Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery)

by Arlington, Lucy

  Jane shrugged. “You heard what Gavin said at our last staff meeting. The greenhouse is in disrepair, the orchard needs pruning, the hedge maze is overgrown, the folly is hidden in brambles, and the roof above the staff quarters is rotting away. I have to come up with funds somehow. Lots of funds. What I need, Sinclair, is inspiration.” She held out her arms as if she could embrace every book in the room. “What better place to find it than here?”

  “Can’t you just shut your eyes, reach out your hand, and choose a volume from the closest shelf?” Sinclair stuck a finger under his collar, loosening his bow tie. Unlike Storyton’s other staff members, he didn’t wear the hotel’s royal blue and gold livery. As the resort’s head librarian, he distinguished himself by dressing in tweed suits every day of the year. The only spot of color that appeared on his person came in the form of a striped, spotted, floral, or checkered bow tie. Today’s was canary yellow with prim little brown dots.

  Jane shook her head at the older gentleman she’d known since childhood. “You know that doesn’t work, Sinclair. I have to lose all sense of where I am in the room. The book must choose me, not me it.” She smiled down at him. “Ms. Pimpernel tells me that the rails have recently been oiled, so you should be able to push me around in circles with ease.”

  “In squares, you mean.” Sinclair sighed in defeat. “Very well, Miss Jane. Kindly hold on.”

  Grinning like a little girl, Jane gripped the sides of the ladder and closed her eyes. Sinclair pushed on the ladder, hesitantly at first, until Jane encouraged him to go faster, faster.

  “Are you quite muddled yet?” he asked after a minute or so.

  Jane descended by two rungs but didn’t open her eyes. “I think I’m still in the twentieth-century American authors section. If I’m right, we need to keep going.”

  Sinclair grunted. “It’s getting harder and harder to confuse you, Miss Jane. You know where every book in this library is shelved.”

  “Just a few more spins around the room. Please?”

  The ladder began to move once more. This time, however, Sinclair stopped and started without warning and changed direction more than once. Eventually, he succeeded in disorientating her.

  “Excellent!” Jane exclaimed and reached out her right hand. Her fingertips touched cloth and leather. They traced the embossed letters marching up and down the spines for a few, brief seconds, before traveling to the next book. “Inspire me,” she whispered.

  But nothing spoke to her, so she shifted to the left side of the ladder, stretching her arm overhead until her hand brushed against a book that was smaller and shorter than its neighbors. “You’re the one,” she said and pulled it from the shelf.

  Sinclair craned his neck as if he might be able to read the title from his vantage point on the ground. “Which one did you pick, Miss Jane?”

  “A British mystery,” she said, frowning. “But I don’t see how—”

  At that moment, two boys burst into the room, infusing the air with screams, scuffles, and shouts. The first, who had transformed himself into a knight using a stainless steel salad bowl helm and a T-shirt covered with silver duct tape, brandished a wooden yardstick. The second boy, who was identical to the first in every way except for his costume, wore a green raincoat. He had the hood pulled up and tied under his chin and carried two hand rakes. His lips were closed around a New Year’s Eve party favor and every time he exhaled, its multicolored paper tongue would uncurl with a shrill squeak.

  “Boys!” Jane called out to no effect. Her sons dashed around chairs and side tables, nearly overturning the coffee table and its collection of paperweights and framed family photos.

  Sinclair tried to get between the knight and the dragon. “Saint George,” he said in a voice that rang with authority, though it was no more than a whisper. “Might I suggest that you conquer this terrifying serpent outdoors? Things are likely to get broken in the fierce struggle between man and beast.”

  The first boy bowed gallantly and pointed his sword at Jane. “Fair maid, I’ve come to rescue you from your tower.”

  Jane giggled. “Thank you, Sir Fitz, but I am quite happy up here.”

  Refusing to be upstaged by his twin brother, the other boy growled and circled around a leather chair and ottoman, a writing desk, and a globe on a stand in order to position himself directly under the ladder. “If you don’t give me all of your gold, then I’ll eat you!” he snarled and held out his hand rakes.

