by Ellery Adams
“I’ve gone from one extreme to the other,” he said with a smile.
“Speaking of extremes . . .” Jane began and went on to tell Edwin her plans for removing Parrish from Storyton Hall.
“I wish you didn’t have to take such a risk.” Edwin looked down at his wineglass. “I haven’t been able to discover Parrish’s real intentions. I don’t believe he’s here to gain access to the secret library because he knows you’d never allow that. So if not the library, what is his goal?”
Jane wished she knew. “Have you been using the laptop I hid on your breakfast cart to research the historians?”
“Yes. I made a list of the men most likely to be working with Parrish.” Edwin handed Jane a piece of paper. “They had to fit certain parameters to make this list. The ability to travel was first among the requirements. No serious romantic attachments. No children. All the attendees are smart and well-read, so I couldn’t use that as a deciding factor. A lack of attachments is the key.”
“That didn’t work out so well for you, did it?” Jane teased.
He took her hand and planted a tender kiss on the inside of her wrist. “I’m glad it didn’t.”
Though Jane wanted to linger with Edwin, she couldn’t. Above all else, she was a mother, and she needed to go home and be with her sons. She bid Edwin good night, knowing she’d see him soon enough. Just as soon as Parrish was taken hostage.
She didn’t look at Edwin’s list until after the boys were in their pajamas, quietly reading in bed. In the privacy of her room, she unfolded the paper and scanned the short list of names.
At the very top was Roger Bachman, Mrs. Pratt’s cooking partner.
Mrs. Pratt’s partner and the man she’d invited out for cocktails.
Please be in the Ian Fleming Lounge, Jane thought, dialing the bar’s number.
But Mrs. Pratt wasn’t in the lounge.
According to the Fins, she was nowhere to be found.
Because she was no longer at Storyton Hall.
Chapter Nine
Jane was wondering if she should change out of her beloved book-lovers pajamas and start searching for Mrs. Pratt when it suddenly occurred to her that Storyton Hall wasn’t the only place to get a drink.
“Betty, it’s me,” Jane said when her friend answered the phone at the Cheshire Cat Pub. “Please tell me Eugenia is there.”
“She sure is,” said Betty over the din in the background. “She’s having the time of her life too. She even played darts! Claims it was her first time, but I don’t believe her. The woman scored a double bull right off the bat.”
Jane wasn’t interested in discussing Mrs. Pratt’s prowess at bar games. “Don’t let her leave with her date or walk home by herself. The man she’s with is Roger Bachman. All we know about him is that he’s a lone wolf.”
“Do you think he’ll harm Eugenia?” Betty was instantly concerned.
“My worry is that we don’t know a thing about him,” Jane said. “After what happened to the twins, we should all be cautious.”
Betty covered the mouthpiece to tell a patron that she’d be right there and then returned to Jane. “It won’t be easy to separate the two of them. Eugenia is acting like a barnacle on an oceanic pier. And Roger seems to be enjoying the attention. What if we’re ruining a good thing?”
“I’ll apologize later. Maybe you could ask Bob to step in,” Jane said, referring to Betty’s husband.
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out,” Betty promised. “And we’ll see you at the reenactment. Did you realize how rare it is for Bob to attend a Storyton Hall event with me? Our schedules usually make it impossible. I’ll feel like we’re on a date, and it’s been a long time since that’s happened.”
Jane thanked Betty and hung up. She reached for her current read, Shobha Rao’s Girls Burn Brighter. Luckily for Jane, it was exactly the book she needed right now—the kind of story that whisked her away from her own struggles. After a single page, she was transported to India to share in the trials and tribulations of Poornima and Savitha.
When the chapter was done, Jane closed the book. She looked at the bright flame filling a field of white and thought about the now-obsolete funeral practice in which some Hindi widows immolated themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre.
There was a period of time before the twins were born when Jane might have considered sati. She’d read books about the practice and learned that not all widows were burned. Some were buried alive with their husband’s remains. Some were drowned. Right after William’s death, none of those things seemed as terrible to Jane as living without her husband.
