Murder in the Reading Room

by Ellery Adams

  And I should be able to go out to dinner without my sons requiring a bodyguard, Jane thought as Sinclair ministered to Michael Murphy, Butterworth, Sterling, and Lachlan.

  “The reversal isn’t immediate,” he told the room at large. “They’ll regain speech first, and that shouldn’t take long.”

  Jane moved to the middle of the room so that everyone could see her. As if he’d caught wind of a special meeting, Muffet Cat sauntered in through a crack in the doorway. He trotted over to Aunt Octavia and jumped onto her lap. She stroked his fur and cooed at him, clearly comforted by his presence.

  “I’ve come to a decision—one that I won’t be talked out of,” Jane began. Muffet Cat stared at her through hooded lids, but she ignored him. “When I agreed to be Guardian, I had no idea how dangerous the role would be. If I continue to allow my family and friends to be threatened, then I am not only a fool, but I’m also an unfit mother and a despicable friend. Before I was Guardian, I didn’t have to lie. I didn’t have to spend my precious free time training to fight enemies. I’ve done everything I was asked without knowing the whole truth about my position. As a collective, you asked me to step into this role. Yet none of you were transparent about what I would face. You also neglected to mention the allies I might have gained had I known they existed.”

  Uncle Aloysius opened his mouth to speak, but Jane put up her hand to stop him. “None of that matters now. An innocent man was killed this week. Because of our secret. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. I refuse to dishonor him or his family by covering up his murder. Our secret isn’t worth a lie of that magnitude. Some of our books are dangerous. I’ve seen horrible books touting the benefits of eugenics, ethnic cleansing, slavery, and more. But those books aren’t nearly as dangerous as the people who want to own them. Which is why I’m going to ask Sheriff Evans to come see me. I plan to tell him everything. And I mean everything.”

  Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius exchanged anxious glances. Sinclair’s eyes were shining with pride. Sterling blinked once, which Jane took as a sign of agreement. Lachlan didn’t respond while Butterworth gargled something unintelligible and Edwin nodded in support. Jane didn’t look at Michael Murphy. She wasn’t interested in his opinion.

  “The sheriff is a good man,” she said. “We can’t be above the law. If we believe we are, then we’re no better than Parrish and his people.”

  “Will the sheriff believe you, my girl?” asked Uncle Aloysius.

  Jane managed a tired smile. “He will. Because I’m going to show him what we’ve been protecting.”

  “That is not how things have been done.” Aunt Octavia couldn’t hide her disapproval. “Are you truly planning to break with centuries of tradition?”

  Jane knelt down in front of her great-aunt and said, “T. S. Eliot once asked, ‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’ I used to think I didn’t dare, but I’ve changed. I’m about to disturb our universe in a big way. It’ll be okay, though. You have my word as Guardian of Storyton Hall and as the girl you raised.”

  From the comfort of Aunt Octavia’s lap, Muffet Cat began to purr.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was no need to call Sheriff Evans. He was already at Storyton Hall meeting with Ray Pizzolato’s parents. Aunt Octavia called the kitchens and requested that two trolleys of food be delivered to the Safari Room.

  “We’ll bring them in,” she said to the member of the kitchen staff on the other end of the line. “No need to tie anyone up on a busy night.”

  Jane wasn’t sure she could eat anything in the reading room—not after all that had transpired there—but she managed a few bites of pasta.

  Aunt Octavia’s appetite was as robust as ever, and Muffet Cat was delighted to be fed choice morsels from her plate.

  While half of the room’s occupants ate, Michael Murphy and the Fins began to regain control of their bodies. Butterworth, the largest of the men, was the first to sit upright.

  “That was most undignified,” he grumbled.

  Jane had asked Billy the bellhop to intercept the sheriff before he had the chance to leave Storyton Hall, and she’d just finished picking at her dinner when Billy sent her a text message.

  “I need to do this alone,” she announced. “I’ll come back when I’m done.”

  “Good luck,” Edwin whispered and squeezed Jane’s hand.

