Murder in the Locked Library Page 2

  Because the boys were starting to fidget, Jane decided to add her two cents. “People have always wondered if Mr. Swift married Ms. Johnson. It’s been one of history’s mysteries.” She grinned at her unintentional rhyme. “Mr. Swift definitely acted like he loved Ms. Johnson. He even made sure he was buried next to her. But until now, no one could prove that they were married.”

  Fitz was still unimpressed. “Last year, our teacher taught us about a man who went to jail for printing fake money. Can’t people make fake letters too?”

  “Absolutely,” Jane said. “But this is the real deal. A close relative of Jonathan Swift gave these books to your great-grandfather after Mr. Swift’s death. Mr. Swift’s family didn’t want anyone to know that he’d secretly married. For whatever reason, they believed Esther was the reason Jonathan wrote some ... well, some strange things.”

  “I like strange things,” Hem said.

  Fitz looked at him. “Me too. People think wizards are strange. That’s why wizards call nonmagical people Muggles.”

  It was obvious to Sinclair that the twins weren’t exactly captivated by the book in the cradle, so after thanking them for their attention, he told them they were free to carry on with whatever they’d been doing before they’d wandered into the library.

  “Where should we put these?” Fitz asked, pulling off his gloves.

  Sinclair smiled. “Why don’t you keep them? All great wizards own at least one pair of gloves, don’t they? For handling toxic plants and such.”

  After mulling this over, Fitz said, “I guess so” and tucked the gloves in his pocket.

  Jane threw him a stern look. He added a hasty “thank you,” which was echoed by Hem.

  The clock on Sinclair’s desk chimed and the boys spun on their heels. They cried “teatime!” and bolted for the door.

  Jane opened her mouth to chastise her sons for running indoors, but she wasn’t fast enough. They were halfway to the kitchens before she could utter a syllable.

  “I can’t really blame them,” she said to Sinclair as he began to wrap the Jonathan Swift book in tissue paper. “Even though the official Groundbreaking Ceremony for the Walt Whitman Spa isn’t until tomorrow night, Mrs. Hubbard has been cooking as if she was serving royalty since Monday.”

  “Our guests have certainly been delighted by the tea offerings this week,” Sinclair said. Having cocooned the book in tissue paper followed by an additional layer of white kraft paper, he was now securing the valuable volume in bubble wrap.

  “Undoubtedly due to all the chocolate-themed treats,” Jane said. “Apparently, the arrival of the earthmover and the mountain of dirt it created has inspired Mrs. Hubbard to bake platters of treats containing one or all of the following ingredients: chocolate cookie crumbs, chocolate shavings, chocolate chips, or nuts. I guess the nuts were meant to represent rocks.”

  Sinclair paused in his work. “Reminds me of a certain Halloween party from three years ago. The twins created a ghastly cake featuring chocolate pudding, crushed chocolate wafers, gummy worms, and red icing.”

  Jane laughed. “It didn’t taste as bad as it looked.”

  Sinclair sniffed. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t eat food served in a litter box.”

  As if summoned by the mention of an object used by millions of his fellow felines, Muffet Cat plodded into the Henry James Library.

  The rotund tuxedo made a beeline for a reading chair facing the window. A sunbeam lit the cushion, and though Jane couldn’t blame the cat for wanting to doze in such a cozy spot, she had to prevent him from claiming it. Storyton Hall was currently hosting a very persnickety guest who’d blow her top should she encounter Muffet Cat a second time.

  Mrs. Eleanor Whartle and Muffet Cat had first met in the lobby moments after Mrs. Whartle had disembarked from one of Storyton Hall’s vintage Rolls Royce sedans. Upon entering the luxurious main lobby, the powdered and perfumed octogenarian had been greeted by Butterworth, the butler. As was his tradition, Butterworth offered Mrs. Whartle a glass of champagne. However, Mrs. Whartle had the distinction of being the only guest in Storyton Hall’s history to help herself to two flutes of bubbly from Butterworth’s silver tray.

  “I just buried my husband of thirty-eight years,” she’d declared, as if she’d dug the grave herself. “After putting up with that odious man for as long as I did, I deserve his champagne too.”

  Butterworth had inclined his head and stoically replied, “Yes, madam.”

