by Ellery Adams
Stepping into the room, Jane noticed a dagger-shaped piece of porcelain tucked in the curve of the man’s left hand. The pointed tip was covered in dried blood, as was the dead man’s palm.
“What were you doing here in the middle of the night?” Jane asked Chef Pierce. Her voice held no condemnation. Only pity.
Having seen enough, she returned to the hall and called Butterworth.
“Alert the other Fins,” Jane said after she told Butterworth about Chef Pierce. “Except for Lachlan. He might be with Eloise, and I don’t want to alarm her. Grab a bottle of whiskey from the lounge too, please. For medicinal purposes.”
Jane hung up and went to check on Murray. When Butterworth appeared, she signaled for him to add a splash of whiskey to Murray’s coffee.
“You’re having one too,” Butterworth told Jane. “You might think you’re okay, but you’re not.”
Jane and Murray sipped their whiskey-laced coffee while Butterworth left to examine the cookbook nook.
“I have to call Sheriff Evans, and I imagine he’ll want to speak to you,” Jane said to Murray. “If you’d be more comfortable at home, I can tell him to find you there.”
Murray cradled his warm mug. “I’d rather bake, Ms. Steward. It’ll calm my nerves.”
“I understand. When the rest of the kitchen staff arrives, please tell them we have a Rip Van Winkle in the cookbook nook. They may want to have a peek—it’s natural to be curious—but I’d like you to remind them that the deceased is still our guest. I don’t want gawking or gossiping.”
The staff knew that Rip Van Winkle was code for an expired guest. Innocuous codes for serious situations were common practice in the hotel business. Though it was an unpleasant truth, people died in hotels all the time, and there were protocols for handling these unfortunate incidents.
Murray sat up straighter and grabbed his rolling pin. “You can count on me, ma’am.”
Jane thanked him warmly, put her coffee mug in the sink, and went to join Butterworth. It wasn’t long before Sinclair and Sterling appeared.
Sinclair put a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to wake up to such a grim sight, my girl.”
“He has it far worse,” Jane said, indicating the dead man.
Sterling held out several wrapped swabs. “I’ll collect a few samples before the sheriff comes. Just in case.”
Jane leaned into Sinclair, comforted by the scent of books on his clothes. “I wish his ending had been peaceful. For his sake, and for ours. Would you say a few words, Sinclair? I’m too numb to think of anything.”
“Any eulogy I came up with would be colored by what I know about this man. Therefore, I’ll borrow from Chaucer.”
Butterworth’s brow twitched. “Chaucer isn’t known for his brevity.”
Sinclair lowered his head and began to speak.
“‘Certain, when I was born, so long ago,
Death drew the tap of life and let it flow;
And ever since the tap has done its task,
And now there’s little more but an empty cask.’”
Sterling murmured, “Pretty grim farewell,” and bent to collect a blood sample.
“I was inspired by that.” Sinclair pointed at an empty wineglass with a ribbed stem on the fourth shelf from the floor. The glass was used only in the Madame Bovary Dining Room, which meant it was probably the same one Chef Pierce had carried from the table into the kitchens.
“Was he planning to steal a cookbook? Or one of the antiques?” mused Butterworth.
Jane studied the shelves. “The first volume of the two-volume set Mia gave to Mrs. Hubbard isn’t flush with the other books. It looks like Chef Pierce was in the middle of pulling it off the shelf when . . . what? He had a heart attack? Or a stroke?”
“It’s hard to say.” Sterling traced a line through the air from the shelves to Chef Pierce’s body. “An intense pain or the sudden inability to control his movements would explain why the dishes were swept off the shelf.”
“Then what? He collapsed to the floor, falling directly on that knife-sharp piece of porcelain?” Jane stared at Chef Pierce’s left hand. “Somehow, it impaled his belly, and after pulling it out, he pressed his hand to the wound. But he couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
Butterworth frowned. “That’s a very unlikely scenario.”
