by Ellery Adams
“We know this group is patient,” Jane said. “We know this group planted someone in the Storyton community, and that he lived and worked among us for years, waiting for the chance to infiltrate Storyton Hall. Kidnapping my sons led to his death, but what if there’s another spy in our village? Or, heaven forbid, working as a Storyton Hall employee?”
“I have complete confidence in our staff, Miss Jane. They’ve been thoroughly vetted. We can never be sure about the villagers. There are too many to monitor.”
Jane felt a growing sense of frustration. “What can we do, then? How do we defend ourselves against these fanatical Templars?”
“First, we place someone loyal to us among the visiting historians. We’ve already made those arrangements,” Sinclair said. He sounded completely untroubled. “Secondly, we’ve booked Mr. Parrish into the Mystery Suite. As you remember, we made changes to those rooms.”
“Yes.”
“The updates will grant you full access to Mr. Alcott, even if he’s locked in the suite from sunrise to sunrise.”
Several years ago, before Jane was told of the secret library or her family’s role as Guardians, there’d been a murder in the Mystery Suite. Following a terrifying series of events, Jane’s newly revealed Fins had met with her to discuss heightening the security of Storyton Hall. Jane’s ancestor, Walter Steward, had designed his behemoth mansion to include numerous secret passages, hidey-holes, and if the rumors were true, secret rooms. Unfortunately, the blueprints disappeared after the Georgian manor house was disassembled in England, transported across the Atlantic, and reassembled in a serene valley in western Virginia. An architect had done his best to replicate the lost plans, but none of Storyton Hall’s secrets were included in that drawing.
Ever since the murder in the Mystery Suite, Jane had been looking for these hidden places. Uncle Aloysius had shown her the ones he knew, but he was well into his eighties and preferred not to linger in damp corridors shining a flashlight over the roughhewn walls or the cold flagstone floors in search of concealed doors or cubbyholes.
Uncle Aloysius remembered his father, Cyril, showing him a few of Storyton Hall’s secrets when he was a boy. However, his father died when Uncle Aloysius was still young, and the memories of these hidden places died with him. One thing Jane’s great-uncle never forgot was a passage from the Mystery Suite to what was now a housekeeping closet. The Fins had recently restored this passage.
“As far as dealing with Mr. Parrish, I’m afraid we can’t hit him with the wrench in the library,” Sinclair continued.
Jane appreciated his reference to her favorite childhood board game, but she was in no mood for levity. “Because he’s like a hydra? If we chop off one head, another will grow back in its place?”
“We’re not murderers,” Sinclair said. “Our mission is protection. We don’t seek violence.”
“Well, it certainly seeks us,” Jane grumbled.
It was barely seven, and she was already tired. She hadn’t slept well. Her dreams had been riddled with fragmented images of sinking cars, the face of the Bacchus fountain, and a man who looked like Edwin one moment and William the next. Having risen with the sun, she was now feeling completely out of sorts. The coffee helped a little, but it wasn’t nearly enough to combat the seemingly insurmountable obstacles facing her the moment she left Biltmore.
Reaching for her mug, she thought of all the wine she’d had the night before. No wonder she’d had such vivid dreams.
“Let’s focus on what we have going for us,” she said after a fortifying sip of coffee. “And by that, I mean Edwin.”
“Yes,” said Sinclair. “Presuming he’s of sound mind and body. Have you spoken to him?”
Jane recounted the details of the previous night, omitting the conflicting emotions she’d experienced over William.
“If Mr. Alcott’s weight loss is the only negative consequence of his incarceration, that can be easily remedied. Mrs. Hubbard would love to fatten him up.”
At this, Jane barked out a laugh. “I can totally imagine her wheeling a cart with a six-course meal through the secret passageway. She’d sit in a chair and chat away as he ate, scolding him if he left so much as a crouton on his plate.”
“I believe Mr. Parrish will try to control Mr. Alcott’s environment in any way that he can. Undermining that control would be in our best interest.”
They spoke a little longer about which questions Jane should ask Edwin on the drive from Asheville to Storyton. They also decided the best place for William to stay and what could be done to keep him busy and out of harm’s way.
