by Ellery Adams
With the conference attendees dispersed throughout Storyton’s manor house, grounds, and village, Jane decided to take advantage of the calm by getting a little fresh air and exercise. She also decided to check in with the sheriff at the station instead of waiting for him to contact her.
After telling Butterworth she was heading into town, Jane filled her thermos with cold water, placed it in the straw basket attached to her handlebars, and began pedaling her bicycle up Storyton Hall’s long driveway.
It felt wonderful to be out on a sun-dappled September afternoon. So wonderful that Jane had to shove down feelings of guilt. One of her guests was dead. A second man, who’d been hired to work on the Walt Whitman Spa, was also dead. What right did she have to revel in the beauty of the day? And yet she did. The fields lining the road were painted gold and green and masses of honeysuckle vines still clung to the fence rails. As Jane zipped by an enormous clump, the sweet, cloying scent burst into the air like a spritz from a perfume bottle.
She rode past the brown-and-white pinto who had a fondness for apples and called out promises to bring him several, as well as a few carrots, when she next rode out with the twins. After the pony pasture, Jane inadvertently slowed her pace. She was coming up to the spot where they’d discovered Kyle Stuyvesant—where he’d been left in a heap on the side of the road like discarded trash or a wounded animal. An inconsequential creature left to perish alone. In the dark. Without hope or comfort.
Jane swallowed hard and pedaled faster. Becoming morose would serve no purpose. Kyle was gone and his killer hadn’t been apprehended, but she and the Fins weren’t the only ones investigating the crime.
Maybe, just maybe, the sheriff has caught a break, Jane told herself.
Holding on to this optimistic thought, she rounded the sharp curve of Broken Arm Bend, making a mental note to ask the twins to share the latest version of the song commemorating the infamous curve.
At the start of school, the boys had been singing,
Broken Arm Bend,
where rides come to an end,
in Farmer Mackey’s
field of corn.
Yellow as the bus,
try not to cuss,
and next time,
use your horn!
Involuntarily, Jane began humming the tune. She was full on singing the ridiculous ditty by the time she parked her bike in front of Run for Cover. The song vanished, however, as she concentrated on which word stepping stones to choose en route to the bookshop door.
“Persevere, Fortitude, Strength.” She paused and then took a detour toward the garden bench to hit the stones marked Wisdom and Courage.
Pivoting where she stood, Jane drank in the sight of Eloise’s garden. The yellow coreopsis, salmon-colored yarrow, and purple coneflower had yet to give way to a riot of sedum, chrysanthemums, and asters, but the summer flowers were looking tired. Their brightest, boldest hues were spent, the bees and butterflies had vanished, and all signs pointed to the end of their season. Soon, pumpkins and hay bales would appear on the shop stoops and the old flowers would be pruned or pulled.
Jane glanced down to her left and noticed a stepping stone partially obscured by a clump of ornamental grass. It said Remembrance.
The door to the bookshop opened and Eloise appeared on the stoop wearing a wide grin.
“When I looked out my window, I thought you were a model from one of Rossetti’s paintings!” Eloise exclaimed, settling onto the bench next to Jane. “I love it when you wear your hair in a long braid over your shoulder. You’re the picture of a fair maiden from a Victorian poem. All you’re missing are flowers. Here, here, here, and here.” She touched Jane’s strawberry-blond braid. “Then, you’d be ready to be someone’s muse.”
It was impossible to be glum in Eloise’s company, and Jane smiled. “I braid my hair to keep it out of my face while I’m riding. Could you imagine how often I’d end up at Doc Lydgate’s if I rounded Broken Arm Bend at my usual speed with my vision obstructed? I’d need a punch card for casts or a BOGO deal on crutches.”
Eloise laughed. “The truth is, neither of us can afford to break a leg. We have too much to do. If we could be waited on, hand and foot, like a member of royalty from one of Mrs. Pratt’s romance novels, we’d have a ball with such an injury.” She cleared her throat and raised her chin. In an exaggerated highbrow British accent, she intoned, “Oh, Montgomery, how thoughtful. Yes, if it’s not too much trouble, I would like to have my breakfast in bed. A foot massage afterward? Well, if you insist. Though I do say—”
Seeing a pair of elderly ladies approaching, Eloise stopped her narrative. “Hello, Mrs. Cortez. Hello, Mrs. Hesse.” She waved at her customers. “Make yourselves at home! I’ll join you shortly.”
