by Ellery Adams
Jane slid behind the wheel and was about to shut the door when a hand shot out, grabbing hold of the frame, and Sterling bent close to Jane.
In a hushed, but urgent tone, he said, “I’m sorry to keep you, but I just got a call from Mr. Lachlan that you might want to hear. Another driver can take your family to church, and I’ll run you over after we talk if you still want to go.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. It’s Sunday morning. Can’t this wait?” Aunt Octavia griped from the back seat.
Jane looked at her through the rearview mirror. “With all that’s happened lately, I can’t take any chances. If I don’t make it to the service, would you say a prayer for everyone’s safety? Especially during tonight’s finale?”
Seeing the worry in Jane’s eyes, Aunt Octavia gave her shoulder an affectionate pat and said, “Of course, dear girl.”
Jane switched places with the driver and waved to her family as the elegant Rolls eased forward. The boys waved back while Aunt Octavia blew her a kiss.
“I might be forgiven, but I’m not sure about Uncle Aloysius,” Jane told Sterling. “He chose to fish instead of going to church with Aunt Octavia,”
Sterling said, “Your great-uncle is the reason I’m here. He sent me to find you.”
Jane’s stomach lurched. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Mr. Lachlan was surveying the trails around the lake when Mr. Aloysius hailed him over. He found something in the tall grass at the lake’s edge—something valuable—and asked Mr. Lachlan to take it to Mr. Sinclair. Should we meet him in the library?”
“Are you going to tell me what this mysterious object is?”
After making sure no one else was around, Sterling said, “A teapot. An antique teapot. Like the ones in the cookbook nook.”
Jane groaned. “No, no, no. Mrs. Hubbard and Aunt Octavia will have matching conniptions if a piece from that collection has been stolen.”
A few minutes later, Lachlan entered the Henry James Library cradling an object wrapped in a cotton blanket. Jane and the other Fins stood in a loose circle around Sinclair’s desk and watched as Lachlan put the bundle down and stepped back. He nodded at Jane, and she carefully unwrapped the teapot.
The light danced over the pot’s silver surface, and Jane said, “It’s not a teapot. It’s a chocolate pot.”
Jane remembered how Mrs. Pratt had said, “It was a lovely thing. French sterling. Eighteenth century. Had tiny feet and a wooden handle. The whole piece was embossed with an intricate floral design.”
“I think this belongs to Roger Bachman,” Jane told the Fins.
Sterling frowned. “Why would the thief toss it in the grass by the lake?”
“Perhaps it was supposed to land in the water,” said Butterworth. “We should look for the pillbox in the same area.”
Sinclair picked up the chocolate pot and examined it from top to bottom before setting it down again. “A few dents. Nothing that can’t be fixed. But why risk stealing a treasure only to throw it away like a piece of trash?”
“I don’t know a thing about antiques. What was special about the pillbox?” asked Lachlan.
“It was shaped like a fish,” said Sterling. “Maybe the thief is bonkers and decided that a fish-shaped box belonged in a lake. Mr. Aloysius might reel it in one day.”
Butterworth’s withering look would have silenced another man, but Sterling was immune to the butler’s glare.
“All I’m saying is that the chocolate pot was probably in the grass because the thief lacked the arm to get it in the lake.”
Lachlan nodded at Sterling. “I saw the spot. It was very close to the edge of the lake. One big rain and this pot would have been a goner.”
“Sleeping with the fishes,” Sterling said, directing his remark at Butterworth.
Jane didn’t hear Butterworth’s reply. She’d gone back in time to that terrible morning in the cookbook nook when she’d had her first glimpse of Chef Pierce’s body. In her mind’s eye, she saw the blood on the floor and the fragments of broken pottery. She saw the dagger-like shard resting in Chef Pierce’s palm.
“Fish,” she murmured, gazing into the middle distance. “And chocolate.”
Suddenly, her eyes lit up. “Of the three pieces of porcelain broken the night Chef Pierce was killed, one was a fish platter and one was a Limoges cup. Sinclair, you thought it was a teacup until you checked our inventory records. But it was a chocolate cup.”
