Murder in the Cookbook Nook Read online

  PRAISE FOR ELLERY ADAMS’S PREVIOUS NOVELS:

  Murder in the Locked Library

  “Creating a group of suspects that will keep readers intrigued until the last page, Ellery Adams has proven one thing with this book: this is one series that should and will go on for a long time to come. In fact, the author has done such a brilliant job, readers will find themselves wanting to live in Storyton, no matter how many people end up dead there.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “Ellery does a wonderful job in capturing the essence of this whodunit with visually descriptive narrative that not only lends itself to engaging dialogue, but also seeing the action through the eyes of Jane and her fellow characters.”

  —Dru’s Book Musings

  “In MURDER IN THE LOCKED LIBRARY . . . there is a very old pile of bones, an old book buried with the bones, and plenty more bodies are discovered. There are laugh-out-loud moments along with the serious which makes for a most enjoyable read. Avid readers will keep this novel on their keeper shelves! Ellery Adams is a marvelous writer; she intertwines famous quotes, famous authors, and famous books to create mystery magic.”

  —RT Book Reviews TOP PICK

  The Whispered Word

  “A love letter to reading, with sharp characterizations and a smart central mystery.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  The Secret, Book & Scone Society

  “Adams launches an intriguing new mystery series, headed by four spirited amateur sleuths and touched with a hint of magical realism, which celebrates the power of books and women’s friendships. Adams’s many fans, readers of Sarah Addison Allen, and anyone who loves novels that revolve around books will savor this tasty treat.”

  —Library Journal (starred review), Pick of the Month

  “Adams kicks off a new series featuring strong women, a touch of romance and mysticism, and both the cunning present-day mystery and the slowly revealed secrets of the intriguing heroines’ pasts.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “This affecting series launch from Adams provides all the best elements of a traditional mystery.... Well-drawn characters complement a plot with an intriguing twist or two.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Adams’s new series blends magical realism, smart women, and small-town quirks to create a cozy mystery that doubles as a love letter to books. Readers will fall in love with Nora’s bookstore therapy and Hester’s comfort scones. Not to mention Estella, June, hunky Jed the paramedic, and Nora’s tiny house-slash-converted-train-caboose . . . a book that mystery fans—and avid readers—won’t want to put down until they have savored every last crumb.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Books by Ellery Adams:

  Book Retreat Mysteries:

  Murder in the Mystery Suite

  Murder in the Paperback Parlor

  Murder in the Secret Garden

  Murder in the Locked Library

  Murder in the Reading Room

  Murder in the Storybook Cottage

  Murder in the Cookbook Nook

  The Secret, Book & Scone Society Mysteries:

  The Secret, Book & Scone Society

  The Whispered Word

  The Book of Candlelight

  Ink and Shadows

  MURDER IN THE COOKBOOK NOOK

  ELLERY ADAMS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Welcome to Storyton Hall

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Ellery Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U. S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2946-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2947-7 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2947-1 (eBook)

  Even the most avid technocrat must occasionally escape from virtual space, and what better place to do it than the kitchen, with all its dangerous knives and delicious aromas?

  —Ruth Reichl

  From morning till night, sounds drift from the kitchen, most of them familiar and comforting. . . . On days when warmth is the most important need of the human heart, the kitchen is the place you can find it.

  —E.B.White

  Welcome to Storyton Hall

  OUR STAFF IS HERE TO SERVE YOU

  Resort Manager—Jane Steward

  Butler—Mr. Butterworth

  Head Librarian—Mr. Sinclair

  Head Chauffeur—Mr. Sterling

  Head of Recreation—Mr. Lachlan

  Head of Housekeeping—Mrs. Templeton

  Head Cook—Mrs. Hubbard

  Spa Manager—Tammie Kota

  SELECT MERCHANTS OF STORYTON VILLAGE

  Run for Cover Bookshop—Eloise Alcott

  Daily Bread Cafe—Edwin Alcott

  Cheshire Cat Pub—Bob and Betty Carmichael

  Canvas Creamery—Phoebe Doyle

  La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique—Mabel Wimberly

  Tresses Hair Salon—Violet Osborne

  Pickled Pig Market—the Hogg brothers

  Geppetto’s Toy Shop—Barnaby Nicholas

  Hilltop Stables—Sam Nolan

  Potter’s Shed—Tom Green

  Storyton Outfitters—Phil and Sandi Hughes

  The Old Curiosity Antique Shop—Roger Bachman

  PERSONS INVOLVED IN THE POSH PALATE COMPETITION

  Chef Michel

  Chef Saffron

  Chef Pierce

  Chef Alondra

  Chef August

  Chef Lindsay

  Judges—Levi Anjou and Coco Kennedy

  Host—Mia Mallett

  Assistant to Ms. Mallett—Bentley Fiore

  Director—Tyler Scott

  Chapter 1

  Jane Steward, single mother to twin boys and manager of Storyton Hall, the renowned resort for bibliophiles, saw no cars on the narrow bridge she and her sons needed to cross as they headed home from the village.