“Eloise, I dropped by to ask you a quick question,” Jane said before Eloise could resume her injured royalty fantasy. “And I know I’ll see you tomorrow for our book club meeting, but this couldn’t wait.”
All the merriment drained from Eloise’s pretty face and she covered Jane’s hand with hers. “Of course. I’m always here for you. What is it?”
“Have you heard anything from Edwin? Anything at all?”
Eloise exhaled in relief. “Yes, I got a postcard in today’s mail. Didn’t you?”
“I . . .” Since Jane didn’t want to divulge details about hers, she asked more questions instead. “Where was it posted? Where is he?”
“Edwin’s in Turkey. Ankara. Which is a little surprising because he’s been there before,” said Eloise. “How many times can a travel writer cover the same place? Though I guess our world is ever changing. I look at a current map and think of how completely different it is from the map we studied in elementary school.” She shrugged. “Anyway, do you want to see the card?”
Jane hesitated. Correspondence was personal. Even a postcard, which could be read by anyone handling it, seemed like a precious thing in a digital age. The mailbox had become a receptacle for bills, catalogs, advertisements, and requests for monetary donations. It so rarely held anything personal like a handwritten letter. Holidays and birthdays might be the exception, but Jane realized that the older she got, the more she cherished a piece of mail that wasn’t generated by a computer.
Which was why she was conflicted by Eloise’s offer. Part of her wanted to scrutinize every inch of Edwin’s postcard. The other part wanted to let it remain a connection between sender and recipient. Brother and sister. But once again, a niggling voice whispered, What if he’s in danger?
Reaching a decision, Jane said, “If you don’t mind, I’d love to take a quick look at it tomorrow, before our book discussion. Can you come to my house a little early?”
“Sure.” Eloise bounced to her feet. “I’d better get going. Mrs. Hesse doesn’t have the greatest memory and she tends to forget which books she’s read. When Mrs. Cortez tries to remind her, arguments can break out. I’ve learned to gently intervene by showing Mrs. Hesse her purchase record and making a few recommendations to suit both ladies. Though they always leave with smiles on their faces and books in hand, there have been times where I thought they might go at each other with their purses. Did you happen to notice the size of their purses?”
Jane hadn’t, but Eloise assured her that Pig Newton could easily fit inside either one. With a final laugh, she darted back inside the shop.
Leaving her bike where it was, Jane made the short trip next door to the Daily Bread Café. She’d been avoiding Edwin’s eclectic restaurant since his departure, and now felt abashed over entering with the sole purpose of questioning Magnus, the manager.
Magnus was delighted to see her.
“How lovely!” he cried, taking both of her hands in his. “It has been far too long. Are you on your own? Where is your enchanting aunt?”
“I just popped in for a quick social call.” Gazing around the café, Jane wished she could stay for a cup of Vietnamese Egg Coffee or South Indian filter coffee.
In truth, she loved the café and r
egretted not stopping by sooner. She remembered when she’d first laid eyes on the renovated space. The transformation had been incredible. The café had gone from a lackluster lunch spot with aged booths and linoleum flooring to an exotic wonderland. The hardwood floors were now covered with kilim rugs, the walls were lined with antique maps and potted palms, and mosquito nets served as dividers between the dining room and a lounge area in the rear of the café. In this intimate alcove, patrons could relax on British colonial chairs with animal print cushions and set down their drinks on large copper kettles, African drums, or steamer trunks.
“You are always welcome, Jane. For any reason,” Magnus said warmly.
Jane turned to him with a wistful smile. “I was reminiscing about the day of the soft opening, and of the honey lavender crème brûlée.”
“Ah.” It was an appreciative sound. “No one makes it quite like Mr. Alcott.”