“That’s right.” Sinclair said. “Go on.”
“Bentley broke those pieces on purpose. She wanted us to notice them. She was trying to send a message about the food industry—Cook’s Pride in particular. She posted about the chocolate trade on social media. And fish?” Here, Jane paused. “Edwin mentioned something about aquaculture practices and the mistreatment of fishermen, but I don’t know how that relates to this case.”
Butterworth cleared his throat. “Ms. Fiore may not be our only suspect. Mr. Sinclair, would you be so kind as to lock the door? I’d rather not be interrupted just now.”
Jane’s mouth went dry as Sinclair walked to the door and turned the skeleton key until there was an audible click.
Butterworth waited until his colleague rejoined the circle before continuing. “Per your request, Ms. Jane, we’ve been examining our guests’ social media accounts. The exercise has me fearing for the future of mankind, but I digress. We each had a list of guests to research. One of the guests on my list was Ms. Olivia Limoges.”
“Olivia doesn’t strike me as someone who’d devote much time to social media posts,” Jane blurted, feeling an irrational desire to forestall Butterworth.
“In that, you are correct. A virtual assistant runs her website and handles inquiries about her work. I admit to being somewhat beguiled by Ms. Limoges, and when sleep failed to claim me last night, I found myself at the computer, gazing into her past.” Butterworth pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Jane. “The man in the grainy photo is Ms. Limoges’s father. He was a fisherman, from a long line of fishermen. He was lost at sea when she was a child.”
Studying the weather-beaten face and hostile gaze of the man holding a ship’s wheel, Jane couldn’t see Olivia in his features, but she’d undoubtedly inherited his toughness and resilience. As a fisherman, he must have possessed both of those qualities in spades.
“Two questions,” said Jane. “Was her father’s death an accident? And did he work for a food company?”
“His cause of death was never determined, but there were rumors of alcohol abuse.” A line appeared between Butterworth’s brows. “Ms. Limoges has never spoken of her father on record, but she has a history of supporting coastal fishing families whenever bureaucracy threatens their livelihood. One need only read her short story about a shrimp boat captain to know where her sympathies lie.”
Jane splayed her hands. “Olivia has a strong opinion about the fishing industry. I imagine she has strong opinions about lots of things. How does this make her a suspect?”
“I believe she told you that her husband was killed in the line of duty.”
“Yes.” Jane’s voice was grave. “He saved Olivia and Chef Michel’s wife that day.”
Butterworth inclined his head. “Ms. Limoges and Chef Michel were close before this tragedy, but afterward, Chef Michel and his family looked out for Ms. Limoges.”
“Which brings us to my research,” Sinclair said. “Chef Michel was on my list, and he made for fascinating reading. He grew up in a small town north of Paris, learned cooking techniques from his parents and grandparents, and as a young man, emigrated to the States to run a restaurant in Las Vegas. I saw no red flags in the chef’s past. It wasn’t until I began scouring his social media pages that I discovered a possible connection to this investigation.”
Sinclair reached into his linen suit coat and withdrew a piece of paper. He handed it to Jane, and she looked at a printout showing a collage of images. All the images featured a young woman with high cheek bones, wide eyes framed wit
h long lashes, and a brilliant smile. Her hairstyle changed from photo to photo, as did her makeup and earrings, but her dazzling smile never altered.
Jane didn’t want to hear a sad story about this woman. She wanted her to be alive and well, smiling that radiant smile. She said, “Who is she?”
“Chef Michel’s sister,” said Sinclair. “His mother and father became foster parents after he started university. Their second foster child, Kisi, was born in Ghana. She was very young when her biological parents died. Eventually, Chef Michel’s parents adopted Kisi. She lives in Paris and works for an international labor rights group. Children in cocoa-growing communities are her main focus.”
“Wait. Isn’t Chef Michel’s wife a chocolatier?”
“She is. She also shares Kisi’s posts, especially if they point a finger at food companies for turning a blind eye to unethical practices in the chocolate trade.”