  Mrs. Whartle had drained the first glass and was raising the second glass to her mouth when Muffet Cat appeared from beneath a nearby sofa. Blinking groggily, he brushed Mrs. Whartle’s calf with the length of his furry body.

  This was atypical behavior for Muffet Cat. An aloof feline at best, he avoided mingling with guests unless they were dining alfresco. In that case, he made it clear that he’d like to sample choice tidbits from their plates. If a generous guest complied, the ungrateful feline would gulp down whatever morsels he’d been given and scamper off, surprising the guest with his agility, for Muffet Cat was approaching eighteen pounds.

  Muffet Cat ignored most of the staff. He tolerated Jane and the boys. There was only one person he truly loved, and that person was Jane’s great-aunt Octavia. Aunt Octavia was the equivalent of the dowager queen of Storyton Hall. In lieu of fur-trimmed robes, she wore voluminous housedresses in bold colors and wild designs and carried a bejeweled walking stick. Aunt Octavia’s footwear was also unique. Following her diagnosis of type 2 diabetes, she’d taken to wearing orthopedic Mary Janes that produced a unique squeaking sound when the rubber soles met the lobby’s polished marble floor tiles.

  Mrs. Whartle’s orthopedic shoes were identical to Aunt Octavia’s, so it was no wonder that Muffet Cat mistook her for his favorite human. Not only that, but both women had a similar build. To Muffet Cat, Mrs. Whartle’s calf looked just like Aunt Octavia’s. Therefore, he assumed that if he rubbed said calf, he’d receive a treat.

  Instead of pulling a piece of dried chicken or salmon from her pocket, Mrs. Whartle had screamed and hurled her champagne flute at Muffet Cat.

  The coddled feline fled up the main staircase in a streak of black and white fur. When he reached the landing, he paused to cast a menacing glare down at the creature who’d splattered his coat with a foul-smelling liquid.

  The broken champagne flute had been cleaned up within seconds, and Butterworth had apologized to Mrs. Whartle for the distress Muffet Cat’s abrupt appearance had caused. However, it took several complimentary cocktails to finally appease her. Anyone within shouting distance of the Ian Fleming Lounge could hear Mrs. Whartle’s tale of the wild animal in the lobby that had mercilessly attacked an old lady.

  When Jane had phoned her room that evening in an attempt to repair the damage, Mrs. Whartle had made it very plain that she expected Muffet Cat to be banished from the house and grounds until the conclusion of her visit.

  “I’ll have her banished!” Great-Aunt Octavia had bellowed the following morning when Jane repeated the conversation she’d had with their flustered guest.

  Great-Uncle Aloysius had pushed his fishing hat higher on his brow and murmured soothingly, “There, there, dear. Not everyone shares your affection for Muffet Cat.”

  “If that woman knew what a traumatic kittenhood that poor animal endured, she might not be so cold-hearted,” Aunt Octavia had said. “I’m going to invite her to tea and tell her the moving tale of how Muffet Cat came to join our family.”

  Mrs. Whartle had thoroughly enjoyed the lavish tea, especially since it hadn’t cost her a penny, but she’d yawned widely and often during Aunt Octavia’s theatrical narrative of the stormy night when Muffet Cat had appeared on the doorstep, half drowned and no bigger than a man’s fist. Mrs. Whartle didn’t even crack a smile when Aunt Octavia explained that he’d been named Muffet Cat because everyone assumed that he was a she until the vet made his gender clear.

  Now, Jane gazed at the portly feline and frowned. Muffet Cat was norm
ally an excellent judge of character. If he growled or hissed at a guest—a very rare occurrence—it was because that person possessed an overtly negative character trait. Thankfully, most of Storyton Hall’s guests were lovely people. Which was no surprise, seeing as they were all readers.

  “Do you think Muffet Cat’s radar is off?” Jane asked Sinclair. “Mrs. Whartle has already proven to be a rude, greedy, and impatient woman. And yet Muffet Cat gave her a calf rub.”

  “We all suffer lapses in judgment from time to time,” Sinclair replied, and Jane wondered if the head librarian was referring to Storyton Hall’s resident mouser or to the series of terrible events that had followed Jane’s decision to allow the public to view an item from their secret library.

