Book Retreat Mystery 07 - Murder in the Cookbook Nook

by Ellery Adams

  “Ms. Steward? May I have a word?”

  “Come on back,” Jane said, bracing herself for more bad news.

  In the office, Sue and Sinclair sat in the guest chairs facing Jane’s desk.

  “We’re being flooded with calls from the media,” said Sue. “Newspapers, magazines, TV stations—you name it.”

  “Are they asking about Chef Pierce?”

  Sue glanced at the memo pad on her lap. “A few, yes. But most of the calls are about the explosion.”

  Jane was horrified. “How did they find out so fast?”

  “Someone posted a video of it. I don’t recognize the username, but judging by the viewpoint, it’s one of the film crew.”

  Turning to her computer, Jane searched for videos of Storyton Hall. The top result was a Hollywood gossip site. The headline on the homepage cried, “EXPLOSION ON SET OF POSH PALATE!”

  Jane scanned the article. The piece was nothing but conjecture, so she clicked the video’s play button.

  The screen filled with images of flames and smoke, which meant that username, GoldnBears2002, started filming immediately following the initial explosion. To Jane’s dismay, the footage captured all the details of the chaotic scene. For sixty seconds, she relived the terrifying experience.

  As she listened to the panicked cries of the cast and crew, Jane thought of Mr. Gilmore. For a moment, she was too overcome with emotion to speak.

  “I’m sorry someone did this, Ms. Steward.”

  Jane closed her laptop. “Thank you for telling me, Sue. I’ll prepare a media statement right away.”

  When the door closed behind Sue, Jane passed her hands over her face. “Offering to host this show was a huge mistake,” she murmured. “To these TV people, Storyton Hall is just another location. They don’t value it the way our regular guests do.”

  Sinclair pointed at the laptop. “Whoever posted that video signed a nondisclosure agreement. Ms. Mallett should find out who they are and insist the video be taken down.”

  “And send GoldnBears2002 packing. Can you convey the message to her? And have Sterling close the main gates. I won’t have those pushy media people stepping foot on this property.”

  Sinclair moved to the door. “Will you tell the other Fins about Levi Anjou?”

  She nodded. “Crossing his name off the suspect list means that someone else is responsible for Chef Pierce’s death. And that someone else is walking through our halls and mingling with our guests. Once again, a killer is staying at Storyton Hall.”

  * * *

  Later, after Jane had written a short statement for the press, she tracked down Chief Aroneo. He was in the kitchens, sitting at a prep counter with Mrs. Hubbard.

  As usual, Mrs. Hubbard was plying her visitor with food. Plates of ham biscuits, chopped fruit, and sugar cookies sat in front of the chief. There was also a pitcher of water and lemon slices. The lemons looked like small suns drifting through a cloudless sky.

  Seeing Jane, Chief Aroneo got to his feet. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I came inside to find you.”

  “I’m glad. You must be hot, thirsty, and tired.” Jane motioned for him to sit down. “Mrs. Hubbard, may I commandeer the break room for a bit?”

  “It’s all yours,” she replied. “If anyone disturbs you, I’ll give them dishwashing duty.”

  Chief Aroneo stared at her with admiration. “I should hire you to train my firefighters. They always leave their dirty plates in the sink. I keep telling them that no fairy is going to fly into the kitchen in the middle of the night, wave a magic wand, and clean up their mess.”

  “Could you hang a sign over the sink?” suggested Mrs. Hubbard.

  “I did,” the chief said. “It says, ‘Clean Your Dishes! Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here!’”

  Mrs. Hubbard frowned. “I don’t think mothers should do all the dishes either. Maybe your sign should say, ‘If You Can’t Wash the Dishes, Don’t Eat!’ If your crew doesn’t listen after that, take their plates away.”

  The chief laughed. “Genius. I knew you’d have the answer.”

  Jane led Chief Aroneo into the break room and shut the door.

  “Speaking of answers, do you have some for me?”

  The chief’s gaze swept over the room. “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen? It’ll be easier for me to explain this if I can draw while I talk.”