“He has a special touch,” Jane agreed. And then, in what she hoped was a casual tone, she asked, “Have you heard from him?”
Magnus nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Come see!”
Jane followed Magnus through the restaurant, where several patrons were enjoying a late lunch or an afternoon treat accompanied by an exotic drink. In the kitchen, Edwin’s cook, who filled his shoes whenever he abruptly vanished, was chopping lettuce. His movements were so swift that he’d completed the task before the door leading from the dining room to the kitchen finished swinging. Only then did he raise his eyes to see who’d entered his domain.
“Hector, you remember Ms. Steward.”
Hector was short, bald, and possessed the hooded and inscrutable gaze of a bird of prey. He dipped his head in greeting and started chopping a carrot.
Jane murmured a hello, too hypnotized by his flashing blade and the rapid decimation of the vegetable to manage anything else.
“Here,” said Magnus, touching Jane’s elbow. “On my board. See?”
Tearing her eyes away from Hector’s hands, Jane looked at the bulletin board and saw a postcard featuring what she assumed was the interior of a mosque. She stared at the image for several seconds before asking Magnus if her guess was correct.
“Yes, it is the Sultan Ahmed Mosque from Constantinople. This is a vintage postcard. Edwin knows that I enjoy the old postcards and goes out of his way to find them for me.” Magnus beamed.
“Was yours posted from Ankara?” Jane asked.
If Magnus found the question odd, he didn’t show it. “It was. Did you also receive a postcard like this one?”
Jane was torn. She longed to confide in Magnus, just as she’d longed to confide in Eloise, but she couldn’t. Edwin’s secret belonged to Edwin. Even if she were worried over his safety, Jane could not expose his secret life as a Templar. She could never let anyone know that he came from a long line of men who stole books in the name of shared knowledge.
What are you stealing now? she wondered as she stood in the kitchen of Edwin’s restaurant. Daily Bread was his cover job, just like being the manager of Storyton Hall was hers. His true vocation was to steal books. Hers was to preserve and protect them. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. They’d fallen in love despite their differences.
Dropping her gaze to the tile floor, Jane said, “No, I haven’t.”
It wasn’t a lie. Her postcard hadn’t been like Magnus’s. It hadn’t been vintage nor had it been postmarked from Ankara.
Interpreting her downcast eyes as disappointment, Magnus gave Jane’s arm a brotherly pat. “I’m sure he sent you one. Have you collected today’s mail?”
Jane hadn’t, in fact. Though the postmistress had hand-delivered Edwin’s postcard at Storyton Hall, Jane had yet to check her mailbox at home. She shook her head and Magnus grinned triumphantly.
“I bet there’s one waiting as we speak!”
His optimism was contagious and, because Jane wanted to believe him, she pictured a second postcard buried among the bills and catalogs. “I’ll tell you about it the next time I come for lunch. Which will be soon. I know Aunt Octavia’s been missing everything about Daily Bread, including its charming manager.”
Magnus performed a theatrical bow and showed Jane to the door. As for Hector, he never looked up from his work. His knife was a silver blur as it sliced through the pale flesh of an onion.
* * *
As much as Jane wished to ride straight home, she had her most pressing errand to attend to first, which was checking in with Sheriff Evans.
The sheriff’s department looked more like an English country cottage than the local law enforcement hub. Even though Jane had visited the building on numerous occasions, she still found the idea of interrogation rooms and holding cells incongruent with the quaint brick building, flagstone path, and well-tended front garden filled with boxwood and rosebushes.
However, when Jane asked the desk clerk for a few moments of the sheriff’s time, she was quickly reminded that they were not in a quaint English village. They were in Storyton, where two men were dead, and both cases were open and active.
“You can go on back, Ms. Steward.” The clerk waved at Jane before reaching out to answer the ringing phone.
The door to the sheriff’s office was ajar and Sheriff Evans was seated at his desk, so Jane tapped on the door with her knuckles.
“Ms. Steward. Excellent. This saves me the trouble of calling you.” The sheriff came forward and shook her hand. The formal gesture unsettled Jane. The sheriff cleared a stack of file folders from one of his guest chairs and gestured at it. “Please, have a seat. There’s been a development.”