  Placing a hand on the box containing the rest of the Jonathan Swift series, Jane said, “Many scholars believed Swift was secretly married. Having this fact brought to light won’t hurt anyone. And in exchange, Storyton Hall can continue to compete in the luxury resort market. Without a world-class spa, we might lose potential clients.”

  Sinclair furrowed his brow and gestured around the library. “Isn’t our main aspiration to provide a haven for readers? For those seeking an escape from the incessant buzz of a technology-saturated, overscheduled life?”

  “Of course it is. Storyton Hall was meant to be a sanctuary for bibliophiles,” Jane agreed. “But I don’t have to tell you that it’s so much more than that. Escape comes in many forms. People want to be close to nature. They want to stroll through colorful gardens, drink wine on a balcony while enjoying an incredible view, be offered a variety of activities, dine like kings and queens, have a multitude of different spaces to relax and read, be able to swim any day of the year, and give themselves over to pampering sessions.”

  Though Sinclair nodded, Jane had the sense her friend and mentor was unconvinced. “Sinclair, you know that I’ve wanted to start a tradition of giving away all-expense-paid weekends to couples or families who can’t afford to stay at Storyton Hall. I’ve had to put that plan on hold for ages, but if we can increase our revenue, then I can mail our first Golden Bookmark by the end of the year.”

  “I like the Golden Bookmark. It’s reminiscent of the golden ticket from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Sinclair gazed at Jane affectionately. “I’ve seen the index cards on the Hopes and Dreams board in your office. I know what each one means to you.”

  Jane blushed. She sometimes felt that it was juvenile to hang a bulletin board pinned with pink, yellow, green, blue, and orange index cards in a place where the staff could see it.

  “I know it’s a bit silly,” she said. “I’m like a girl hanging photos of her celebrity crushes. Still, I get such a rush of joy when I can move a card from the Hopes and Dreams board to the Current Project board. But ever since my Uncle Aloysius entrusted me with the management of Storyton Hall, it seems like all I do is write checks for repairs. Most of our projects have been necessary, but not very exciting. Or fun.”

  Sinclair gazed at the nearest set of shelves. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled down a slim volume and showed Jane the author’s name.

  “George Eliot,” she read. “Aka Mary Ann Evans.”

  “She once said that ‘adventure is not outside man; it is within.’” Sinclair pressed the book into Jane’s hand.

  Jane pulled a face. “Don’t you think I’ve had enough adventure? For the last few years, I’ve done nothing but douse fires. Mysteries, murder, secret societies—a maelstrom of unexpected problems. All having to do with books.” She shook her head. “And to think I once believed that the main purpose of books was to provide enlightenment and escape. I had no sense of their power until I came into possession of this.”

  Her fingers moved over the outline of the pendant she wore low on her décolletage. Because it was always tucked out of sight, no one realized that Jane’s locket was more than a pretty piece of antique jewelry. Like so many things at Storyton Hall, it served a double purpose. If one were to apply pressure to the rectangular shape in its center, which resembled a closed book, while also pushing on the cluster of arrows on each side of the rectangle, the locket would spring open. Cushioned inside was a key to the Eighth Wonder of the World. Storyton’s secret library. A treasure trove of rare, invaluable, controversial, and potentially dangerous books.

  These books came in many forms and had been collected since man first began recording the human narrative. There were ancient scrolls, illustrated manuscripts, parchment documents, handmade books, and some of the first books printed using a machine.

  And Jane Steward was Guardian to them all.

  “What sort of adventure do you crave?” Sinclair asked, studying her with paternal concern.

  Jane rubbed the pad of her thumb over the letters etched into the back of her locket. They were the same words engraved on every brass room key fob and emblazoned on the massive wrought iron front gates of Storyton Hall. The Latin phrase roughly translated to “Their stories are our stories,” and Jane had always interpreted the Steward family motto as meaning that people were united through stories—that words were the unbreakable threads connecting humans across time and space.

  “Truthfully, you and George Eliot must have seen what I’ve been trying to hide,” Jane said in a confessional tone. “I want an adventure of the heart, but I don’t know if that’s prudent. I’m a single mom. I’m a Guardian. My only living relatives rely on me to safeguard their legacy. Every day, I’m reminded that protecting the library is my purpose. Along with caring for the twins, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sinclair echoed. Though Jane knew Sinclair must have dozens of tasks to see to before the next group of conference attendees swarmed Storyton Hall, he clasped his hands behind his back and patiently waited for her to continue.