  Doing her best to appear frightened, Jane clutched at her chest. “Please, oh fearsome and powerful dragon. I have no gold. In fact, my castle is falling apart around me. I was just wishing for a fairy godmother to float down and—

  “There aren’t any fairies in this story!” the dragon interrupted crossly. “Fairies are for girls.”

  “Yeah,” the knight echoed indignantly.

  Jane knew she had offended her six-year-old sons, but before she could make amends, her eye fell on the ruler in Fitz’s hands and an idea struck her.

  “Fitz, Hem, you are my heroes!” she cried, hurrying down the ladder.

  The boys exchanged befuddled glances. “We are?” They spoke in unison, as they so often did.

  “But I’m supposed to be a monster,” Hem objected.

  Jane touched his cheek. “And you’ve both been so convincing that you can go straight to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Hubbard that I’ve given my permission for each of you to have an extra piece of chocolate-dipped shortbread at tea this afternoon.”

  Their gray eyes grew round with delight, but then Fitz whispered something in Hem’s ear. Pushing back his salad bowl helm, he gave his mother a mournful look. “Mrs. Hubbard won’t believe us. She’ll tell us that story about the boy who cried wolf again.”

  “I’ll write a note,” Jane said. The boys exchanged high fives as she scribbled a few lines on an index card.

  “Shall I tuck this under one of your scales, Mister Dragon?” She shoved the note into the pocket of Hem’s raincoat. “Now run along. Sinclair and I have a party to plan.”

  Sinclair waited for the boys to leave before seating himself at his desk chair. He uncapped a fountain pen and held it over a clean notepad. “A party, Miss Jane?”

  Jane flounced in the chair across from him and rubbed her palm over the cover of the small book in her hands. “This is Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile.”

  “Are we having a Halloween Party then?” Sinclair asked. “With pharaohs and mummies and such?” He furrowed his shaggy brows. “Did the boys’ getups influence your decision?”

  “Not just a costume party. Think bigger.” Jane hugged the book to her chest with one hand and gestured theatrically with the other. “An entire week of murder and mayhem. We’ll have a fancy dress ball and award prizes to those who most closely emulate their fictional detectives. Just think,” she continued, warming to her idea. “We’ll have Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, Lord Peter Wimsey, Nick and Nora Charles, Brother Cadfael, Miss Marple, and so on. We’ll have readings and skits and teas and banquets. We’ll have mystery scavenger hunts and trivia games! Imagine it, Sinclair.”

  He grimaced. “I’m trying, Miss Jane, but it sounds like a great deal of hubbub and work. And for what purpose?”

  “Money,” Jane said simply. “Storyton Hall will be bursting at the seams with paying guests. They’ll have the time of their lives and will go home and tell all of their friends how wonderful it was to stay at the nation’s only resort catering specifically to readers. We need to let the world know that while we’re a place of peace and tranquility, we also offer excitement and adventure.”

  Sinclair fidgeted with his bow tie again. “Miss Jane, forgive me for saying so, but I believe our guests are interested in three things: comfort, quiet, and good food. I’m not certain they’re interested in adventure.”

  “Our readers aren’t sedentary,” Jane argued. “I’ve seen them playing croquet and lawn tennis. I’ve met them on the hiking and horseback-riding trails. I’ve watched
them row across the lake in our little skiffs and walk into Storyton Village. Why wouldn’t they enjoy a weekend filled with mystery, glamour, and entertainment?”

  The carriage clock on Sinclair’s desk chimed three times. “Perhaps you should mention the proposal to your great aunt and uncle over tea?”

  Jane nodded in agreement. “Brilliant idea. Aunt Octavia is most malleable when she has a plate piled high with scones and lemon cakes. Thank you, Sinclair.” She stood up, walked around the desk, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  He touched the spot where his skin had turned a rosy shade of pink. “You’re welcome, Miss Jane, though I don’t think I was of much help.”

  “You’re a librarian,” she said on her way out. “To me, that makes you a bigger hero than Saint George, Sir William Wallace, and all of the Knights of the Round Table put together.”

  “I love my job,” Jane heard Sinclair say before she closed the door.