  Jane gestured at one of the food trolleys before looking at Sinclair. “Please be sure Archie gets something to eat. I don’t know what we would have done without him.”

  “I’ll leave that to Mr. Butterworth,” said Sinclair. “I’d like to walk with you for a minute if that’s all right.”

  Together, Jane and the man who’d been like a father to her left the room.

  “I hope you’re not going to try to talk me out of this,” Jane warned. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “I’m quite familiar with your stubborn side,” said Sinclair fondly. “I know when you’re not going to budge. This is clearly one of those times. And I have no intention of talking you out of anything. In fact, I agree with you. The role of Guardian must be redefined. I want you to live a fulfilling life, Miss Jane. I don’t want your days to be riddled with fear and worry. No man would want that for his daughter, and I’ll always think of you as my daughter.”

  Jane smiled at him. “Thank you, Sinclair. But I don’t think all the Fins support my decision.”

  “We chose this life. You didn’t. You were destined for this role from birth, so why not mold it to suit you?”

  “I feel like I’m choosing between the wishes of Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia and the welfare of my sons,” Jane said. “I don’t want to be pulled apart by my responsibilities, and I don’t want to hurt anyone. But our family secret is literally killing people.”

  Sinclair nodded gravely. “What’s right is not always popular. I’m in your corner, Miss Jane. Now and always.”

  They found Sheriff Evans pacing in the lobby. Music and laughter floated out of the Great Gatsby Ballroom. The grim look on the sheriff’s face was incongruent with the sounds of revelry.

  Jane asked the sheriff if he could spare a few moments.

  “I’m on duty, but sure,” he said.

  “I’d prefer a quieter setting, so if you wouldn’t mind following me upstairs, I’d appreciate it.”

  Leaving Sinclair to take Butterworth’s customary position at the front door, Jane led the sheriff to her great-aunt and great-uncle’s apartments and asked him to have a seat in the living room.

  Jane sat on the sofa facing him. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Pizzolato?”

  “Distraught. Exhausted. Confused.”

  “How did they respond to the ruling of death by misadventure?”

  The sheriff glanced around the room, clearly wondering why he was there. “They’re having a hard time accepting it, as most people would. I didn’t want to get into the details from the ME’s report, but small rock fragments were found in the wound to the head, supporting the theory that Mr. Pizzolato struck his head against a rock.”

  Or a rock was struck against his head, Jane thought.

  “I’m not trying to be nosy,” she said. “I’m asking because I don’t think it was an accident. I believe Mr. Pizzolato was murdered. The worst part is that he wasn’t the intended victim.”

  The sheriff removed his hat and placed it on the sofa cushion. He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair and sighed. “I’m not following you, Ms. Steward.”

  “Sheriff, we’ve known each other for years. You’ve been to Storyton Hall multiple times to investigate crimes. I’ve been honest with you during those investigations. But only to a point.”

  At this, Evans arched his brows.

  “I’ve been forced to tell you half-truths. I never interfered with the course of justice, but I’d like you to understand why I had to act this way. I’d like to show you something, Sheriff. Because I trust you. And because I need your help.”

  The sheriff stared at her
. “I still don’t understand.”

  Jane removed her watch, turned it over, and showed Evans how she could press two buttons on the case to release a hidden key.

  “There’s a room above us,” she said. “It can only be accessed with this key. The room has always been here, but few people know of its existence. It contains a treasure beyond imagining, Sheriff. I see it as the Eighth Wonder of the World. And I’d like to show it to you.”

  Without waiting for the sheriff to respond, Jane hurried into Aunt Octavia’s closet, pushed the shoe rack away from the air vent, and pulled the vent cover off the wall. Instead of ductwork, she faced a keyhole and a lever. By turning her key and the lever at the same time, she released the lock to the china cupboard in the living room. Hearing the soft creak of hinges, she knew that it had swung away from the wall, very likely startling the sheriff.

  He was on his feet, his body tensed in a defense posture when she returned to the living room. “What’s going on, Ms. Steward?” he barked.