  Glancing over her sho
ulder, Jane adjusted her bike helmet and shouted, “The coast is clear! Catch me if you can!”

  Her sons, Fitzgerald and Hemingway, responded with ear-piercing war cries that would have made Genghis Khan proud. They’d slowed down to polish off their ice cream cones, giving their mother a sizeable lead, and now pedaled like mad to catch her.

  Jane was halfway across the bridge when the twins—known to all as Fitz and Hem—began singing “London Bridge Is Falling Down.”

  With the school year finishing three weeks ago, the boys were officially rising fifth graders and therefore, too old for nursery rhymes. It wasn’t a lack of maturity, but a recent devotion to all things British that inspired the song about the famous London landmark.

  The twins had become Anglophiles back in February when Jane’s beau, Edwin Alcott, had given her a very thoughtful and generous valentine: a literary tour of London. Edwin had included the boys in the invitation, a gesture that elevated him even higher in Jane’s esteem.

  The trip had been scheduled for the beginning of June, and Fitz and Hem spent the months leading up to their departure researching British customs. And while Jane admired their enthusiasm, she could have done without their British accents or their obsession with certain British terms. They were particularly fond of “loo,” “lift,” “telly,” “biscuits,” “cuppa,” and “crisps.” By April, Jane was tired of her sons describing everything from food to books to television shows as dodgy, mental, or brilliant.

  Hours after landing at Heathrow, the twins had talked Jane and Edwin into a tour of London Bridge. Jane had listened to the guide’s disturbing tales of human sacrifice and the immurement of prisoners within the foundations without batting an eye. Unlike the other tourists, she knew that all old places had secrets, and it would take more than a whisper of skeletons to upset the heir of Storyton Hall.

  Somewhere behind Jane, Hem now bellowed, “Take the keys and lock her up!”

  “On death and darkness will she sup!” Fitz cried merrily.

  Together, the boys finished the verse by shrieking, “My fair female bag of bones!”

  Seeing as the current version of the classic nursery rhyme omitted much of the landmark’s grim history, Fitz and Hem had decided to rewrite it. Over a dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding the evening after the tour, they’d shared their new and improved “London Bridge Is Falling Down.”

  Edwin had applauded their efforts, calling their work clever and creative, but Jane had leaned over and whispered, “Don’t encourage them. They’re like the Vikings. Show the slightest weakness, and before you know it, they’ve taken all of your treasure.”

  “Then it’s a good thing my treasure is right here,” Edwin had said, squeezing Jane’s hand.

  But on this glorious summer afternoon, Jane felt like a warrior as she raced past Storyton Outfitters. She maintained a decent speed on the treacherous Broken Arm Bend and, feeling invincible, prepared to face the hill.

  Crouching low over her handlebars, she pumped her legs even harder, trying to gain momentum before the road began its sharp rise. With the warm breeze caressing her flushed cheeks and her strawberry-blond ponytail streaming out behind her like a comet’s tail, Jane felt unstoppable.

  The feeling was short-lived.

  She was still on the lower part of the hill when the twins caught her. Hem’s front tire practically kissed Jane’s rear tire, and Fitz was poised to overtake her as soon as the shoulder widened.

  “Are you tired, Mom?”

  “We can hear you panting.”

  Jane scowled. She was panting. It was a blisteringly hot day, the air was thick with humidity, and Jane was out of shape.

  A guest had once told her that British food was awful, but Jane disagreed with this assessment. She’d eaten plenty of lovely food in England. After she and the twins had indulged in fish and chips, bangers and mash, Welsh rarebit, and ploughman’s lunch, Edwin had taken charge of their restaurant picks.

  In addition to running a restaurant in Storyton, Edwin was also a food writer. He’d traveled the world for years and knew exactly which dishes to order at which restaurants. Based on his recommendations, Jane dined like a queen in London. She ate amazing sushi, sumptuous savory pies, truffled egg toast, Peking duck, a flat-iron steak she chopped with her own cleaver, bao buns, and the best Indian cuisine she’d ever tasted. She also feasted on delectable desserts that included, but weren’t limited to, puddings, pastries, gelato, pies, biscuits, teacakes, and scones.