Jane’s heart sank. She’d heard the devotion in Olivia’s voice when she spoke of Chef Michel, his wife, and his two sons. She’d said they were her family. Jane knew the lengths a woman would go to for her family. And yet she couldn’t see how committing murder and arson would benefit Olivia or Chef Michel.
“If these crimes are meant to raise awareness about human rights violations, the killer must attract media attention. Lots of it.” Jane glanced around the circle of Fins. “What if the purpose behind these acts was getting Fox Watterson to come to Storyton? The cameras hadn’t started rolling before the show became a target. The fire near the tent was no accident, nor was it very dramatic, but it was the first in a series of incidents that eventually forced us to cancel the filming.” Jane put Kisi’s printout next to the image of Olivia’s father. “Who benefits from the downfall of Cook’s Pride? Or Fox Watterson?”
Lachlan’s gaze fell on the chocolate pot. “Has Ms. Limoges been to Roger’s shop?”
“Yes.” Jane repeated what Mrs. Pratt had told her about Olivia’s visit.
“I don’t care if Ms. Limoges was at the scene of every crime,” said Sterling. “Unless she and Ms. Fiore were working together, I don’t see how she’d coerce Chef Pierce into meeting her in the cookbook nook in the middle of the night.”
“What about the grill?” asked Lachlan. “According to the sheriff, Chief Aroneo found evidence showing that someone tampered with the valve. Why would Ms. Limoges put Chef Michel at risk by messing with one of the grills? Especially since the grills were haphazardly assigned to each chef.”
Butterworth grunted. “Let’s leave the ladies be for now and concentrate on Mr. Watterson. If the killer’s goal was to draw him here, then we need to understand his importance. Cook’s Pride isn’t the only food company guilty of mistreating workers, so why single out their CEO?”
The hour Jane and Edwin had spent researching Fox Watterson had only scratched the surface. If she wanted to get a feel for this man, she needed to sit down with him. To break bread and split a bottle of wine with him. To learn about his world, she’d invite him into hers.
“Gentlemen, I’m going to ask Mr. Watterson to have lunch with me. An intimate meal in my great-aunt and -uncle’s apartments would be just the thing.”
Sinclair responded with an impish grin. “Where could you find a server adept at interpreting body language?”
Jane ran a finger down the soft fabric of Sinclair’s suit sleeve. “The same place I’d find a sharp-dressed man to cozy up to Mia’s hair and makeup artist. Ply him with strong drinks and see what he knows about Bentley.”
As Sinclair cast a longing gaze at the stack of books waiting to be shelved, Butterworth’s mouth formed the ghost of a smile.
* * *
The clock on the mantel in Aunt Octavia’s sitting room was a breath from striking one when Fox Watterson knocked on the apartment door.
After inviting the gentleman inside, Butterworth introduced Fox to Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia.
Uncle Aloysius had changed out of his fishing gear into a seersucker suit. Fox wore a pale blue poplin suit and carried a bouquet of roses, which he presented to Aunt Octavia.
“How thoughtful! No one has ever given me flowers to match my dress before.” Aunt Octavia waved at the round table in the middle of the room. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just put these in water.”
Jane thanked Fox for coming, and she and the two men sat down.
Uncle Aloysius complimented Fox on his suit. Fox, in turn, praised Storyton Hall.
“I usually prefer modern architecture. I like walls of windows, sharp angles, and sleek design, but there’s a dignity about this place. It feels solid. Dependable.”
“What you sense is history,” said Uncle Aloysius. “Generations of Stewards have lived in this house. It holds our stories in its rafters, our laughter in its worn stairs, and our memories are lodged in all the spaces in between. I used to tell Jane that the creaks she heard in the middle of the night were the voices of her relatives. Not ghosts but guardians.”
Aunt Octavia returned. The roses were now in a silver vase, which she placed on a side table. “They’ll keep me company while I read. Butterworth? We can start now.”
Butterworth served watermelon, feta, and mint salad, and as everyone picked up their forks, the conversation naturally turned to food. When Jane asked Fox if he’d always wanted to work in the food industry, he spoke openly about his decision to leave a promising career at a rival food company to start his own.