“What about our undercover historians? Shouldn’t I know more about them? They’ll be arriving tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll fill you in when you’re back,” Sinclair said. “You have enough to focus on today. Including taking receipt of the book you requested for Mr. Tucker. A courier should be at your hotel within the hour.”
Checking her watch, Jane saw that it was time to get ready for the morning meeting. She thanked Sinclair and hung up.
The courier arrived when Jane was in the shower. Lachlan showed her the package when she appeared in the kitchen.
“This came for you.”
“It’s for Tuck,” Jane said. “I asked Sinclair to send me a book—by way of a truck driver passing through Asheville—from my personal collection.”
“What kind of book?”
Jane cut the padded envelope and pulled out a bubble-wrapped object. She severed the bubble wrap and carefully unfolded the layers of white paper protecting a large book in green cloth with decorative gilt.
“Italian Villas and Their Gardens,” Lachlan read the title. He looked unimpressed. “I’m sure Mr. Tucker will like it. It’s about gardens, and he’s a gardener.”
“It’s more than a simple gardening book.” Jane turned several pages. “This was written by Edith Wharton and illustrated by Maxfield Parrish. Edith Wharton stayed at Biltmore. She and George Vanderbilt were friends. Tuck loves this estate and any connection to it, and I’m sure that he’ll love this book. It’s full of what Wharton called ‘garden-magic,’ and she writes about the unique harmony between house, grounds, and the surrounding countryside. It’ll be the perfect addition to Tuck’s collection.”
Lachlan nodded absently. His mind was not on books. “When should we take it to him?”
“At the lunch break following my morning session,” Jane said.
Though Jane sat in the conference room with her fellow hotel managers, the notes she took had nothing to do with catering to today’s luxury traveler and everything to do with besting Parrish.
As soon as the session was over, she hurried outside and told Lachlan to drive to the bakery in Biltmore village. Here, she bought three curry chicken croissants, a jug of iced tea, and a selection of treats including baklava, pot de crème, chocolate fudge cake, and peanut butter pie.
“Are you hoping Mr. Tucker will share?” Lachlan asked as Jane loaded the goodies into the truck.
“Maybe,” Jane said. She’d gladly sample any of the desserts.
Lachlan held out his phone. “I haven’t heard back from him yet, but he told us that he might go fishing.”
“Let’s wait for him at his place,” Jane said. “We can eat our sandwiches on his garden bench.”
She expected Tuck to respond to Lachlan’s text fairly quickly. However, when they finished their lunches, they still hadn’t heard from Tuck.
“He might be fishing in a place with little or no reception,” Lachlan said.
Jane moved around Tuck’s garden. Even though it was autumn, the garden was a riot of color. A variety of bushes grew in the dappled light under weeping cherry and Japanese maple trees. Butterflies flitted from bloom to bloom and birds rustled in the leaves. It was such a serene place.
After slowly circling the garden, Jane returned to Lachlan to see if there’d been any word from Tuck. Lachlan shook his head.
Jane felt a keen sense of disappointme
nt. She wanted to give Tuck the book in person—to see his face break into a smile of childish delight. In addition to her own desires, she was also worried about him. She kept wondering if Tuck would pay some kind of penalty for consorting with Lachlan. And with her.
I wonder if he has room for this book on his shelves, she thought, looking for a distraction.
Recalling how pleasantly stuffed the reading-room shelves had been, Jane decided to peek in the window to see if Tuck would be able to display his new prize on the shelf holding his favorite books.
As there was a bush with small thorns right below the window, Jane had to approach from the side and stand on her tiptoes to look inside. However, the sun was shining at her back, and her reflection blocked her view. Edging closer, she put her hand to her forehead and moved right up to the glass.
She drew back as if she’d been stung. In her haste to get away from the window, she dragged her right arm across a row of prickly thorns. The pain barely penetrated her shock. She called for Lachlan.
He was at her side in seconds. She didn’t need to tell him to look in the window. He figured that out on his own.
“Is he dead?” Jane whispered.
