by Ellery Adams
Jane slipped the postcard inside a gardening catalog and went into her house to join her sons. She needed to help them get ready to spend the night with Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius. After that, she had to prepare for the arrival of the Cover Girls.
As promised, Eloise showed up a few minutes early. She knocked on the door and let herself in while calling out a cheerful “It’s me!” After hanging her dress for the Pre-Raphaelite dinner dance on the coat rack, she dropped the book their group had chosen for tonight’s discussion on the kitchen table.
“Here’s my darling brother’s postcard,” she said, pulling it from between the pages of the book and handing it to Jane. “Ah, I see you’re preparing our libations.” She headed over to the row of glasses lined up on the counter, which is why she failed to notice Jane’s wan expression.
“I’ve invented a cocktail in honor of our heroine, Lizzie Siddal. I hope it’s good,” Jane said before glancing at the card in her hand.
Eloise’s postcard featured a rather cartoonish drawing of the country and its most famous landmarks. Across the top, a bubbly typeface proclaimed, “Greetings from Turkey.” A cruise ship traversed the waters along the bottom of the card.
Turning it over, Jane saw the Ankara postmark as well as Edwin’s familiar handwriting.
E—
Just had coffee near the bazaar. A man was telling his grandson the story of the time he followed a jinn into the desert and saw his crystal palace shimmering against a backdrop of sand. He returned to his village and shared the story, but no one believed him. Except his sister. The next day, he showed her the palace. They stood in the desert and held hands until the sun set. That’s when the palace disappeared, never to be seen again.
The story reminded me of you and your faith in what’s not visible.
Love, E
Jane fought back tears. Though Edwin’s missive to Eloise was short, it conveyed both tenderness and affection. It was as if Edwin was saying that his sister would also have believed the story about the jinn because she was incredibly loyal and put her heart and soul into what mattered most.
“I hope he sends me a magic carpet. You and I could travel to a remote beach on the other side of the world and be home before anyone missed us,” Eloise said as she examined a bowl of strawberries on the counter. “Are these for our drinks or can I eat one?”
“Help yourself. I have a different garnish for our cocktails.” Jane put the postcard back inside Eloise’s copy of Ophelia’s Muse and washed her hands at the kitchen sink.
When she was done, she found that Eloise was holding the dish towel ransom. “Tell me if you found anything in your mailbox today and I’ll hand this over.”
“A postcard,” Jane said.
“I knew it!” Eloise tossed the towel at Jane. “Though honestly, my louse of a brother could do better than that. He could send an actual letter. Or a care package filled with thoughtful trinkets. How about a phone call? Is that really asking too much?” She sighed. “Why did we both fall for men who can’t communicate? Yours jets off to exotic places and goes radio silent. Mine is right here, but getting him to talk is like pulling teeth.”
Jane was going to ask Eloise when she and Lachlan had last spent time alone together when there was a brief knock on the door and the rest of the Cover Girls flowed into the house.
“We’ve arrived!” Mrs. Pratt trilled.
“In all our glory!” Mabel added boisterously.
The women hung their dresses on the coat rack, dropped their handbags on the table, and then gathered around the center island. Betty, who’d been the last to greet Jane, asked for an update on the investigation.
“Let me serve the drinks and I’ll tell you,” Jane said. “I named this cocktail the Lizzie Siddal to honor the young woman who served as muse to several Pre-Raphaelite painters and was also wife to Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Lizzie was probably best known for her lavishly long and thick copper-colored hair, but she should have been celebrated as a talented artist in her own right.” As Jane spoke, she poured ingredients into a cocktail shaker.
“Excuse me.” Phoebe pointed at the old-fashioned glasses on the counter. “Are those rose petals on the bottom of our glasses?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “What would a Pre-Raphaelite cocktail be without a rose?”
After jiggling the shaker for several seconds, she poured a red-orange concoction into two of the eight glasses. The Cover Girls responded with appreciative noises.
“What a gorgeous color!” Anna cried.
“It’s just like Lizzie’s hair,” Violet said.
Eloise held her glass to the light. “What’s in it, Jane?”
