by Ellery Adams
“Nice job.” There was no need to feign excitement as she rushed into the bathroom and said, “Lachlan found Mia’s note.”
Since Deputy Emory was closer, Jane passed her the bag. This strategy ensured that both officers would be preoccupied for a minute or two. But a minute was all it took for the deputy to remove the envelope from the bag, peek inside, and shake her head.
“No note.”
Jane turned in the doorway and called, “Did you find a note, Lachlan?”
“Still looking,” he replied.
Sheriff Evans waved his arm. “If you’d excuse us, Ms. Steward. We’re done in here.”
As soon as Jane stepped aside, he made a beeline for the laptop.
The sheriff stared at the email for a long moment before glancing at Jane. “It looks like I have another interview to conduct. Deputy Phelps will continue working in here, but Deputy Emory and I will need to borrow your conference room again. Would you send Mr. Anjou to us? We’ll need to speak to him alone.”
After giving Jane an apologetic look, Deputy Emory slipped the laptop into a large evidence bag and followed the sheriff out of the room.
The door had barely closed when Jane rounded on Lachlan. “Why is the sheriff in such a hurry to talk to Mr. Anjou?”
Lachlan peeled off his gloves. “Because the email Mr. Anjou sent Chef Pierce is basically a death threat.”
Jane gaped at him. “What did it say?”
“This is a direct quote: ‘I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. You thought you could outmaneuver me, you inflated pig’s bladder? You’re done, and everyone will be happier when you’re gone.’”
The brief, biting words hung in the malodorous air, and though Jane wished she could open a window and shove them out, she was frozen in place.
Her paralysis was broken by the sound of voices in the hallway. As Jane moved toward the door, Lachlan let his gloves fall onto the discarded remnants of another man’s life.
A man no one would miss.
Chapter 8
Jane would have escorted Levi Anjou to the conference room right away, but she was unable to find him. He didn’t answer his cell or guest room phone. He didn’t appear on any of the security monitors, and he hadn’t called for a driver to take him into the village.
With his judging duties over for the day, he could be engaged in any number of activities. But after checking the log at the recreation desk Lachlan said that Levi hadn’t registered for a falconry lesson, guided hike, canoeing trip, or fishing excursion. He wasn’t playing lawn tennis or relaxing in a reading room either.
Sinclair called down to the Walt Whitman Spa in case the food critic had booked a massage, but he wasn’t there. Nor was he taking a dip in the Jules Verne Pool, checking out a book from the Henry James Library, or sitting in a rocking chair on the terrace. He wasn’t on the pickleball court or the Lewis Carroll Croquet Lawn. He wasn’t taking in the scenery from the Anne of Green Gables Gazebo or strolling through Milton’s Gardens.
Seeing no other recourse, Butterworth knocked on his guest room door. When this failed to elicit a response, Jane used her master key to gain entry.
As soon as she stepped into the room, she released the breath she’d been holding. There was no sign of violence. No dead body. No chaos. The space was clearly occupied, which meant Levi Anjou had to be around somewhere.
Butterworth opened the closet door and counted the number of shirts, suit coats, and pants hanging neatly within. He then surveyed the contents of the chest of drawers.
“Mr. Anjou has expensive taste. His clothing is of the highest quality and is hung or folded with great care.”
Having caught the note of admiration in Butterworth’s voice, Jane couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Well, a man who folds his undershirts so meticulously can’t be a murderer.”
Butterworth’s gaze roved over the toiletries on the bathroom counter, which had been arranged by height. The two towels hanging from the rod next to the shower were perfectly aligned, and the bathmat had been folded into a tidy rectangle.
“If you’re referring to the theory that violence can be a manifestation of an obsessive-compulsive disorder, I don’t believe that’s what we’re seeing here,” said Butterworth. “Mr. Anjou is simply more fastidious than our average guest. As to his relationship with the deceased, I see nothing in this room to link the two men.”
“No phone, wallet, or computer either,” said Jane. “I’m not authorizing a deep search of this room or opening the wall safe unless the sheriff has a warrant. This is going to be a high-profile case and we can’t afford a misstep. We shouldn’t even be in here. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was concerned about Mr. Anjou’s welfare and came to check on him.”