Jane sat down and waited for Sheriff Evans to speak. Her mouth had gone dry, but she wasn’t sure why she felt such dread. She had no inkling of what he was about to say.
“I am prepared to make an arrest for the murder of Mr. Bartholomew Baylor,” he said in a solemn voice. “Since you’re here, I can tell you in person that the suspect is a guest at Storyton Hall.”
Jane released a sad sigh. “I wish it were otherwise, but I’m not surprised. Whoever committed the crime was familiar with Bart’s latex allergy and his habits.” She steeled herself before asking, “Who is it?”
The sheriff touched the brown case-file folder on his desk. “Felix Rolf. And I intend to take him into custody without delay.”
“Felix?” The sheriff’s announcement stunned Jane. Not only had the book dealer convinced Jane of his innocence, but he’d persuaded Butterworth as well.
“I won’t explain all my reasons behind the arrest at this time,” Evans said. “However, I can share two things with you. The first is that Mr. Rolf’s business is failing. I have this on direct authority from his accountant. It would take a miracle to save the shop.”
A five-figure miracle? Jane remembered the note Levi Ross had left on the desk in his guest room. She also remembered the current market value he’d assigned to the cookbook.
“Do you think Mr. Rolf killed Bart over Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts?” Jane asked. Without giving the sheriff a chance to respond to the question, she went on. “Even if that were true, he couldn’t sell the book openly. He’d have to sell it through other channels or risk his reputation, which has already suffered a blow. Also, in selling stolen property, he’d earn a much smaller profit. It’s hard to believe he’d commit murder for such a high-risk endeavor.”
“Under regular circumstances, I’d agree with you.” The sheriff laid his hands over the folder as if affirming the decision with his body. “But there are more than just Mr. Rolf’s financial woes to consider. The second thing I’ll share with you is that we have a witness who saw Mr. Rolf purchase a box of gloves from Storyton Pharmacy the day before Mr. Baylor’s death. The gloves were identical to those Mr. Baylor favored. Purple. Size large. Latex free.”
Jane wanted to feel confident that the sheriff was after the right man, so she asked, “Is that enough to arrest a man on suspicion of murder? Financial troubles and the purchase of a box of gloves?”
Ther
e was a glint of impatience in the sheriff’s eyes. And something else. Exasperation? Jane realized she wasn’t owed a detailed explanation of how the authorities had arrived at Felix Rolf as their suspect. She was fortunate that Sheriff Evans shared as much as he had. Not only that, but he was always tactful and courteous. What else could she ask from the man?
“Forgive me,” she said. “I know these things will be revealed in due time. It’s just hard for me to process the news because I spoke with Mr. Rolf at length the night of Bart’s death and he confessed to having wronged Mr. Baylor. His regret was so sincere. He had me totally convinced.”
Sheriff Evans nodded in understanding. “Remember when I told Deputy Emory that a killer is capable of great depths of emotion? I’m sure those expressed by Mr. Rolf when the two of you talked were genuine. You have no reason to be embarrassed because you believed him, Ms. Steward. He undoubtedly felt shame and regret and probably still feels it. Unfortunately, darker, more dangerous feelings dwell inside him too, and those are the feelings he’ll now have to answer for.”
“Well, I guess we won’t need to use the cookbook as bait during tomorrow’s Pre-Raphaelite dinner dance,” Jane said. She felt no sense of relief or resolution. Only a feeling of sadness.
“No. We can skip the theatrics.” Evans came over to Jane’s side of the desk and placed a copy of the day’s conference schedule in front of her. “After examining this, I have no idea of Mr. Rolf’s current whereabouts. I called the front desk and was told that he wasn’t in his room. Nor had he signed up for any excursions or activities. Do you know where he might be?”
Jane mulled this over. “In a reading room, maybe? Let me text Butterworth. He can alert the staff to report back with any sightings.”
As Jane was typing the text, she noticed the time on her phone screen. Suddenly, she had a strong feeling that she knew Felix Rolf’s exact location.