“Half an ounce of Campari, an ounce of gin, rum, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. And to top it all off, a teaspoon of grenadine. It should be a cocktail of complex flavors. On the outset, it will taste sweet. However, there’ll also be a hint of bitterness. It’ll be vibrant and light enough to feel romantic, but will pack enough of a punch to serve as a reminder that people can die from a broken heart.”
Jane immediately turned her face away to focus on preparing the next batch. She didn’t want her friends to see her inner turmoil or how she was suppressing the urge to smash one of the glasses against the nearest wall.
“Wow,” said Phoebe. “This is a serious drink.”
Mrs. Pratt accepted her glass with a shrug. “It was a serious book. Poor Lizzie. She didn’t deserve such callous treatment. I don’t give a fig about Rossetti’s temperamental artist nature. He was a jerk. Pure and simple. He ruined her life.”
“In the beginning of the book, there was a scene where Lizzie tossed a flower in the river and asked for the waters to show her a sign that one day, she’d find love and be loved in return,” Violet said to her friends. “After finishing the book, I thought back on that scene and found it so sad. The waters offered her nothing.”
“She’s famous for being Ophelia. A drowned woman. A woman who probably committed suicide because of unrequited love.” Anna sighed and took a sip of her drink. “Lizzie drowned in her own way. It took years, but that’s what the laudanum did. It slowly pulled her under.”
Mabel set her glass down and held up her book, which featured part of the celebrated John Everett Millais painting. “So we don’t get too gloomy, I want to say that I loved the art references in this book. You know that I adore color. I adore creativity. I adore the messy, mysterious spaces where artists work their magic.”
“You just described La Grande Dame to the letter,” Betty said with a smile.
The Cover Girls laughed and the heavy mood that had descended during the start of the discussion lifted.
“Did you know that this painting shows flowers that bloom at different times because Millais worked on it over the course of five months?” Mabel went on to say. “Or that the ivy on the frame was seen as a feminine plant during the Victorian era or that it symbolizes resurrection?”
The rest of the women confessed that they hadn’t done much research into analysis of the painting, but they’d all been so influenced by the combination of Ophelia’s Muse and the upcoming dinner dance, that every one of them had taken the time to familiarize themselves with the most popular artwork from the Pre-Raphaelite period.
“Speaking of feminine, we need to get ready soon. But can you give us a brief recap first, Jane?” Eloise asked. “Do you need our help tonight? With the investigation?”
Since her friends already knew about Kyle Stuyvesant from Betty, Jane told them of the recent and unexpected arrest of Felix Rolf.
“You don’t sound convinced that he’s a murderer,” Mrs. Pratt said when Jane was done. “Do you think the sheriff has the wrong man?”
“It’s not that,” Jane said. “I just don’t want Felix to be guilty. I wouldn’t want anyone so dedicated to books to be a killer. And it’s hard for me to picture a man utterly enamored by the works of Beatrix Potter and Hans Christian Andersen lacing someone’s gloves with cyanide or running over a dru
nk pedestrian with his truck. And for what? For the chance to steal a book he’d have to sell on the black market?”
Mabel grunted. “That is very volatile behavior for a bookseller. The man isn’t a character from an Ian Fleming novel, so I can see why you have doubts.”
Jane looked at Anna. “One of the reasons Sheriff Evans suspects Felix Rolf is that a witness came forward claiming to have seen him buying a pair of purple latex-free gloves in Storyton Pharmacy the day before Bart died. Do you remember selling gloves to a man with a cloud of white hair?”
Anna frowned. “We have lots of customers with white hair. Do you have a photo?”
“There might be one on his store website,” Eloise said. “Hang on a tic. I’ll grab my phone from my purse.”
By the time she returned to the kitchen from the living room, she’d pulled up the website and located a small black-and-white photograph. She showed Anna the image. “Here he is.”
Anna stared at it for several seconds before saying, “I didn’t ring him up. I’d remember his face if I had. He looks like a badger.” She quickly glanced at her friends. “That’s not a criticism. I like badgers.”