A glint of humor appeared in Butterworth’s eyes. “Certainly.”
Sheriff Evans and Deputy Emory hadn’t been idle while Jane and her Fins searched for Levi Anjou. They’d rejoined Deputy Phelps and continued the task of processing Chef Pierce’s room. It was almost teatime when Jane touched base with the sheriff to let him know that the food critic still hadn’t surfaced.
“What about the chefs? Or Ms. Mallett? Have they seen him?”
“We only spoke to the chefs we bumped into, and they couldn’t help,” Jane answered. “We also asked Mia and her staff. We didn’t want to raise any alarm bells, so we didn’t knock on Chef Michel’s or Ms. Kennedy’s doors. It’s possible that Mr. Anjou is out on a long walk. It’s a beautiful day, and he looks like he’s in excellent health.”
The sheriff mumbled something to one of his deputies, and though Jane couldn’t make out the words, his frustration was clear.
“We’re heading back to the station. I’ll call Hilltop Stables from the car. Who knows? Maybe Mr. Anjou is on a trail ride. We’ll give him another hour. After that, we’ll have to talk to every person connected to the show. Someone must know where he is.”
“As soon as Lachlan wraps up his falconry lesson, I’ll have him take a Gator out on the hiking trails.”
“Good. Keep me in the loop.”
Jane wanted to ask the same of him but didn’t have the energy. She was running on fumes. The early morning wake-up call, the shock of encountering Chef Pierce’s body, and everything that had come after was hitting her hard. What she’d give if she could just flop on a lounge chair in a quiet spot and close her eyes for a few minutes. Or an hour.
But Jane’s life didn’t include naps. Though she couldn’t grab forty winks after lunch like her great-aunt and -uncle did, she smiled at the thought of Uncle Aloysius dozing in his office chair, his fishing hat lowered over his brow, while Aunt Octavia reclined on her living room sofa. Muffet Cat, Storyton Hall’s portly tuxedo, liked to perch on Aunt Octavia’s belly as she slept. His round, furry body would move up and down with the rise and fall of her breath. Hem and Fitz, who’d witnessed the napping duo many times, claimed that it was difficult to differentiate who snored loudest, the lady or her cat.
With teatime approaching, Jane knew she’d find her sons in the kitchens. Listening to them talk about chess and photography would restore some normalcy to her day.
Mrs. Hubbard was transferring a lemon Victoria sponge crowned with berries from a cake board to a porcelain plate when Jane appeared. “Your darlings are in the herb garden. Tell them their snack will be ready in ten minutes.”
Jane thanked her and headed out into the harsh sunlight. She walked the short distance to a garden hemmed by a low stone wall and listened for signs of her sons.
At first, she thought Mrs. Hubbard must be mistaken. The boys couldn’t be in the garden. It was far too quiet.
Then, Jane saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.
A flash of yellow turned out to be a stripe on Hem’s shirt. He was lying on his stomach with a camera pressed to his right eye. In front of him, a monarch butterfly hovered above the vibrant purple corolla of a lavender plant. Beyond the lavender was a cluster of mint plants. The combination of orange, purpl
e, and green was stunning.
Jane froze, letting Hem snap several shots until the butterfly flew off to another part of the garden.
Smiling at her son, she said, “That’s going to be a beautiful photo.”
“Taking pictures is the easy part,” Hem said, getting to his feet. “Developing them is hard. We keep messing up.”
“Mistakes are part of leaning. But you’ll get it. I have faith in you.” Jane glanced around. “Where’s your brother?”
“On the other side of the wall, talking to the lady with the poodle.”
The writer!
“Oh? Did you talk to her too?”
Hem put the lens cap on his camera and nodded. “Her dog is awesome. His name’s Captain Haviland and he’s really smart. Ms. Olivia said he’s smarter than most people. That’s what she told us to call her. She lives next to a lighthouse, and the Atlantic Ocean is right behind her house! If it’s not cloudy, she can see cargo ships from her deck.”