  • • •

  JANE TURNED IN the opposite direction of the main elevator and headed for the staircase at the other end of a long corridor carpeted in a lush crimson. She was accustomed to traveling a different route than the paying guests of Storyton Hall. Like the rest of the staff, Jane moved noiselessly through a maze of narrow passageways, underground tunnels, dim stairways, attic accesses, and hidden doors to keep herself as unobtrusive as possible.

  Storyton had fifty bedrooms, eleven of which were on the main floor. And even though Jane’s great aunt and uncle were in their late seventies, they preferred to remain in their third-story suite of apartments, which included their private library and cozy sitting room, where her aunt liked to spend her evenings reading.

  Trotting down a flight of stairs, Jane paused to straighten her skirt before entering the main hallway. Along the wood-paneled walls hung with gilt-framed mirrors, gilt sconces, and massive oil paintings in ornate gilt frames, massive oak doors stood open, inviting guests to while away the hours reading in the Jane Austen Drawing Room, the Ian Fleming Lounge, the Isak Dinesen Safari Study, the Daphne Du Maurier Parlor, and so on. There was also a Beatrix Potter playroom for children, but that was located on the basement level as most of the guests preferred not to hear the shrieks and squeals of children when they were trying to lose themselves in a riveting story.

  Jane greeted every guest with a hello and a smile though her mind was focused on other things. She made a mental checklist as she walked. The door handles need polishing. A lightbulb’s gone out by the entrance to Shakespeare’s Theater. Eliza needs to stop putting goldenrod in the flower vases. There’s pollen on all the tables and the guests are sneezing.

  She’d almost reached the sunporch when the tiny speakers mounted along the crown molding in the main hallway began to play a recording of bells chiming. Jane glanced at her watch. It was exactly three o’clock.

  “Oh, it’s teatime!” a woman examining a painting of cherry blossoms exclaimed. Taking the book from a man sitting in one of the dozens of wing chairs lining the hall, she gestured for him to get to his feet. “Come on, Bernard! I want to be get there first today.”

  Jane knew there was slim chance of that happening. Guests began congregating at the door of the Agatha Christie Tea Room at half past two. Bobbing her head at the eager pair, she walked past the chattering men, women, and children heading to tea and arrived at the back terrace to find her great aunt and uncle seated at a round table with the twins. The table was covered with a snowy white cloth, a vase stuffed with fuchsia peonies, and her aunt’s Wedgwood tea set.

  “There you are, dear!” Aunt Octavia lifted one of her massive arms and waved regally. Octavia was a very large, very formidable woman. She adored food and loathed exercise. As a result, she’d steadily grown in circumference over the decades and showed no predisposition toward changing her habits, much to her doctor’s consternation.

  “Hello, everyone,” Jane said as she took a seat. This was the only time during the day in which she would sit in view of the guests. Very few people noticed the Steward family gathering for tea, being far too busy filling their plates with sandwiches, scones, cookies, and cakes inside the main house.

  Fitz plucked her sleeve. “Mom, can I have another lemon cake?” He glanced at his brother. “Hem, too?”

  “Fitzgerald Steward,” Aunt Octavia said in a low growl. “You’ve already had enough for six boys. So has Hemingway. Let your mother pour herself some tea before you start demanding seconds. And you should say ‘may I’ not ‘can I.’”

  Nodding solemnly, Fitz sat up straight in his chair and cleared his throat. Doing his best to sound like an English aristocrat, he said, “Madam, may we please have another cake?”

  This time, the question was directed at Aunt Octavia. Before she could answer, Hem piped up in a cockney accent. “Please, Mum. We’re ever so ’ungry.”

  Aunt Octavia burst out laughing and passed the platter of sweets. “Incorrigible,” she said and put a wrinkled hand over Jane’s. “Are you going to the village after tea? Mabel called to say that my new dress is ready and I can’t wait to see it. Hot pink with sequins and brown leopard spots. Can you imagine?”

  Jane could. Her aunt wore voluminous housedresses fashioned from the most exotic prints and the boldest colors available. She ordered bolts of cloth from an assortment of catalogues and had Mabel Wimberly, a talented seamstress who lived in Storyton Village, sew the fabric into a garment she could slip over her head. Each dress had to come complete with several pockets as Aunt Octavia walked with the aid of a rhinestone-studded cane and liked to load her pockets with gum, hard candy, pens, a notepad, bookmarks, and nail clippers. Today, she wore a black and lime zebra-striped dress and a black sun hat decorated with ostrich feathers.