“The bleeding from the abdominal wound is no surprise, but the smaller cuts bled like crazy too.” Sterling looked at Jane. “Did he mention any health issues in front of you?”
Recalling the breakfast in the Daphne du Maurier Drawing Room, Jane explained how Chef Pierce had brandished his pill bottle. “He said he took medicine for his heart and blood pressure.”
Sterling glanced at Chef Pierce’s waxen face. “He had a bad ticker and high blood pressure, and those are the health issues we know of.”
Jane said, “He could also put away large amounts of food, and he drank like he was trying to quench an insatiable thirst.”
“An apt description of alcoholism,” said Sinclair. “The thirst is both physical and emotional.” As he looked at Chef Pierce, his gaze softened. “This man’s history is rife with poor choices and indecent behavior.”
Sterling folded his arms. “None of this explains what he was doing here. Would he steal a book or antique at the beginning of the competition?” He pointed at a china fragment. “Is this stuff even worth the risk?”
“Before it broke into bits, that piece was a Royal Copenhagen soup tureen worth twenty thousand dollars,” said Sinclair. “I also see the remains of a blue and white fish platter worth thousands of dollars.”
Sterling whistled.
“The books would be easier to hide in a suitcase,” said Butterworth.
The men fell quiet and Jane decided that it was time to call the sheriff’s department.
The dispatch operator told Jane that because Sheriff Evans wasn’t on duty until eight, Deputy Phelps would be the responding officer. Jane liked the young deputy, but she wanted Sheriff Evans to take charge of the situation. He had a shrewd mind, a calm manner, and was far more experienced than Deputy Phelps.
Jane pocketed her phone and looked at Sterling. “The cavalry’s coming. After you get those samples to your lab, will you review last night’s video footage? I’d like to know if Chef Pierce prowled about alone, or if he had company.”
Sterling hurried off and Butterworth headed to the loading dock to meet Deputy Phelps.
Jane decided to wait in the hall, and even though Chef Pierce’s glassy-eyed stare could no longer find her where she stood, Jane could still feel the dead man’s presence. He’d demanded attention in life, and he was continuing to demand it in death.
As if reading Jane’s mind, Sinclair said, “Chef Pierce did not go quietly into the night. He raged and he fought. The aftermath of that struggle has left an imprint.”
The sounds of the kitchen staff preparing for the breakfast service drifted down the hall, and the familiar din made Jane think of Mrs. Hubbard.
“Poor Mrs. Hubbard. The cookbook nook is her special retreat. She’s told me before that the pieces on the shelves are worth a small fortune, but it’s not like I’d ever sell them. And though they’ve been in the Steward family for generations, it’s Mrs. Hubbard who cherishes every platter and teapot.”
“At least her cookbooks are unharmed,” said Sinclair.
Jane didn’t think this would be much of a consolation. She could only hope that Chef Pierce’s body was removed before Mrs. Hubbard arrived to oversee the lunch service.
The crackle of a walkie-talkie drew Jane’s attention to the end of the hall. She saw Deputy Phelps carrying a field kit. He wasn’t alone. Sheriff Evans was right behind him.
Jane was so relieved that she almost smiled.
Sheriff Evans touched the brim of his brown hat. “Good morning, Ms. Steward.”
“Sheriff. Deputy Phelps. I’m sorry to call you out this early.”
Evans said, “I’d get up even earlie
r if it meant I could have a cup of your excellent coffee.”
The sheriff knew that a guest had died, but he had no idea that the guest was a celebrity, or that his death would soon have the media descending on Storyton like a plague of locusts.
Evans studied Jane’s face. “It’s a bad one, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded and stepped aside, giving the lawmen an unobstructed view of the blood trail. She and Sinclair hung back while Evans and Phelps entered the cookbook nook. It felt like an eternity before they reemerged wearing examination gloves and solemn expressions.
Deputy Phelps removed a stack of evidence markers from his field kit and carried them into the cookbook nook. The sight of the small, yellow signs with their black numbers filled Jane with dread.