Jane laughed. “She sounds very interesting. I haven’t met her yet, so will you introduce me?”
“Okay, but can it be quick? Mrs. Hubbard wanted us to check for Japanese beetles and Aunt Octavia told us to take nature shots for homework. But we’re ready for a snack now.”
Slinging an arm around Hem’s shoulder, Jane was struck by how tall her son had gotten this year. Both boys were growing as fast as the herbs in Mrs. Hubbard’s garden. Before long, they’d be eye level with Jane.
It would be many more years before they were eye level with Olivia Limoges, however. As Jane approached their writer-in-residence, she felt dwarfed by the slender, pale-haired woman with the ocean-blue eyes. Jane wasn’t short, but Olivia had to be six feet tall. Her handsome features and cool poise gave her a regal air.
Her standard poodle pricked his ears at Jane’s approach. Olivia put a palm to her dog’s neck, conveying a message that all was well. He responded to her touch by thumping his tail against the ground, his teeth showing in a wide, canine smile.
Fitz waved at his mother. “Hey, Mom. This is Ms. Olivia.”
“And Captain Haviland,” added Hem.
Jane offered her hand. “I hope my boys haven’t been talking your ear off.”
“Not at all. We’ve been trading stories,” Olivia said, giving Jane’s hand a firm squeeze.
This earned her a point in Jane’s book. She hated shaking people’s fingertips or a hand that felt limp and boneless. It made for a bad first impression.
“We’re going in for tea now,” Hem told Olivia.
Fitz gestured at the manor house. “You should try it. It’s the best part of the day.”
Hem’s head bobbed like a buoy in a rough sea. “Mrs. Hubbard makes the most amazing cakes, scones, cookies, and sandwiches. There’s clotted cream and two kinds of homemade jam. You don’t have to drink tea if you don’t want to. There’s lemonade and soda and other stuff too.”
“Captain Haviland isn’t allowed in the Agatha Christie Tea Room,” Fitz added sheepishly. “But I could ask Mrs. Hubbard for a bone to give him later.”
Olivia laughed. “That’s really sweet, but Haviland has plenty of treats in our cottage.”
After shaking the poodle’s paw in farewell, the boys jogged up the gravel path.
When they were out of sight, Jane let out a sigh.
“Long day?” Olivia asked.
Jane smiled ruefully. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’m an insomniac, so I know what tired looks like.” She waved an elegant arm in a wide arc. “With all this to oversee, you must have plenty to worry about.”
“Some days more than others. What about you? Does your restaurant keep you up at night?”
“No. Michel has been steering that ship for years now. I’m less interested in editing menus or mingling with our customers than I once was, and he’s passionate about every facet of the business. And everyone adores him. He’s a gifted chef with a charming personality. I’m an eccentric heiress who only comes to town when I’m low on supplies. I spend most days reading and trying to write and a good part of my nights roaming the beach. I’m turning into one of the ghosts from local legend.”
Jane didn’t know how to respond to this remark. She was both intrigued and disconcerted by her unusual guest but didn’t have the time or energy for a lengthy chat. She had to continue her search for Levi Anjou.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you checked in,” Jane said. “Do you have everything you need?”
Olivia cast an affectionate glance at Haviland. His mouth was open, and his pink tongue dangled from his lower lip. “We do. The cottage is lovely, and the view from my window is spectacular. I haven’t left home in ages because I didn’t think I’d be happy away from the ocean, but this place has a deep-rooted sense of calm. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in ages.”
“Maybe you’ll start sleeping better.”
“Did you see me wandering the grounds last night?” At Jane’s nod, Olivia touched the thin gold band on her ring finger. “I hope you were the only one. Your guests don’t need to think Storyton Hall is haunted because some woman in white took a moonlit stroll.”
Sorrow darkened her blue eyes and deepened the brackets around her mouth, and Jane wondered if Oliva’s writer’s block had something to do with that band of gold.