  “This is the entrance to a secret library,” Jane replied. “If you’re willing to follow me up the narrow staircase on the other side of this wall, I can show you why Storyton Hall has been the setting for a host of crimes.”

  The sheriff donned his hat and gestured at the dark cavity behind the cupboard. “After you.”

  Jane grabbed one of the battery-powered lanterns stored just inside the opening and turned it on. The faint light illuminated the twisting staircase leading up to the turret. When Jane and the sheriff reached the top, Jane unlocked the metal door and pushed it open.

  She knew that when Evans entered the room, he wouldn’t understand the significance of the drawers and cabinets. It looked more like a bank vault than a library.

  “Not exactly a Wonder of the World in appearance,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  Opening a drawer marked SHAKESPEARE, Jane removed an unfinished play read only by the Bard and a handful of people.

  “This is a tragedy written by William Shakespeare. Because it contained more social criticism than any of his previous works, Shakespeare’s benefactor bought it from the playwright and gave it to my ancestor for safekeeping. It was never seen again.”

  She returned the play to its drawer and showed Evans a Gutenberg Bible next. After that, she unfurled an Egyptian scroll thought to have been lost when the Library of Alexandria was destroyed. She continued producing treasure after treasure until the sheriff asked her to stop.

  “Why aren’t these things in a museum? Or the Library of Congress?” He picked up a pair of white gloves that Jane kept in a box near the door.

  Jane told him what she’d been told by Uncle Aloysius. She explained that some of the material was considered harmful at the time it had been written. Other items were entrusted to the Stewards because they had been custodians of rare and precious books for centuries.

  “This is the real reason you’ve had to investigate violent crimes at Storyton Hall,” she said, gesturing around the room. “Certain people will do anything to discover the location of this library. They’d like to help themselves to its contents. Mr. Pizzolato was killed by people like this. I never knew of their existence until my great-uncle showed me this library. Shortly after he did, there was a murder in the Mystery Suite.”

  “Can we go down now?” the sheriff asked. “I think I need to sit for a minute.”

  Jane led Evans back to the living room and poured him a finger’s worth of her great-uncle’s whiskey.

  “For medicinal purposes,” she said, offering him the crystal tumbler.

  The sheriff silently sipped his whiskey. He stared at the rug and seemed to be lost in thought.

  Finally, he asked Jane to tell him more about her role and the strife it created. Jane started with the abduction of the twins. When she got to the part about their kidnapper’s connection to the Templars, Evans drained the rest of his whiskey.

  Jane poured him another splash and continued talking. She felt surprisingly calm. Sharing her secret with the sheriff lifted a great weight from her shoulders. She would no longer need to omit certain truths or lie to him. She could be completely transparent.

  When she was done with her long and complicated story, Jane sat quietly and waited for the sheriff’s reaction.

  “This is a remarkable tale, Ms. Steward,” he said. Setting his glass aside, he tented his hands and studied her. “What proof do you have that your back-from-the-dead husband killed Mr. Pizzolato?”

  “Ramsey Parrish admitted it.”

  Jane sensed that the sheriff needed more facts before he’d accept what she just told him.

  “The same Ramsey Parrish who drove off in one of your cars with your husband in the passenger seat?”

  “Yes, he—”

  The sheriff raised a finger. “Hold that thought, I have an incoming call and I’m still on duty.” Putting his phone to his ear, he said, “Evans here.”

  He listened attentively, his expression betraying his concern.

  “Broken Arm Bend? Tell Phelps I’ll be there in five.”

  He stood up. “There’s been an accident. Fire and EMS are already on the scene. I need to go.” He began moving to the door. “The car involved is yours.”

  Parrish! Jane thought, trailing the sheriff out of the apartment and down the staff stairs.

  “We’ll talk more about Mr. Pizzolato and . . . everything else another time.” At the door to the lobby, he stopped and turned. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate your candor. I always felt like you were holding something back when we spoke, so it’s good to know that I haven’t completely lost my edge.”

  “I doubt you ever will,” said Jane.