  After fetching him supplies, Jane watched the chief sketch an oblong shape in the center of the paper. Next, he added a neck to the top of the oblong. Inside that neck, he drew a dial and what looked like a valve.

  “This is a propane tank,” he began. “The first thing I should tell you is that propane tanks rarely explode. The chance of your tank exploding is about the same as being in a plane crash. These tanks are sturdy and have built-in safety devices like floaters to prevent overfilling and a relief valve. The relief valve helps control a sudden increase of pressure, which is why an exploding tank almost never happens.”

  “Until today?” Jane asked.

  “Even if it looked and sounded like the propane tank exploded, a propane leak could also cause the tank to blow.”

  Jane stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand the difference.”

  The chief started sketching another shape. “Pretend this rectangle above the tank is a gas grill. If propane leaks from the valve, a hose, or a connection for a certain length of time, it creates a hazardous scenario. Add heat to that scenario, and it becomes an emergency in the blink of an eye. Igniting a grill with a leaking propane tank, a tank with a faulty valve, or a valve that was tampered with will lead to an explosion.”

  “I smelled gas,” Jane murmured in shame. “I should have guessed there was a leak.”

  Chief Aroneo gave her a stern look. “Don’t put this on yourself. Other folks smelled it too, but with multiple grills going, it would have been hard to know there was excess gas in the air. I’ve been told that Mr. Gilmore recognized the danger but was unable to act because of the director.”

  “That’s true. Ty blocked his path, arguing that the show was almost over. When Mr. Gilmore insisted on doing his job, Ty grabbed him. I was standing right there. Ty cost Mr. Gilmore precious seconds.”

  The chief dug his pen into the paper. “It’s a criminal offense to hinder a firefighter on duty. If a judge decides that Mr. Gilmore’s injuries are tied to the director’s interference, he’ll be in serious trouble.”

  As Jane stared at the rectangle representing the gas grill, she pictured the scarlet skin on Mr. Gilmore’s chest and the mound of ruined clothing on Olivia Limoges’s floor.

  “I don’t have much sympathy for Ty Scott,” she said. “My concern is for the safety of my guests. I need to know if that explosion was an accident or arson.”

  The chief sighed. “If we hadn’t just investigated a fire in your archery field, I’d assume this was a case of negligence—that the person responsible for checking the valves, hoses, and connections on the propane tanks failed to do their job. That person would have been Mr. Gilmore, which is why I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”

  “What if he did his job to the letter? Then what?”

  “Then someone tampered with the tank. I won’t know for sure until I cart the grill and tank back to the station and examine every inch of what’s left, no matter how small the pieces. But I can’t move anything until I catch up with the sheriff.”

  There was a knock on the break room door. Mrs. Hubbard poked her head in and said, “Sheriff Evans is looking for you, Jane. Should I send him back?”

  “Please.”

  Mrs. Hubbard reappeared with the sheriff in tow. She bustled into the room, carrying a tray of finger sandwiches, bite-sized fruit tarts, and strawberry cream scones in one hand and a pitcher of iced tea in the other.

  “If you’d rather have hot tea, let me know. I’m putting the finishing touches on my Secret Garden cake for today’s tea service, but I always have time to spare for Storyton’s finest.”

&
nbsp; When Mrs. Hubbard turned to go, Jane wished she could follow along. She’d love to sit on a stool and watch the beloved head cook decorate her cake. But Jane knew that her only chance of regaining a sense of control was to come up with a plan, so she poured iced tea and waited for the sheriff to speak.

  Evans passed a glass of tea to Chief Aroneo, “What are we looking at, Lou?”

  The chief repeated everything he’d told Jane.

  Sheriff Evans stroked the stubble on his chin and listened closely. When the chief was done, the sheriff said, “Someone is determined to derail this show. We’re already dealing with the suspicious death of a celebrity chef. Today’s incident could have led to dozens of casualties, and some of those would’ve included people with no ties to the show.”

  “The audience,” said Chief Aroneo.

  The sheriff nodded. “We have no leads, which means I’ll have to ask for help from the TV people and the other guests.” He turned to Jane. “I’d like to speak to them as a group before they encounter members of the media.”