“Would you like to grab a drink?” asked Jane. “I’m not sure what my schedule is tonight because I need to locate a missing guest, but—”
“Just call me when you’re free.” Olivia handed Jane a business card that included her cell phone number. “And if you need help finding a guest, Haviland is a certified tracker. All he needs is an item with the guest’s scent—something the person wore recently. It wouldn’t be easy because this place is loaded with scents, but we could give it a shot.”
Jane looked at the poodle. There was an expectant gleam in his golden-brown eyes.
“It’s like he understands everything you say.”
“He does,” Olivia said. “People often underestimate dogs’ intelligence.”
Jane frowned. “I don’t have much experience with dogs. When I was young, my great-aunt thought I had a fur allergy, so I wasn’t allowed to have a pet. I feel like I missed out.”
“You’ll never find a more loyal or loving companion than a dog. I wish every child would know that kind of love.” Her fingers moved across the top of her poodle’s head. “Who’s the guest you’re searching for?”
“Levi Anjou. He’s one of the Posh Palate judges.”
Olivia grunted in a very Butterworth-like manner. “I don’t think you need Haviland to find him.”
Jane’s torpor instantly vanished. “You know where he is?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s with Ms. Kennedy. I saw them this morning. Very early. Haviland and I were walking through an overgrown orchard when we stumbled on a wonderful ruin.”
“That’s the folly. We’re restoring it later this summer.”
“With that view of the lake, it’s a beautiful and romantic spot. And that’s where I saw Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Anjou.” Olivia held out a hand. “I won’t go into detail, but theirs is more than a working relationship.”
“I see,” Jane said. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“My drink of choice is blended scotch whiskey. The older the better. If not tonight, we’ll catch up another night. You know where to find me,” Olivia said as she turned away. “Captain, I’m going to investigate Mrs. Hubbard’s famous desserts while you have a nap. Nothing like cake to get the ideas flowing, right?”
The poodle replied with a soft bark.
Charmed as she was by the writer and her dog, the idea of an affair between the Posh Palate judges had Jane’s thoughts turning in a dark direction.
Both judges were married. Not separated or divorced. Married. And one, or both, had children. An affair, combined with a death threat sent to the murder victim’s email address, indicated that someone else had learned of Levi Anjou’s double life.
“I wonder if Coco Kennedy knows that her lover threatened Chef Pierce,” Jane muttered to herself as she entered the manor house.
Moving briskly through the staff corridor, Jane popped out near the Henry James Library. Sinclair was behind his desk, helping a guest. As Jane approached, he exchanged the woman’s copy of Eric Ripert’s 32 Yolks for Ruth Reichl’s Save Me the Plums.
“Happy reading,” Sinclair told her.
The woman smiled and clutched her book to her chest like a gleeful child.
“Things have gone from worse to much worse,” Jane whispered to Sinclair when the woman was gone.
“In that case, we’d better go through to my office.”
Sinclair cast a glance at the two patrons seated in wing chairs facing the garden. Hundreds of daylilies bloomed on the other side of the window, attracting pollen-dusted bees and swallowtail butterflies.
The readers looked perfectly content, so Sinclair unlocked the wood-paneled door that blended into the wall so well that it was almost invisible until opened. It led to a long, narrow room with rows of corkboards covered in printouts. This was where guest profiles and background checks were kept.
Once inside, Jane told Sinclair about her enlightening chat with Olivia Limoges.
“Let’s take a closer look at our judges.” Sinclair located the profile sheets he’d created for them. “Levi Anjou. Fifty-six. Married with an adult daughter. Ms. Kennedy is forty-eight, married, and has a son and a daughter. Both children are in college. What exactly did Ms. Limoges witness?”
“Behaviors that made it clear the judges are romantically involved. She spotted them very early this morning. At the folly.”
Sinclair lowered the papers. “Chef Pierce may have tried his hand at blackmail.”
“I don’t want to drag the sheriff into this until I find Levi. Which means I’ll have to call Ms. Kennedy’s room.” She frowned. “It’s times like this that I wish someone else was the manager of Storyton Hall.”
“I’m sure you’d rather be on your sofa with the comforting weight of a book on your lap.” He patted her arm. “I understand, my girl.”