“I think so.” Lachlan peered into the reading room for a long moment before meeting Jane’s horrified gaze. “I’m going in. You—”
“Don’t tell me to wait here, because that’s not happening,” Jane said.
There was no need for Lachlan to take out his lockpick tools because the door leading from the patio to the kitchen was open. Lachlan pushed it inward, coaxing a soft creak from the hinges. When he and Jane stepped into the room, the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread greeted them. Two loaves sat a cooling rack next to the stovetop. Tuck had also left an oven mitt and a green mug on the counter. The sink held a mixing bowl, two measuring cups, a pair of loaf pans, and measuring spoons. Though all the items were dirty, Tuck had managed to fill the bowl with water in an attempt to soften the dried bread dough encrusting its sides.
Jane and Lachlan proceeded to the reading room in silence.
Tuck was sitting in his favorite chair. There was a book on his lap and a teacup on the stand next to his chair. Tuck’s book was closed, but his eyes were open. They stared, unseeing, at the fireplace. Tuck’s lips were parted, and his hands curled around the edges of his book as if he’d held onto it with the last of his strength. Jane wondered if the feel of it had given him comfort in his final moments.
“What happened?” she whispered to Lachlan. “Was he worn out after a morning of fishing and baking? Leaving the dishes in the sink, he decided to rest with a cup of tea and a book. And he just drifted away in his chair?”
Lachlan surveyed the room before his gaze settled on Tuck’s face again. “He looks peaceful enough. Still . . . things are out of place.”
“The second mug in the kitchen?” Jane guessed. “It’s not a teacup. It’s a mug.”
“As if Tuck planned to pour coffee for a guest.”
Lachlan plucked a tissue from a dispenser on the bookshelf and used it to pick up Tuck’s teacup. There was an inch of liquid left on the bottom. He gave it a good sniff.
“Anything?” Jane asked.
Lachlan swirled the liquid around in search of residue. “No. Let’s go back to the kitchen.”
In the bright and cheerful room, Jane put her hand on the bread to see if was still warm, but both loaves had thoroughly cooled.
Lachlan pointed at the coffee carafe. “It was paused in the middle of a brew session. See the flashing light?”
“The clock is flashing too. Mine does that whenever we lose power, or if I unplug it and plug it back in.”
Jane scanned the kitchen. It was a cozy, well-used space. Jane could only imagine how many meals Tuck had prepared in this sunlit room over the years.
“He was in perfect health yesterday,” Jane mused aloud. “Today, he got up, did whatever he did in the morning, and decided to bake some bread. He probably planned to eat it this afternoon, at teatime.” She pointed at ajar of jam on the counter. “I bet that’s the same jam Parrish gave me last night. It’s warm in here. That jar should be in the refrigerator.”
Lachlan grabbed a paper towel and handed it to Jane. “I want to check his bathroom for medication. Use this to open cabinets. See if you come across any pill bottles.”
Jane did as she was instructed. She examined the contents of cabinets, drawers, and the inside of the refrigerator and found nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the room’s ordinariness was one of the things that made it so appealing. She liked that Tuck kept a chipped plate because it was part of a set and that he had magnets on his fridge. He had a wall calendar marked with Biltmore events and a single unpaid bill in the drawer closest to the phone.
It doesn’t have to be foul play, she told herself. He wasn’t a young man. He could have died of natural causes.
But she didn’t believe that. Tuck worked hard every day. He pruned, dug, planted, weeded, fertilized, and more. He was spry and incredibly fit for a man of any age.
The truth was that Jane didn’t want Tuck to be dead. But since he was, and there was nothing she could do to change that, she wanted his ending to have been peaceful. What could be more peaceful than sitting in one’s favorite chair, in one’s favorite room, with a book and a cup of tea? To Jane, it was the ending she’d wish for those she loved. As long as they’d reached their golden years, that is.
Lachlan returned from the bathroom wearing a grim expression. “He took medication for high cholesterol. That’s all I could find.”
“He might have had a heart attack,” Jane said without conviction. There was something ominous about the unplugged coffee maker and the empty mug on Tuck’s kitchen counter. Someone had stopped the coffee from brewing. Someone hadn’t tarried long enough to wait for that empty mug to be filled.