In the worst stages of her grief, Jane felt like she woke each morning with water in her lungs. She felt like the weight of the air in her apartment would crush her. It took incredible energy to be near other people, to complete mundane tasks. But day after day, she got out of bed. She got out of bed because she had life growing inside her.
Ruminations on widowhood continued the following morning as Jane helped the groundskeepers, the members of the BackStory Club, and a dozen other historians make the final preparations for the reenactment.
The fallow field behind the unkempt apple orchard was one of the many reasons the BackStory members had chosen Storyton Hall as a tour stop. This open area, which was surrounded by woods, was an ideal setting for a battle. After booking the resort, the historians had emailed their plans for the reenactment. Storyton Hall’s groundskeepers had then dug trenches and erected parapets in the field. Damaged tents once used for weddings or other outdoor events were turned into mess tents or first-aid stations. A makeshift paddock had also been created for the horses Sam was bringing down from Hilltop Stables.
When Sterling drove Jane around the orchard to the reenactment site, Clarence Kelley, Isabel Kelley, Archie Banks, and Michael Murphy were already at the battlefield. Clarence and Isabel were overseeing the placement of sandbags while Archie and Michael were counting wooden crates marked with the words EGG GRENADES.
As Jane had been provided with a list of the simulated weapons used in the reenactment, she was familiar with the egg grenades. Wooden eggs, which could be found at certain crafts stores, were filled with black powder and baking soda. A fuse and a pair of strike matches were taped to the top of the egg. This allowed participants to light the grenade by striking the matches against their helmets. All participants, without exception, were required to wear helmets.
The egg grenades were meant for the Allies, while the German soldiers would use stick grenades. Jane had been forewarned that the reenactment was very, very noisy and she should expect a cacophony of air-gun shots, whistling mortars, exploding grenades, yelling, and, despite the organizers’ desire to keep things clean, a generous amount of swearing.
The historians and participants from Storyton village and over the mountain—a term coined for anyone living in towns with strip malls and big-box stores—would be collecting their uniforms today from a rental company specializing in warfare reenactments. It was during this hubbub that Jane planned to relocate Ramsey Parrish to less-luxurious accommodations.
After the morning session—a mandatory review of the rules regarding tomorrow’s reenactment—the participants were released in time for lunch. Jane and the Fins had eyes on Parrish, so she knew he was lunching in the Madame Bovary Dining Room. He ate alone, sitting at a two-top table near the windows. All around him, the historians sat at larger tables. They were clearly excited about tomorrow’s event, and the dining room was buzzing with animated conversations.
Jane waited until Parrish had finished his meal and had been served a cappuccino before approaching his table. She put a hand on the empty chair across from him and asked, “May I join you?”
Parrish closed the book he was reading and pulled out Jane’s chair. “I’d be delighted.”
He waited until she was seated before gesturing at his coffee. “I judge establishments using two parameters: their coffee and their mattresses. The coffee should be stro
ng. The mattress should be soft, but not too soft.”
“How does Storyton Hall measure up?”
Parrish touched the handle of his coffee cup. “A perfect score on both counts. You have a lovely establishment, Ms. Steward. You’re clearly an excellent manager.”
“I’m glad to hear that you’re pleased with Storyton Hall. I haven’t seen you interacting with the group celebrating the Great War centennial. Is there a reason for that?”
Parrish put a hand on his book. The touch was possessive. Affectionate. “I’m celebrating by rereading A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway’s novel is one of the finest and most honest pieces of wartime literature. Did you know that he was the first ambulance driver injured in the line of duty?”
Jane nodded. “He was struck by a mortar shell. He was only eighteen, and the injuries he sustained would bother him for the rest of his life.”
“Though shell fragments were picked out of his legs, hand, and head, Hemingway never let pain hold him back. He hunted, flew planes, and fished. He documented wars and climbed mountains. He lived ten lifetimes in one.”