  And while Aunt Octavia’s attire was flamboyant, Uncle Aloysius dressed like the country gentleman he was. His slacks and shirt were perfectly pressed and he always had a handkerchief peeking from the pocket of his suit. The only deviation from this conservative ensemble was his hat. Aloysius wore his fishing hat, complete with hooks, baits, and flies, all day long. He even wore it to church and Aunt Octavia had to remind him to remove it once the service got under way. Some of the staff whispered that he wore it to bed as well, but Jane didn’t believe it. After all, several of the hooks looked rather sharp.

  “What sandwiches did Mrs. Hubbard make today?” she asked her great uncle.

  He patted his flat stomach. Uncle Aloysius was as tall and slender as his wife was squat and round. He was all points and angles to her curves and rolls. Despite their contrasting physical appearances and the passage of multiple decades, the two were still very much in love. Jane’s great uncle liked to tell people that he was on a fifty-five-year honeymoon. “My darling wife will tell you that the egg salad and chive is the best,” he said. “I started with the Brie, watercress, and walnut.” He handed Jane the plate of sandwiches and a pair of silver tongs. “That was lovely, but not as good as the fig and goat cheese.”

  “In that case, I’ll have one of each.” Jane helped herself to the diminutive sandwiches. “And a raisin scone.” Her gaze alighted on the jar of preserves near Aunt Octavia’s elbow. “Is that Mrs. Hubbard’s blackberry jam?”

  “Yes, and it’s magnificent. But don’t go looking for the Devonshire cream. The boys and I ate every last dollop.” Her great aunt sat back in her chair, rested her tiny hands on her great belly, and studied Jane’s face. “You’ve got a spark about you, my girl. Care to enlighten us as to why you have a skip in your step and a twinkle in your eye?”

  Jane told her great aunt and uncle about her Murder and Mayhem Week idea.

  Uncle Aloysius leaned forward and listened without interruption, nodding from time to time. Instantly bored by the topic, Fitz and Hem scooted back their chairs and resumed their knight and dragon personas by skirmishing a few feet from the table until Aunt Octavia shooed them off.

  “Go paint some seashells green,” she told Hem. “You can’t be a decent dragon without scales. We have a
n entire bucket of shells in the craft closet.”

  “What about me?” Fitz asked. “What else do I need to be a knight?”

  Aunt Octavia examined him closely. “A proper knight needs a horse. Get a mop and paint a pair of eyes on the handle.”

  Without another word, the twins sprinted for the basement stairs. Jane saw their sandy heads disappear and grinned. Her aunt had encouraged her to play similar games when she was a child and it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to see her sons doing the same.

  “Imagination is more important than knowledge,” was Aunt Octavia’s favorite quote and she repeated it often. She said it again now and then waved for Jane to continue.

  Throughout the interruption, Uncle Aloysius hadn’t taken his eyes off Jane once. When she finished outlining her plan, he rubbed the white whiskers on his chin and gazed out across the wide lawn. “I like your idea, my dear. I like it very much. We can charge our guests a special weekly rate. And by special, I mean higher. We’d have to ask a pretty penny for the additional events. I expect we’ll need to hire extra help.”

  “But you think it will work?”

  “I do indeed. It’s splendid,” he said, smiling at her. “It could be the start of a new tradition. Mystery buffs in October, Western readers in July, fantasy fans for May Day.”

  “A celebration of romance novels for Valentine’s!” Aunt Octavia finished with a sweep of her arm.

  Uncle Aloysius grabbed hold of his wife’s hand and planted a kiss on her palm. “It’s Valentine’s Day all year long with you, my love.”

  Jane felt a familiar stab of pain. It was during moments like these that she missed her husband the most. She’d been a widow for six years and had never been able to think of William Elliot without a pang of sorrow and agony. Watching her great uncle and aunt murmur endearments to each other, she wondered if ten years would be enough time to completely heal the hole in her heart left by her husband’s passing.

  “Jane? Are you gathering wool?” Great Aunt Octavia asked.