said. “I hear about things like this every night at the Cheshire Cat. Old wrongs done to someone’s granny or to someone’s great-great-uncle. These wrongs are passed down like genes. They’re the bedtime stories told to some children on a nightly basis. The sense of injustice gets in their blood, like an infection. They can’t help but become obsessed with it.”
Phoebe shook her head. “That’s sad. Every generation should have a clean slate—a chance to make their own mark on the world without the influence of their family.”
“I agree,” Jane said, thinking of her own destiny and of how it would one day be inherited by her sons. “But history is powerful. Consider the words the word ‘history’ is made of. His story. Stories of the past can shape people’s lives. It’s not easy to let them go. People want the next generation to remember what mattered to their generation.”
Eloise, who’d been distributing plates, napkins, and forks while the others were talking, began to serve the Cover Girls slices of pumpkin bread.
“Don’t you feel like we missed that, Jane?” Her voice held a note of sadness. “Because we both lost our parents when we were young, we missed out on those stories.�
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Jane nodded. “You had your grandparents and I had Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia, but it’s not quite the same. I guess that explains why I’ve made so many scrapbooks for the twins. They’ve gotten to the point where they run whenever they see a camera.”
The women laughed and helped themselves to tea.
“What will become of the cookbook?” Eloise asked after they’d all had a sip or two of tea.
Jane shrugged. “That’s up to Sheriff Evans. Celia Wallace would like to display it in a special food adulteration exhibit, along with Otto Frank’s remains, but both the book and Otto’s ring are pieces of evidence in a murder investigation. I suspect they’ll be sealed and filed away in the sheriff’s department basement.”
“Maybe that’s just as well. The Devil’s Receipts is an appropriate name for that book. It sure seems to have some sort of evil attached to it,” Anna said.
Jane was about to respond to this remark, but Mrs. Pratt beat her to the punch. “Nonsense. People are wicked. Books aren’t.” She studied Anna over the rim of her teacup. “Forget the book for now. What about your future? What will become of Storyton Pharmacy?”
Anna’s mouth curved into a huge grin. “As you know, I’m a certified pharmacy tech. I didn’t get as much experience working in the pharmacy as I would have liked because Randall liked to keep me out front, manning the register and stocking shelves, but I could do everything he did. I want to take care of the people of Storyton, so I’ve decided to go for my doctor of pharmacy degree.”
Violet put her teacup down with a loud clatter. “Does that mean you’re leaving us?”
Anna laughed. “I don’t plan on going anywhere. Creighton University has an excellent online program. However, I might not be able to attend every book group meeting. I’ll be juggling work and school, which won’t leave me much time to read.”
Eloise raised her teacup in a toast. “Congratulations, Anna. Your plan sounds perfect. Except that bit about the reading. You still need your moments of escapism. That’s what’ll keep you sane. To quote Philip Pullman, ‘We don’t need a list of rights and wrongs, tables of do’s and don’ts: we need books, time, and silence.’”
“And friends,” Jane added.
“And family,” Mabel whispered, pointing to the ceiling.
Mrs. Pratt cut another slice of pumpkin bread. Before transferring it to her plate, she paused to ask, “Should we save some of this for the boys, Jane?”
“Heavens, no. Mrs. Hubbard already prepared a lavish tea spread for them. Despite my request to the staff to act normal, no one is acting normal.” She sighed, but it was more a sigh of amusement than annoyance.
Betty leaned closer to Jane. “Fitz and Hem are really okay, though? No signs of trauma? Not even after being questioned by the sheriff?”
“Doc Lydgate told me that they might not remember much,” Jane replied in a low murmur. “Thankfully, he was right. The last thing the boys recall was following a man wearing a Storyton uniform into the staff stairwell to get ice cream. They also have a vague memory of a bad smell. That’s all. They woke up in their beds, wearing their pajamas, with headaches and a funny taste in their mouths. They were also hungry. Of course, that’s not unusual. They’re always hungry.”
“Sounds like chloroform,” Anna said. “No wonder they had a nasty taste in their mouths. Poor babies.”
Phoebe made a noise of agreement. “But the lack of memory is a blessing. Will it come back, do you think? Later on?”
“Lord, I hope not,” Jane said. “It was bad enough that I had to tell them they’d been taken by someone they’d seen in the village for years and that we’ll all have to be much more careful from now on. No mother should need to have that conversation with her children, but this is the world we live in.”
“We also live in a place where an entire community will band together to search for two of its lost lambs,” Mrs. Pratt pointed out. “I have never been prouder to be from Storyton.”
Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. “Thank you for reminding me of why this place is so special.”
Suddenly, all of the Cover Girls were dabbing at their eyes and squeezing each other’s hands.
Minutes later, Eloise poured fresh cups of tea and asked Jane if the Walt Whitman Spa project would resume.
“On Monday,” Jane said. “Which leads me to a bit of good news. And an announcement. The good news is that the set of books Sinclair sent off to be auctioned has already surpassed its presale estimate via online bids. Considering there are another ten days until the live auction, we expect to make more than anticipated. This means I can pay for the second half of the spa project and contribute to Kyle Stuyvesant’s memorial fund.”