“It’s okay, Anna, I thought the same thing when I first saw him,” Jane said.
“What if Felix shopped during your lunch hour? Is there a way to tell who entered the pharmacy on a given day?” Phoebe asked. “Do you have security cameras?”
Anna shrugged. “Only in the pharmacy department where Randall works. Not in the front half where I am. It’s fine for me to be held at gunpoint as long as no one touches the drugs.”
Mabel gave Anna a sympathetic, one-arm hug. “Oh, honey. We’d go after anyone who messed with you. That’s probably why they don’t. They know the Cover Girls have your back!”
“Thanks.” Anna flashed Mabel a grateful smile.
“What about receipts?” Mrs. Pratt asked, ignoring the exchange between Mabel and Anna. “You keep copies of credit card receipts, right? Are they itemized?”
“No good,” Jane answered before Anna could. “The witness said that Felix paid in cash.”
Violet put a hand to her chest. “Cash? Anna would remember someone paying in cash. I don’t even get tipped in cash anymore. Everyone pays with credit cards, debit cards, or bar codes on cell phones. I don’t even remember what my favorite presidents look like anymore.”
“Keep your presidents. I’ll stick with my favorite founding father. Benjamin Franklin,” Betty said, nudging Mabel. “I find him very sexy. On paper, that is.”
She and Mabel giggled like kids who’ve eaten too much sugar.
When the two older women settled down, Eloise turned to Jane. “I wish there was something we could do to lift your spirits. None of us like the idea of a book lover being a murderer, but it’s over for now. Can you let it go? Maybe just for tonight? You should find a handsome bibliophile to dance with. Or an archivist. I won’t tell Edwin.”
“No crime in dancing, anyway. What is a crime is missing the first course of Mrs. Hubbard’s decadent meal,” Phoebe said. “And we still have to dress and do our hair. Jane, I’m with Eloise. You need a break from carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“It’s true,” Violet agreed. “What’s that line from The God of Small Things? The one about the woman wearing flowers in her hair and carrying magic secrets in her eyes? Let me put the flowers in your hair. Hopefully, there’ll be enough magic in the air to help you forget about what’s happened for a little while.”
Jane smiled at her friend. “That’s a lovely thought. However, you should all know that I’ve decided to use the cookbook as bait just in case Felix Rolf isn’t the killer. I have complete faith in Sheriff Evans. He is party to elements of the investigation that I’m not, and I trust him. And yet . . .”
“The universe is telling you that something is still rotten in the state of Storyton,” Mrs. Pratt said. Grimacing, she added, “I never could pull off a Shakespeare reference.”
Eloise put a hand on Mrs. Pratt’s elbow, poised to usher her out of the kitchen. “Never mind that. We need to get a move on. Jane needs us, ladies. Not only do we have to look our best, but we also have to be charming, gracious, and extremely observant.” She glanced over her shoulder at Jane. “You’re not in this alone. You’re not in anything alone. You have us. We won’t be much use in a fight, seeing as we’ll all be wearing long gowns, but we’re book people.”
“Which means you might notice the secret in someone’s eye,” Jane said. Looking at her friends, she felt a rush of pride. “What would I do without you, ladies?”
“You wouldn’t have this hairstyle, for starters,” Violet said, producing a color printout from her pocket and offering it to Jane. “Don’t show it to anyone. I want it to be a surprise. You’re going to be more resplendent than Anthony Frederick Sandys’s Perdita.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Jane did feel resplendent. Violet had pulled Jane’s strawberry-blond hair into loose, convoluted coils at the base of her neck. She’d then woven tiny faux pearls around the coils and crowned the top of her head with a diadem of fresh flowers.
Mabel had completed Jane’s look by draping a stunning floral shawl over the shoulders of her gown, which was sapphire blue with loose sleeves.
“There,” Mabel declared with satisfaction. “You truly look like you just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. You’re a vision.”