“We need to go back to the reading room and call Butterworth. He or Sterling might be able to tell us what to look for on Tuck’s body.”
Lachlan placed the call as he walked. He quickly explained the situation and waited for a reply.
“There are no signs of a struggle. His hands are curled around his book, but otherwise, he looks, well, staged.”
Jane realized this was an apt description. Even if Tuck had suffered a heart attack, it was unlikely that he’d be sitting perfectly upright in his chair with his book on his lap. At the very least, he would probably have fallen forward or slumped to one side. He wasn’t slumped, though. He was sitting as most people would sit to read and drink tea.
The book was also closed, making Jane question if he’d ever opened it.
Could the book be a clue?
As it had no dust jacket, Jane squatted beside Tuck’s chair to read the title on the spine. Arundel wasn’t familiar to her, so she looked it up on her phone. She knew the author, Kenneth Roberts, and had read Lydia Bailey and Northwest Passage. She’d never heard of Arundel, though.
Lachlan was watching her expectantly, the phone still pressed to his ear.
Jane pointed at the book. “This is the story of a man who marches with Benedict Arnold. Essentially, it’s about a traitor who joins the British during the American Revolution. He defects. He aids the enemy. Just like Tuck helped us. We’re the enemy he befriended.”
Seeing the stricken look on Lachlan’s face, Jane almost regretted having shared this with him. Lachlan had spent hours with Tuck, and the weight of culpability fell heavily on his shoulders.
Jane felt the weight too. Between the empty coffee mug, the positioning of Tuck’s body, and the book title, she believed the old gardener had been murdered. Because of them.
Because of her.
She ordered Lachlan to get close to Tuck—to see if he could worm information out of him. The result of that prying was right in front of them. Tuck was dead. Here, in his book-lined sanctuary. His wonderful reading room.
“I think it was the reference to Bacchus,” Lachlan said in a leaden voice. He then spoke into the phon
e. “Mr. Butterworth, I’ll call you back.”
Jane turned away from Tuck to stare at Lachlan. “The fountain?” She considered this. “You’re right. Parrish was unhappy about Tuck mentioning his partiality for the sculpture, especially that tidbit about coming across Parrish near the Bacchus fountain at all hours.”
“I think that detail got him killed,” said Lachlan. “I don’t know how it was done, but there was probably an injection of some kind.”
Jane fought to stop her brain from forming an image of Bruno pinning Tuck to the ground and pressing the point of a needle into his neck.
“We have to call the police,” she said.
“We will, but it won’t change anything. Even if you hint at foul play, they’re unlikely to order extra lab work or perform an autopsy. Whatever drug he was given was undoubtedly meant to mimic a heart attack. Given his age and preexisting condition, the ME is bound to rule this a death by natural causes.”
“Even so, I’m not going to leave him like this!” Jane said heatedly. She realized she was cradling the book she’d meant to give Tuck as a gift and eased her vise-like grip on its cover. “Parrish knew we’d try to get close to Tuck. In fact, I think he wanted Tuck to work the Bacchus fountain into a conversation. How else would we have discovered that underground passage in three days’ time? How else would Parrish have suddenly found himself in a position to bargain with me?”
Lachlan put his hand on Jane’s back and coaxed her out of the reading room. “I wouldn’t put it past him. And if all of that’s true, Parrish will expect us to call the police. I have no doubt that he’s made provisions to ensure that the authorities will view this as a death by natural causes. Parrish has been several moves ahead of us all along.”
“So how do we level the field?”
When Lachlan didn’t answer, Jane took out her phone. “Even if Parrish planned it, I still need to report Tuck’s death. The man deserves that small decency. I won’t leave him to be found hours or days from now.”
Jane called the emergency dispatch operator and was irked by the man’s lack of urgency. With nothing else to do, she and Lachlan returned to the garden to wait for the police. Fifteen minutes later, a single cruiser pulled into the parking nook next to Tuck’s cottage, followed closely by a coroner’s van.