Betty cocked her head. “Who’s the beneficiary? I thought Kyle was divorced.”
“He is. However, he and his ex-wife had a daughter, and the memorial fund will ensure that Miss Stuyvesant is taken care of,” Jane explained.
“That’s good,” said Mabel.
Trying to hide her smile of excitement, Jane said, “There’s more news of a similar nature. I’ve decided to start a Golden Bookmark raffle. This program will provide a needy individual, couple, or family with a free Storyton Hall vacation. I hope to give away one Golden Bookmark per month.”
Violet clapped her hands. “Move over, Willy Wonka. There’s a new fairy godmother in town!”
“‘So shines a good deed in a weary world,’” Phoebe declared, trying to sound like Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka. “Did you know that quote was originally from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice? Roald Dahl was brilliant. As are you, Jane. This is a wonderful idea! So wonderful that I want to be involved. Your Golden Ticket winners can have treats from the Canvas Creamery. On the house, of course.”
“Yes,” Betty cried. “We can create an entire fan deck of Golden Bookmarks from the merchants of Storyton. It’ll be a trip the winners will never forget.”
Anna looked at Jane. “Speaking of trips people won’t forget, has Felix been released?”
“Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius collected him from the sheriff’s office late this morning,” Jane said. “They’ve been seeing to his every need since his return. The poor man. He was already fighting rumors about his reputation, and his bookstore suffered because of those rumors. What he really needs is a positive PR campaign.”
Eloise spread her hands. “We can make that happen. The media is sure to descend on Storyton to cover the Randall scandal. The Cover Girls will spread the word that everyone giving interviews needs to sing praises about Felix’s character. We should plug his shop too.”
“Maybe Sheriff Evans should issue a public apology,” Mabel said. “An arrest on suspicion of murder can ruin a person’s life. I’m not talking about reputations.” She touched her chest and her temple before continuing. “It can ruin a person here and here.”
A silence descended following Mabel’s comment and Jane sensed that there was truth in it. Still, Sheriff Evans was a good man who didn’t make rash decisions or rush to make arrests as a response to public pressure. He did things by the book and she felt compelled to defend him.
“The sheriff had just cause to take Felix into custody,” she told her friends. “I know that sounds crazy considering what’s since come to light, but Randall set up the whole scheme. He came forward as the witness who’d seen Felix buying the latex-free gloves. He had your break room bugged, Anna, and has been listening to you for years.”
Anna’s mouth formed a wide O of surprise, but Jane went on before her friend could get a word in.
“And then, there was the missing Hardy Boys book.” Jane explained how Felix’s copy of The Sign of the Crooked Arrow had been found under the passenger seat of an abandoned truck. The truck’s front bumper and hood were damaged and, after further testing, revealed traces of Kyle Stuyvesant’s blood.”
As one, the Cover Girls gasped in horror.
“I didn’t know about that detail until today,” Jane said. “But Sheriff Evans has a
lways been as transparent as he can be with me. As I told the boys, people make mistakes, even when they try their best not to. We can all help the sheriff to fix his.”
There was murmur of agreement from her friends.
“We got off track after you told us about the Golden Bookmark. So what’s your announcement?” Violet asked.
Jane thought back on her post-breakfast meeting with the Fins. As soon as she’d finished feeding pancakes to the boys and sent them upstairs to bathe—an order that elicited a round of robust protests—she’d asked Uncle Aloysius, Aunt Octavia, and the Fins to come over.
They’d met in her kitchen. Everyone stood except for her great-uncle and -aunt, who sat in ladder-back chairs and looked like a pair of aged monarchs, which, to the long-time employees of Storyton Hall, is pretty much how they were viewed.
It had taken several minutes to calm Aunt Octavia and to reassure her that Fitz and Hem were truly unharmed.
“I’ll never forgive myself!” Aunt Octavia had wailed. “Neither of us will.”
“There, there.” Uncle Aloysius had taken his wife’s hand. “We made a grievous mistake, it’s true, but Jane has forgiven us. You must accept her forgiveness and listen to what she has to say.”
After a few more sniffles, Aunt Octavia had fallen silent, allowing Jane to share her thoughts.
“This is about Edwin, the map I saw in Randall’s basement, and what Randall told me,” Jane had said. “After looking at a map of the Southeast, I believe the Templar cross I saw close to us was marking the Biltmore in North Carolina. Furthermore, there’s an upcoming conference for hoteliers at the Inn on Biltmore Estate. I plan on attending that conference.”
Sinclair had responded to this news with a pensive look. “Do you think Mr. Alcott is being held at the Biltmore?”
“I don’t know,” Jane had replied. “Maybe. But if there are other Templars on that estate, they’ll have information on him. Randall lied about many things, but I don’t believe he was lying when he spoke of Edwin. Edwin is in trouble and needs our help. If our roles were reversed, he’d come for me.”