  Feeling a rush of tenderness for the man who’d helped raise her, Jane flashed him a crooked smile. “Maybe I just need a vacation.”

  “You decided to take a chance on Edwin Alcott.” Sinclair was watching her closely. “Have you changed your mind about him?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Jane raised her hands and shook them in frustration. “He’s away again—left the country on one of his enigmatic missions. How can our relationship be anything but fleeting if we’re always keeping secrets from each other?”

  Sinclair grinned. “Jane, my dear. All partners have their secrets. Earth-shattering or inconsequential as they might be, we all keep things to ourselves.”

  Jane frowned. “William and I didn’t,” she said, referring to her late husband. “We shared everything. His honesty was one of the things I loved best about him.” She sighed. “He would have been an amazing father if he’d lived to raise his sons.”

  “And Edwin?”

  “It’s hard for me to picture him in that role,” Jane said. It was the first time she’d admitted this, even to herself, and it hurt. She wanted the man she loved to be father material. “Edwin’s wonderful with the boys—when he’s around,” she went on. “He cooks for them and tells them amazing stories. And whenever he goes away, he comes back bearing gifts from exotic lands.”

  “Sounds like a doting uncle.”

  Jane made a noise of assent, but didn’t elucidate further. The conversation was bringing her down, and it was too lovely a day to have the blues.

  “Time will tell,” she said with finality. At the mention of time, she glanced at the mantel clock and decided she could do with a cup of tea and a cookie. Or two cookies. “I’m going to join the boys. I bet they’ve found a shady spot on the garden wall—a perfect vantage point where they can see the earthmover carve out the space for our new spa. And I’m sure Mrs. Hubbard gave them an entire picnic basket worth of treats to snack on while they watch the construction workers perform their magic.”

  Suddenly, Butterworth appeared in the doorway. After clearing his throat, he took two steps into the room and abruptly halted. Seeing that no guests were present, he said, “I regret to inform you, Miss Jane, that
the magic those gentlemen have performed may prove to be most distressing.”

  “Why can’t anything go as planned?” Jane threw out her arms in exasperation. “Let me guess. The driver hit a water line or accidentally backed over one of our Gator carts.”

  Butterworth, whose expression was inscrutable in nearly every circumstance, remained silent. However, there was a wary look in his eyes that immediately alarmed Jane.

  “It’s worse than that, isn’t it? Butterworth, please. Please tell me that there hasn’t been a terrible accident.”

  “An accident? On the cause of death, I couldn’t say.” Butterworth put a steadying hand on Jane’s shoulder. “But we do have a Rip Van Winkle.”

  A Rip Van Winkle was code for a Storyton Hall guest who had expired on the premises.

  “Not again!” Jane cried.

  “This Van Winkle is unlike any other, however,” Butterworth added. “He or she—the gender is unclear—is one for the record books.”

  Chapter Two

  Jane stood very still.

  “What do you mean?” she asked Butterworth in a near whisper, though there were no guests in the Henry James Library. “Exactly why is it one for the record books?”

  “Our Rip Van Winkle is very old,” was all Butterworth would say. Instead of elaborating, he gestured toward the hallway. “You’d better come with me.”

  Jane and Butterworth left the Henry James Library and entered one of the cool and dimly lit staff corridors that ran like rabbit warrens throughout Storyton Hall. Employees carrying fresh linens or pushing room service carts greeted Jane with cheerful smiles and hellos, but Jane was too focused on the Rip Van Winkle to do more than bob her head in return.

  Even the pleasant cacophony in the kitchens—the thud of a cleaver striking wood, the hiss of steam, the rush of water, the scrape of metal against metal, and the endless dip and swell of voices as the staff chatted and bantered with each other—couldn’t distract Jane. She burst through the rear doorway, hurried down the path next to the kitchen garden, and was met by a heavy silence. Behind the herb garden and inside the construction fence, the earthmover sat idle. A small crowd had formed a ring to one side of its shovel bucket, which hung open in the air like a giant claw waiting to seize unsuspecting prey.