“This isn’t a clear case of death by natural causes, so we’ll need to process the scene,” the sheriff told Jane. “When Doc Lydgate gets here, he’ll give us a better idea of what we’re dealing with. In the meantime, who found your Rip Van Winkle?”
At the sheriff’s behest, Jane asked Murray to step into the break room. The kitchen staff shot curious glances in his direction but continued with their work.
It didn’t take long for Sheriff Evans to interview Murray, and by the time the baker was back at his station, rolling out a mound of dough, Doc Lydgate had arrived.
The village doctor was known by everyone in Storyton. His hair and beard were as white as egret feathers, and though his face was a map of wrinkles, his mind was sharp and his hands were gentle and sure.
Doc Lydgate gave Jane an affectionate pat on the arm. “I haven’t examined a patient in your kitchens before, but who could blame a person for wanting to spend their final moments surrounded by such heavenly smells?”
“And our guest may have been too drunk to smell much of anything.”
“I see,” said the doc in a low tone. “Would you lead me to the patient, please?”
Jane admired how Doc Lydgate claimed Chef Pierce as his patient. Whether he deserved it or not, the infamous chef would be treated with dignity by those investigating his death.
Deputy Phelps had finished photographing the scene, so Jane followed the doc into the cookbook nook. She needed to hear Doc Lydgate’s initial impressions because she’d soon be facing a barrage of questions, and the only people who could provide answers were in this room.
The doc looked down at the dead man’s face. “It seems the gentleman liked to imbibe, judging by the broken capillaries around the nose. In addition to the expected lividity, the skin has a yellow tinge indicative of liver disease. The hypostasis on the bottom half of the face tells me that the patient died in this position, causing the remaining blood to pool in the parts of his body closest to the floor. The extreme pallor of his neck and hands is due to blood loss. The minor lacerations appear to have bled at an accelerated rate. The patient may have been taking anticoagulants. If his blood couldn’t clot, the wound in his side would have been fatal. It appears that he tried to stem the flow with his hand, which speaks to the patient’s desire to live.”
He paused as if the gravity of this statement called for a moment of silence.
“The patient was overweight and in poor health,” the doc continued. “He probably used the last of his strength removing that shard.”
Jane turned to the sheriff. “Have you searched his pockets?”
“Not much on him. Just the key to his guest room and a matchbook from a bar in New York. The key was in his pocket, but the matchbook was tucked under the band of his underwear.”
It took a second for Jane to digest this. “Who keeps matches in their underwear? May I see them?”
Evans nodded at Phelps, who retrieved the evidence bag from his kit. Jane examined the unremarkable matchbox before giving the sheriff a forlorn look. “Are you treating this as a crime scene?”
“We are. Storyton Hall has a history of attracting violence, and I’d rather be wrong about this situation than fail to gather the evidence when I had the chance.”
Jane said, “You’re right, of course. And all eyes will be on us when it gets out that one of the contestants from Posh Palate with Mia Mallett died after the first episode.”
The sheriff’s expression turned pensive. “I’ve never watched the show, but Deputy Phelps filled me in on the ride over. Since these chefs are competing for such a lucrative prize, it raises the question: How far will they go to win?”
Jane stared at the body in the cookbook nook—at the blood and broken china—and wished she could go back to bed and wake up to a different reality. But there was no escaping the dead man on the floor. There was no avoiding Sheriff Evans’s question. And his was one of many swirling around inside Jane’s head.
Why did Pierce come down here in the middle of the night?
Was he going to steal something?
Was he looking for a recipe?
Was he going to burn something with those matches?
The kitchens were the heart of Storyton Hall. Their noise, bustle, and warmth never failed to distract Jane from her worries.
Until today.
Today, death was stronger than the heat generated by the ovens or the pervasive aroma of baking bread. Today, death evoked a silence more powerful than the clamor of the cooks.
In that silence, another question formed in Jane’s mind. She tried to ignore it, but it grew and grew like rising dough, refusing to be tamped down.
Was it murder?