The salad plates were cleared, the red snapper with herb butter entrée was served, and the conversation between the four diners flowed with ease. At this point, Jane decided that the ice had been suitably broken.
Looking at Fox, she said, “You’re probably wondering if I had an ulterior motive in asking you to lunch today, and I admit that I did.”
“If you’re going to ask me to cancel the show—”
“I’m not,” interrupted Jane. “I’ll do all I can to make sure tonight’s finale goes off without a hitch.”
Fox relaxed. “That’s good to hear.”
“However, I’m still deeply concerned about the safety of my guests. Including you, Mr. Watterson. You might not be a registered guest, but you’ll be sitting with the rest of the audience tonight. And I believe that the terrible things we’ve experienced over the past few days—from murder to arson—happened for one reason.”
Fox stopped eating. “Which is?”
“Someone wanted to lure you to Storyton.”
Fox laughed. He glanced at Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia to see if they shared in the joke, but their solemn expressions caused the laughter to die in his throat. He turned back to Jane. “You’re serious.”
“Mr. Watterson—”
“No more of that, please. Call me Fox.”
Though Jane preferred to remain on formal terms with this man, she needed him to confide in her, and addressing him by his first name seemed like a good way to build trust. “Okay, Fox. Let me tell you where I’m coming from. The person who killed Chef Pierce also tampered with the propane tank and wrote the message about Cook’s Pride on the mascot’s shirt. At first, my staff and I thought Chef Pierce was the only target. Then, we believed someone wanted to shut down the show. But after seeing the message on the mascot—on the day you showed up in Storyton—we began to ask ourselves if what the killer wanted most was you.”
The notion didn’t disturb Fox one bit. “Do you know how many threats I get a year? Hundreds. By snail mail. By email. To my face. It comes with the territory. No CEO of a company as big as mine makes it six months without a threat from a former employee, a disgruntled consumer, and lots of other people.”
“What about activists?” asked Aunt Octavia.
Jane wanted to high-five her great-aunt. She and Uncle Aloysius knew the hours leading up to the finale were speeding by and would do anything to help Jane put an end to the turmoil that had accompanied Posh Palate with Mia Mallett.
Fox shrugged. “Sure. Activists too.”
“We’re keeping an
eye on two guests who may be strongly opposed to some of your company’s business practices,” Jane explained. “To be clear, I’m not accusing Cook’s Pride of anything, but the practices in question involve workers in the chocolate and fishing industries.”
Jane didn’t need to be an expert in body language to know that when Fox pushed his plate away and folded his hands in his lap, he was signaling that not only was he finished with his meal, but he didn’t want to continue the discussion.
Butterworth cleared the remnants of the main course and retreated, allowing Fox time to formulate a reply.
“There will always be people who take issue with how we do business. When complaints are valid, we strive to make changes. But no international corporation of our size is perfect.”
Fox raised his napkin as if he meant to deposit it on the table, indicating that their lunch was over. Luckily, Butterworth deposited a fruit and cheese board in the center of the table and asked for coffee orders before the napkin left Fox’s hand. Jane and Aunt Octavia requested coffee with cream, while Uncle Aloysius opted for a digestif.
“Care to join me?” he asked Fox. “I have an apple brandy that really hits the spot on a hot, heavy day like this one.”
Fox shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said to Fox. “I don’t mean to dampen the mood. Please believe me when I say that this is coming from a place of concern.”
“Which I appreciate. But after the finale, I’m gone. I can take care of myself for the eight hours.”
Butterworth placed brandy glasses on the table and Jane waited until he’d poured an inch of liquor into each glass before saying, “Just one more question before I drop the subject. Did you sponsor the show because your nephew is the director?”
Fox swirled the brandy around in his glass. “Ty’s my sister’s boy. When my sister told me that she was paying to send Ty to film school, I told her she might as well dump her money in the river. I never thought he’d amount to anything, but he proved me wrong when he landed this directing gig. So when he asked me to sponsor the show this season, I said yes. After my marketing team gave the green light, that is.”