Parrish was quite animated, and Jane wondered if Ernest Hemingway was the real reason Parrish had come to Storyton Hall. If so, he was to be disappointed. The secret library contained nothing by the famous author.
“I think Hemingway was a man who thrived in times of conflict,” she said. “He seemed incapable of accepting times of peace. People tend to see him as this larger-than-life hero, but it’s his use of plain language, honesty, and vulnerability that made me a lifelong fan.”
Parrish smiled. “It’s most refreshing to discuss literature with such a lovely woman. Hemingway would have found you very charming, Ms. Steward. However, I don’t believe you joined me for an impromptu book discussion.”
Jane scanned the dining room as if hoping to find one of Parrish’s confederates watching them, but all the historians were focused on their tablemates. “You’ve kept your word, Mr. Parrish. Edwin and William are back where they belong. Now, it’s time for me to keep mine. Let’s address the real reason you came to Storyton Hall.”
“Excellent,” said Parrish. “When will this take place?”
“Immediately. The guests will be busy with uniform rentals, and we’re headed to the opposite end of the manor house,” Jane said. “However, there’s one thing I’d like to know before we go. You never explained what would happen if I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain.”
Parrish finished his coffee and put the cup down with a firm clink. “It would be very foolish of you to back out. That’s all I can say. I am not a man who handles disappointment well. If you deceive me, you’ll regret it.”
Gazing blandly at Parrish, Jane said, “That’s pretty vague. You won’t even give me a hint? Will you try to abduct my sons again? Trip my great-aunt as she descends the main staircase? Plant bombs around our construction site?”
Parrish didn’t respond. One of his most remarkable skills was his ability to keep quiet. He didn’t care how she felt about his silence, and this disregard for others’ feelings was a powerful weapon.
I have something more powerful, she thought, rising to her feet. I have my family and my friends. I love these people. And they love me.
Another voice chimed in. Which means you have more to lose.
Shoving these thoughts aside, Jane invited Parrish to follow her and led him through the lobby toward the wing housing the conference rooms.
“I know you have a plan,” Jane said as they walked. “You’d hardly expect me to hand over priceless materials without a fight. I wouldn’t expect that of you.” When she reached the broom cupboard, which was positioned in the hallway directly between two conference rooms, she stopped. “What I don’t understand is why we must be enemies. The information contained in the world’s rarest books won’t change our present or our future. No mystic tome will teach us how to live without sickness or strife. No ancient tablet contains the secrets to winning elections or to acquiring immense wealth.”
Parrish smiled. “You are mistaken. Many of these artifacts reveal the location of invaluable treasures. But only if one knows how to read them. The Templars have already accumulated vast amounts of money and power. However, more wonders are waiting to be found. It is my duty to continue the search and to help my brotherhood shape the future of humankind.”
Jane shook her head. “You talk like you’re an omniscient group of Indiana Jonses. But he was a professor and an archaeologist. What does your order do for humanity?”
Parrish looked perplexed. “Why should we work toward a greater good? We’re not Robin Hood and his Merry Men. We’re scholar entrepreneurs. Visionaries.”
“Why should you help people?” Jane spluttered. “Because your order was founded for precisely that reason. The Templar knights aided pilgrims journeying to Jerusalem. They made sure the pilgrims had food, water, and protection. What happened to that selflessness?”
“It’s neither profitable nor prudent,” said Parrish. “When our order was falsely accused of treason as an excuse to seize our lands and riches, we learned a valuable lesson.”
Jane opened the cupboard door. “The Templars were mistreated, I agree, but people have been mistreated throughout history. The key is not to become like those who’ve abused you. The key is to rise above them.”
“Spoken like a true bleeding heart,” Parrish scoffed and gestured at the closet. “Am I supposed to be captivated by these cleaning supplies?”
“If you enjoy C. S. Lewis.” Jane glanced both ways along the corridor, making sure there were no witnesses. When she looked back at Parrish, she saw that he’d recognized the literary reference. “After you,” she said.