  “I’ll tell my staff to gather everyone in Shakespeare’s Theater.”

  Jane sent a text to the department heads, explaining the situation. They replied within seconds, and she was humbled to work beside such capable individuals.

  The sheriff put a hand on Chief Aroneo’s shoulder. “You must be ready to get back to the station. What do you need from me?”

  The chief tapped his drawing. “I’d like to take the tank and grill with me. I won’t know if this was arson without a thorough investigation. I can share our photos of the scene with you.”

  “Good. Deputy Phelps examined the garage where the grills were stored. No sign of a break-in.” The sheriff looked at Jane. “I need to know who had access to those grills from the time Mr. Gilmore finished his safety check to the time the chefs started using them.”

  Jane pictured the terrace as it had been that morning. “Everything was ready when I walked over from my house, so I don’t know who moved what where. I’ll ask Sterling to view the security footage, but I doubt it’ll help. The terrace camera focuses on the entry door.”

  “Is there a camera near the garage?”

  “No. That garage was used for landscaping equipment before we lent it to the film company.”

  The sheriff’s phone buzzed, and he squinted at the text bubble on his screen. “It’s Doc Lydgate. He says that Mr. Gilmore has flash burns, which are caused by gas or propane. Most of them are first-degree, but he also has superficial second-degree burns on his arms. Mr. Gilmore is awake, and his pain is being managed. He wants to thank everyone who came to his aid.”

  Chief Aroneo stood up. “Tell the doc that I’m coming to see Mr. Gilmore. I’ll let you know if he can shed any light on what happened today.”

  The chief left, and Sheriff Evans helped himself to finger sandwiches. “I hope you don’t mind if I eat and talk. Breakfast feels like a lifetime ago.”

  “Please go ahead,” said Jane. “It’ll make Mrs. Hubbard happy.”

  The sheriff devoured two sandwiches before reaching for a third. In between bites, he said, “Levi Anjou didn’t kill Chef Pierce. He was with Ms. Kennedy, in her guest room, from eleven o’clock at night until six o’clock the morning Chef Pierce’s body was discovered. The couple posted a video, which I didn’t mention to you because I didn’t know if it was genuine. It took time to be sure that it was. Mr. Anjou and Ms. Kennedy are both in the clear.”

  “I see.”

  Sheriff Evans gave her a quizzical look. “Did you know about their affair?”

  “I had my suspicions. A writer named Olivia Limoges is renting one of our cottages. She was taking an early morning walk when she came across Levi and Coco at the folly. Based on what she saw, she thought they were a couple.”

  The sheriff wrote Olivia’s name in his notepad. “Could she have entered the manor house at that time?”

  “Yes. Her key opens all the doors accessible to guests. But if she had come in, Sterling would have spotted her on the security footage.”

  “And she has no connection to the television show?”

  “Actually, she does.” An image of Butterworth interrogating the writer-in-residence momentarily distracted Jane, but she cleared her head with a shake and said, “She owns a restaurant in North Carolina. Chef Michel works for her.”

  The sheriff sat up straighter, and there was a gleam in his eyes. He looked like a bloodhound picking up a fresh scent trail.

  Jane was torn over the idea of Olivia becoming a suspect. Though she liked the writer and was grateful to her for helping Mr. Gilmore, Olivia wasn’t a friend. She was a guest. A stranger.

  Sheriff Evans consulted his phone. “It’s about that time, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Jane agreed.

  She and the sheriff heard the swell of anxious chatter coming from inside Shakespeare’s Theater long before they entered the room. It was only when the sheriff mounted the stage and approached the podium that people began to quiet down.

  Butterworth performed a quick mic check before moving aside to join Deputies Phelps and Emory.

  Stepping up to the podium, the sheriff surveyed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. I’m Sheriff Evans. With me are Deputy Phelps and Deputy Emory. We’re working in conjunction with the Storyton Fire Department to determine how this morning’s fire came to pass. As many of you know, Ronald Gilmore, the fire safety advisor, was injured by the blast. He’s being treated as we speak, and while I won’t discuss his injuries, I can assure you that he’s receiving excellent care.”