Chapter 6
By the time Chef Pierce’s body had been loaded into an ambulance, Storyton Hall was coming to life. The delivery bell rang, the noise in the kitchens escalated, and room service orders began trickling in.
Butterworth insisted on mopping the hall and cookbook nook himself. “It’s easier to control the gossip if no one views the scene but us. I believe we can rely on Mr. Murray’s discretion.”
Sinclair offered to help with the cleaning. While the two men set about their gruesome task, Jane fetched hydrogen peroxide and baking soda to address any residual stains and called home to check on the twins.
Fitz answered the phone with a groggy, “Hey, Mom.”
Jane could hear cereal hitting the bottom of a bowl. The boys were having a late breakfast.
At least someone got some rest, she thought.
“Why’d you leave so early?” asked Fitz.
“We had a Rip Van Winkle,” Jane said.
After ordering his brother to switch to speaker mode, Hem said, “What happened?”
Without going into detail, Jane told her sons that the deceased was one of the celebrity chefs. She went on to add that his passing was sure to throw the resort into chaos.
“What should we do?”
“Get dressed and report to Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia. Tell them what happened and that I’ll fill them in as soon as I can.”
Having spoken with her sons, Jane was ready to visit Mia’s suite.
“I’m heading to the third floor,” she told Butterworth and Sinclair. “We’re expecting a crowd of two hundred people later this morning, so if Mia decides to cancel the show, I’ll need to get the word out as soon as possible. You two will have to break the news to Mrs. Hubbard, I’m afraid.”
Jane hurried to her office where she ran a brush through her hair and applied a little powder and lipstick. The reflection in her compact showed a sleep-deprived woman with worried eyes.
Mia answered her door dressed in a silky white robe over cotton pajamas with a pineapple print. Her makeup-free face was as luminescent as a pearl. Her dark hair was in rollers and her room smelled of nail polish.
“This is a surprise.” She smiled as she took in Jane’s appearance. “Were you working out?”
Jane glanced down at her T-shirt and sweatpants and blushed. She never interacted with guests looking like this, but here she was, talking to a beautiful billionaire in the clothes she used for yard work.
“Sorry to show up without calling first, but I have bad news. May I come in?”
>
Mia’s smile faded and she stepped aside.
The two women sat on the sofa in the living room area. After politely refusing Mia’s offer of coffee, Jane said, “Chef Pierce passed away last night.”
Mia’s eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
In Jane’s experience, it was best to deliver bad news quickly and in plain terms.
“A staff member found him this morning. I reported the incident to the authorities, and the sheriff and our local doctor have conducted a preliminary examination. I don’t know how Chef Pierce died, and it could take hours—or days—for the medical examiner to make a ruling.”
Mia stared at Jane in disbelief. “But we just saw him at dinner. He was fine. He was . . . do you think this happened because of his drinking?”
Instead of answering, Jane asked her own question. “How much do you know about the contestants’ health? Do they submit a medical history or sign waivers as part of their contract?”
Sounding dazed, Mia said, “They submit health forms. Our insurance company requires them.”
Jane made a mental note to ask Bentley for a copy of Chef Pierce’s forms.
“And Chef Pierce’s drinking? Was his excessiveness common knowledge?”
“His employees and some food critics and customers would know about it. But most people wouldn’t see it as a big deal.” Mia shrugged. “Lots of chefs have issues. Their jobs are super stressful, and their craft demands most of their time and energy. It’s not unusual for chefs to have an addiction. Smoking, drinking, drugs—whatever keeps them cooking.”
She went on to describe the punishing schedules and physical challenges faced by executive chefs. “After years of this, many chefs become sick or depressed. The burnout rate in the profession is crazy high.”
“I had no idea,” said Jane. “Mrs. Hubbard might yell and shout at times, but she’s happiest in a kitchen.”
“She definitely loves her work.” Mia gazed into the middle distance. “It might not seem like it, but Chef Pierce still loved being a chef too. I wanted him on the show because I knew he’d create drama, but he’s also super talented. The man was born to cook delicious food.”