He stepped into the cupboard.
Following close on his heels, Jane shut the door and turned on her cell phone’s flashlight. It was a tight squeeze in the cupboard, and she loathed being so close to Parrish. She could feel his breath and his eyes on her.
Shoving a regiment of mops and brooms to one side, Jane reached into a cavity in the back panel and twisted a hidden latch. A secret door swung away from her, revealing nothing but darkness.
Jane allowed Parrish to exit the cupboard before closing the door again. “This passageway runs between two conference rooms,” she whispered. “They’re empty right now, but a person could hear us through the air vent. See the octagonal shapes on the floor? That pattern is from the brass vent cover in the William Faulkner Conference Room. We’ll pass by two of these before we reach the stairs. From that point, we go down.”
“This corridor isn’t on any of the blueprints I was able to acquire, and I purchased several at exorbitant prices,” Parrish said. His voice held the faintest hint of excitement.
“Not everything is for sale, Mr. Parrish. Some secrets are meant to be kept.”
Jane began to talk about Storyton Hall’s architect. She wanted to distract Parrish with idle prattle until Butterworth could use a diminutive blowgun to shoot a tiny but potent dart into Parrish’s calf. The butler was on his belly near the second air vent, awaiting their approach. If this attempt failed, Jane had a backup plan. Sterling was hiding at the end of the narrow passageway, dressed in black from head to toe. He was also armed with a dart dipped in a paralyzing toxin. Much like the batrachotoxin secreted by poison dart frogs, the toxin-dipped dart intended for Parrish’s calf was tremendously fast-acting. It would render Parrish unconscious in seconds and keep him in a paralytic state for hours. The dose wouldn’t be strong enough to stop his heart, but he wouldn’t be sipping cappuccinos anytime soon.
Jane could envision Butterworth, stretched out on the conference-room floor, the mouthpiece of the blowgun pressed against his lips, as he listened for Parrish’s approach. The blowgun was a nineteenth-century African weapon kept on display in a locked case in the Isak Dinesen Safari Room. It was painted red and black and a menacing mask was carved into the shaft. Sterling was armed with a twentieth-century blowgun. Cyril Steward collected these weapons, as well a
s the other treasures, on one of his many trips to Africa.
In some ways, Cyril was like Ernest Hemingway. He’d been a restless soul forever looking for adventure. At least, that’s how Jane saw him until she learned the truth about her family history. She realized that many of Cyril’s hunting trips were likely a front, and that he went abroad to take possession of materials destined for Storyton Hall’s secret library.
“The hall is very narrow,” Jane whispered to Parrish as they came to the second air vent. “You can touch the wall quite easily. If you just focus on my light, you’ll see the door to the stairway. It will appear any moment now.”
“I don’t—” Parrish began.
Jane would never know what he planned to say.
She heard the ghost of a sigh, as if his words had been whisked away by a sudden wind.
And then he fell.
Jane made no move to break his fall. She simply pivoted and shone the feeble beam from her cell phone over his crumpled form. “Nicely done, Butterworth.”
Sterling appeared behind her. “We’ll take it from here, Miss Jane. Mr. Sinclair will inform Mr. Alcott that he’s free to leave Mr. Parrish’s room. We recommend that he makes his exit during tonight’s film.”
“Do you think Sergeant York will be as popular as last night’s double feature?” Jane asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a classic,” Sterling said. “Gary Cooper plays the reluctant hero. I think it’s his best role.”
Jane knew some of her friends would attend just to watch Gary Cooper. Not Eloise, however. She’d been invited to join her older brother for coffee and dessert at Daily Bread, Edwin’s restaurant. Tonight, Edwin would finally reveal his secret to his sister.
After leaving the broom cupboard, Jane visited the ladies’ room to check her skin and clothes for dust bunnies. She then washed her hands and headed for the Shakespeare Theater to see how the uniform rental was going.
When she arrived, she was amazed by the number of people in the theater. It looked like half of the village had signed up to participate in the reenactment.