Jane’s favorite Rossetti painting was his portrait of Joan of Arc. He’d painted his model kissing the blade of her sword and gazing into the distance with a look of rapture on her lovely face. It wasn’t her expression that Jane connected with. It was the fact that Rossetti’s Joan knew her life would never be a quiet one. Her life required her to wield a sword. Jane loved the fierceness of Joan’s bearing. She loved that she wore gauntlets instead of jewelry and that her hair was free of flowers or any other ornament.
Gazing at her own reflection in the mirror, Jane realized what she admired most about the painting. It was the strength emanating from Joan’s eyes—a willingness to fight for what she believed in, for what she held most dear. It was a light that shone from deep inside. Jane saw the same light shining from her eyes.
Jane’s friends descended the stairs to gather by the front door, but she lingered behind. She wanted a minute of the privacy of her bedroom to remove her locket and plant a kiss on its book-shaped engraving before tucking it back into the bodice of her dress. A moment to prepare for all that might lie ahead.
Chapter Sixteen
The Madame Bovary Dining Room had been transformed into a Victorian banquet hall.
Diners entered the room and stopped, enchanted by the scene. They took in the pristine white cloths, polished flatware, glittering silver candelabra, crystal stemware, and massive floral centerpieces overflowing with greenery and roses in autumnal hues and felt a thrill of anticipation.
“It’s breathtaking,” Eloise said to Jane. “Whenever I attend a themed event at Storyton Hall, I’m always convinced by that theme. Just look at this space! It could have been plucked from the pages of any Victorian novel describing an upper-class feast.”
Violet, who looked lovely in a cream-colored gown with a garland of purple asters in her hair, glanced around in wonder. “I feel the same. It’s as if the rooms are capable of whisking us through time.”
“I wish they could whisk me back to my thirty-year-old waistline,” Mabel said, picking up one of the printed menus included with every place setting. “Seeing this has me ready for a fainting couch.”
The rest of the Cover Girls laughed and craned their necks to examine Mabel’s menu. Except for Mrs. Pratt. She seemed more interested in the other diners. “Did you assign the seats, Jane? In other words, will I be engaged in stimulating dialog with lust-worthy literary types or resigned to an evening of small talk with my neighbors? Not that there’s anything wrong with our Storyton men, but it’s refreshing to converse with strangers once in a while. Unlike the rest
of you, I don’t run a business, so I don’t have many opportunities to meet new people.”
Phoebe smiled at Mrs. Pratt. “You make it sound exciting, but it’s not like I sit down with my customers for heart-to-hearts. For the most part, they order coffee or frozen yogurt, exchange a few pleasantries, and leave. Occasionally, we’ll discuss the art on my walls. That’s my only chance to engage them in a lengthier dialogue.”
“What about the Book Junkies? Surely, those must have earned you a flirtatious comment or two.” Anna was referring to the sculptures Phoebe had crafted using found materials like bottle caps, tin cans, vinyl records, road signs, wire, buttons, and cooking utensils. These seven pieces of art, which were displayed in the Canvas Creamery’s back garden, were nude studies of the female form. The women were voluptuous giantesses caught in the act of reading. Their postures were of utmost relaxation while their expressions managed to convey guilty pleasure.
Phoebe shot Anna a coy grin. “Why do you think I have those ladies on display?”
The Cover Girls fanned out to locate their seats. Jane had left these arrangements to Butterworth, but as she wandered around the dining room, she could see that he’d taken great pains to intersperse the villagers among the rare book attendees.
Jane and Eloise found their nameplates, penned in Butterworth’s meticulous calligraphy on ivory card stock, among three of the Robert Harley Society members.
“Austin and Aaron, I’d like to introduce my friend. This is Eloise Alcott.” Jane gave the brothers a moment to drink in Eloise’s appearance. Eloise was the picture of a fair-haired English rose in a jade-green gown and a red shawl. Her golden tresses were captured in a loose hairnet and she’d eschewed any jewelry or accessories, allowing one to focus on her luminescent skin. “And this is Levi Ross.”
Eloise shook hands all around and explained that she had the honor of running Storyton’s only bookstore. Within seconds, she and Levi were comparing notes about the joys and heartaches of operating a book business. This left the Sullivan brothers to Jane.