  A woman in the third row began to cry. Others looked at her in surprise, but the man sitting beside her put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. The woman rested her head on the man’s chest as he whispered to her and stroked her hair.

  Watching the couple, Jane thought of how lucky she was to have a man who offered her unconditional love, comfort, and support. While she’d been dealing with the aftermath of the explosion, Edwin had been taking care of the twins. He’d sent Jane several texts to let her know that Fitz and Hem were safe and happily occupied.

  After breakfast, Edwin had driven the boys and their jam jars to his restaurant. Edwin worked the lunch service while the twins created signage for their festival booth. After that, Edwin took them to Hilltop Stables and led them on a trail ride from the stables to Storyton Hall. The twins dismounted at the edge of the archery field while Edwin returned the horses and headed back to the village to prepare for the dinner service.

  Having read Edwin’s latest texts as she and Sheriff Evans walked from the kitchen to the theater, Jane expected Fitz and Hem to arrive home shortly.

  They’re dirty, tired, hungry, and thirsty.They should sleep well tonight, Edwin had written.

  Scanning the faces of her guests, Jane wondered if they’d all sleep well that night. Would fear keep some of them awake? Or guilt? The explosion could have hurt innocent people. Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia could have been killed. The thought made Jane’s blood boil.

  Onstage, the sheriff explained that the fire wasn’t his only reason for being at Storyton Hall because his department was also investigating Chef Pierce’s death. This announcement was met by gasps and exclamations of shock.

  “It wasn’t an accident?” someone shouted.

  Before the sheriff could respond, another person yelled, “Did someone kill him?”

  The sheriff held out his hands, silently demanding quiet.

  Jane was surveying the faces in the crowd with such intensity that she didn’t hear Sinclair sidle up beside her.

  Leaning over, he whispered, “There’s an urgent message on your phone.”

  Without a word, Jane slipped out through the staff exit and looked at her phone. She’d received a text from an unknown number.

  This is Olivia Limoges. Your sons are in my cottage.

  Two men were harassing them. One was asking questions while the other was filming them.The men got v
ery pushy, so I intervened. They’re still outside.

  After replying that she was on her way, Jane ran down the hall toward the loading dock. She didn’t give a second’s thought about leaving in the middle of the sheriff’s address. Her role as a mother would always be more important than her role as the manager of Storyton Hall.

  A pickup truck driven by one of the groundskeepers was idling at the loading dock. The man was about to pull away when Jane shouted at him to stop.

  “Can you get me to the staff cottages fast?” she said, climbing into the passenger seat. “My sons are in trouble.”

  The man pressed the gas pedal and the truck shot forward in a shower of gravel.

  When they reached the path leading to Olivia’s cottage, Jane said, “I’ll get out here. I want to take these unwelcome visitors by surprise.”

  The groundskeeper put the truck in park, grabbed a pair of anvil loppers from behind his seat, and followed his employer.

  Two men in their twenties wearing skinny jeans and faded T-shirts stood in front of the cottage. The man in a green shirt was using a phone to film a man in a blue shirt. Both men looked completely at ease, as if they had the right to be there.

  Eager to show them just how wrong they were, Jane crept up behind Green Shirt. Before he had time to register her presence, Jane executed a front snap kick. Her foot struck his phone, sending it flying into the grass ten feet away.

  Green Shirt shouted, “What the—?”

  The rest of his sentence dissolved into a shriek as he watched the groundskeeper cut the phone in half with his loppers.

  Now, Blue Shirt brandished his phone. “I’m going to live stream this. Are you ready for a lawsuit, you crazy—”

  A black shape raced past Blue Shirt, and he was left gripping empty air instead of a phone.

  He stared down at his hand, his face turning crimson with fury. But when he opened his mouth to vent his rage, Jane held up a finger.

  “Not another word!” she commanded. Then, she pointed at Captain Haviland, who was sitting on his haunches just beyond Blue Shirt’s line of vision. “You have five minutes to get off my property or that dog will remove one of your body parts. I wonder which bit he’d bite off first?”