  Her delight in British cuisine was easily measured. Two days after returning stateside, she’d stepped on the scale and let out a squeak of dismay. The offending device was now under her bed—banished until further notice.

  “I’m not panting,” she protested as she tried to focus on pedaling and not on the pair of pants she could no longer zip. “I’m opening my lungs to get more oxygen in.”

  “You’re panting like Lassie,” said Fitz.

  “Or Fang,” Hem said in an English accent. “Hey, Fitz, do you think Mom could beat Hagrid up this hill?”

  The twins laughed.

  Jane wanted to sprint up the rest of the hill like a racehorse out of the starting gate, but her pace was more like a snail’s than a thoroughbred’s.

  When she finally reached the top, she steered her bike into a patch of scraggly grass and waved for the boys to go ahead.

  Instead of speeding off, they both stopped.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Fitz asked with genuine concern.

  Jane waved again. “Just . . . catching . . . my . . . breath.”

  “You should be careful,” Hem said with devilish glee. “Queen Anne wasn’t much older than you when she died.”

  Fitz peered into the basket attached to Jane’s handlebars. “Did you pack your smelling salts?”

  Jane glowered at her sons. “I’m not . . . too tired . . . to think of extra chores for you two.”

  Suddenly, Hem’s smile vanished, and he pointed at the woods. “Is that smoke?”

  The sun’s glare bounced off the road, so Jane shielded her eyes with her hand and followed her son’s gaze.

  He was right. A ribbon of smoke rose above the treetops.

  “Mom? Is it coming from our woods?” Fitz asked.

  “But we’re under a fire restriction,” Hem interjected before Jane could respond. “No campfires allowed. Mr. Lachlan told us to look for guests breaking the rules.”

  As Jane watched the smoke, a darker curl joined the pale gray coil. The fire was growing stronger.

  “Should we ride over there?”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “If there’s a wildfire, even a small one, use the phone in the archery hut to call 911. Got it?”

  The twins said, “Got it,” and sped off.

  Knowing they’d reach the source of the smoke much quicker than she could, Jane stayed where she was and called Butterworth. A former member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, the butler of Storyton Hall was also an expert in marksmanship, reading body language, and remaining calm during a crisis. A bit of smoke wasn’t a crisis, but when it came to the safety of Storyton Hall guests, Jane always erred on the side of caution.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Jane.” Butterworth’s voice was as deep and constant as a mountain.

  “The boys and I are on our way back from the village,” Jane said. “We just crested the hill and saw smoke rising over the trees. I think it’s coming from the archery fields. Has anyone heard from the film crew in the past hour?”

  Butterworth replied, “Mr. Lachlan was scheduled to walk over after his falconry lesson, but I’ll drive there posthaste and report back to you.”

  Jane thanked him, pocketed her phone, and followed after the twins.

  She would have made better time if she didn’t keep glancing skyward, but she couldn’t help it. The smoke was no longer shaped like ribbons or curls. It had grown thicker, billowing over the treetops like dragon’s breath.

  Jane pedaled harder. The muscles in her legs ached. Her lungs bur
ned. Sweat ran down her cheeks and dampened her shirt. The path was made of packed dirt, and her front tire flung dust onto her ankles and calves. The woods were quiet until the howl of sirens rent the air. Minutes later, two fire engines turned onto the service road leading to Storyton Hall’s grounds, and Jane’s imagination went wild.

  The tent’s on fire. The filming will be canceled before it can begin. I’ll have to return the check to the production company. And it was such a nice check.

  Apart from the money, Jane didn’t want to disappoint the guests who’d booked rooms months in advance for the privilege of watching some of the greatest chefs in America in action.

  Everything had been running smoothly until today. Last week, a construction crew had raised the tent and hooked up the appliances. After the set designer and her team had finished staging the interior, the director and film crew had flown in from LA. The six chefs had arrived at Storyton Hall last night, and the judges had checked in this morning. The international trendsetter, taste guru, social media influencer, foodie, and celebrity host of Posh Palate with Mia Mallett, would make her grand entrance this evening.

  After several lengthy email exchanges with Mia’s assistant, a young woman named Bentley, Jane came to understand that Mia Mallett’s public image was meticulously curated and zealously guarded. Known as The Girl with the Midas Touch, Mia was a twenty-seven-year-old billionaire and social media darling. If she endorsed a product, her millions of fans would immediately buy it.