  She didn’t see the sheriff out but hurried back to the Safari Room. Uncle Aloysius, Aunt Octavia, and the Fins were gathered around the eland head. Michael Murphy and Edwin were gone.

  Jane walked up to Sterling and tugged on his arm. “Parrish didn’t get far. He and William crashed at Broken Arm Bend.”

  “I guess Storyton refused to let them escape,” Aunt Octavia declared very softly.

  Sterling, who’d been out in the garages, strode into the room and told Jane that the key cabinet had been forced open.

  “This was inside.”

  It was a slip of paper containing a single line of messy cursive.

  I’ll take the wheel.

  It was signed by William.

  Jane looked at Sterling. “Do you think he caused the accident?”

  “That’s the conclusion I came to.”

  Jane shook her head in dismay. “I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him to make that sacrifice.”

  “Let’s not assume the worst,” Sterling said. “We’ll take one of the trucks to the scene. William might have tampered with other cars in our fleet to prevent us from following him. No one drives a Rolls until I examine every car.”

  Sterling drove at a conservative pace on the gravel driveway but immediately picked up speed after hitting the main road. Multiple emergency vehicles were parked along Broken Arm Bend. Their light bars lit up the night with an eerie red glow. Shadows danced on the asphalt, and the trees seemed to loom as tall and thick as giants. Jane opened her car door to a chorus of shouts and the smell of smoke.

  “This isn’t good,” whispered Sterling.

  Jane was thinking about William. Was he alive? Was Parrish? And what of Hemingway’s work? Imagining the pages turning black inside Parrish’s bag, Jane hurried toward the emergency vehicles.

  “Parrish tried to brake,” said Sterling as they moved. “He pumped them. Then, he pressed down on the brake pedal with all his strength. If I were abetting man, I’d say the brakes completely failed. And these tire tracks?” He pointed at dark skid marks on the asphalt. “Here’s where the wheel was jerked to the right—forcing the car right over the edge. That must have been William’s doing.”

  Jane still had his note in her hand. Her fingers were curled around it so tightly that her n
ails bit into the skin of her palm.

  “Why would the car catch fire?” she asked, searching for an indication of survivors.

  Sterling looked at the column of smoke rising into the night sky. “Probably a fuel leak.” He lowered his gaze and murmured. “A vintage Rolls isn’t exactly known for its safety rating. No airbags. No antilock brakes. We can only hope those men survived the crash.”

  Not long after, four paramedics hoisted a stretcher over the edge of the embankment. The patient was already zipped into a body bag.

  Jane’s heart felt as heavy as an anchor when another bagged body followed several minutes later.

  “Oh, William,” Jane whispered. She felt numb. She didn’t think anyone would mourn Parrish’s loss, but she would grieve for William all over again. Shielding her eyes against the strobe flash of the light bars, she searched for the sheriff. “I want to see what happened with Hemingway’s papers,” she told Sterling in a flat voice. “It would be miraculous if they were intact, but I could use a miracle right now.”

  As she approached the nearest sheriff’s department cruiser, Deputy Phelps intercepted her.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Steward. You can’t get any closer. It isn’t safe. There’s not much to see now. The victims have been cleared from the wreckage, and your car is totaled.”

  “Is it still on fire?” she asked.

  Phelps shook his head. “They’re just saturating the surrounding area as a precaution.”

  Jane glanced from the smoke to where Sheriff Evans was standing. After catching her eye, he wrapped up his conversation with the paramedics and headed over to her.

  “Mr. Parrish is dead.” He put a hand under Jane’s elbow in case she needed support and added, “As is your husband.”

  “He tried to make amends,” Jane said, offering the crumpled slip of paper to the sheriff. She didn’t say anything else. A hard lump had formed in her throat, blocking her words. She wasn’t sure she could express her feelings anyway. Mixed with a fresh pang of loss was a glimmer of pride and relief. Though the man she’d once loved had died long ago, this version of William had reached down and found something more than Parrish had instilled in him. He’d found a desire to do the right thing. Perhaps, he’d wanted to protect Jane and his sons.