Murder in the Secret Garden (5 page)

When Jane had finished her narrative, the young deputy closed her notebook and darted a quick glance at Kira's body. “I've seen her work,” she said in a soft voice. “I couldn't choose between my two favorite fields in college, so I opted for a double major in criminal justice and art history. One of my art classes was called ‘The Feminist Art Movement.' We studied Georgia O' Keefe, Eva Hesse, Yoko Ono, Kira Grace, and more. Ms. Grace is known for her evocative photographs, but I love her shots of bees at work. Have you seen them?”

Jane shook her head.

“Did you get everything you need from Ms. Steward?” Sheriff Evans asked from behind Deputy Emory. “I'm sure she's ready to go home and change clothes.”

Deputy Emory gave Jane an apologetic smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Was Ms. Grace staying at the resort by herself or did she have a companion?” the sheriff asked Jane.

“She traveled alone, but she's part of a group called The Medieval Herbalists,” Jane answered. “We have over thirty members staying with us. Some are here with their spouses. Others are unattached. Ms. Grace was one of several members who booked a single room.”

The sheriff opened his mouth to say something else when a series of high-pitched beeps cut through the air. It was the sound of a large vehicle reversing. Kira Grace's ride had arrived.

Deputy Phelps jogged up the rise to meet the driver and his assistant. Satisfied that his deputy was handling the
situation, Sheriff Evans turned to Jane again. “I'd like to see Ms. Grace's room,” he said. “I'll be at Storyton Hall as soon as I can. Until then, don't let anyone enter her room. In fact, it would be best if you carried on as if nothing unusual had happened.” He raised his hands, obviously expecting an argument from Jane. “If another guest is responsible for this woman's death, let him believe he's gotten away with murder. Just for the time being. You see, I don't want him to get spooked and run. Let him, or her, indulge in your glorious afternoon tea service. Let him sip cups of Earl Grey and nibble cucumber sandwiches and cake. With every passing minute, he'll relax a little more. He might just make a mistake and reveal himself.”

Two men carrying a stretcher appeared on the path alongside the river. Jane looked from them to the body on the grass. “It doesn't seem right.” She was unable to disguise her anger. “Why should a murderer devour raspberry cream scones or sit in Milton's Gardens when a woman who was so filled with vitality lies there with a damp T-shirt over her face?” Now it was Jane's turn to raise her hands to stop the sheriff from arguing. “I know it's necessary, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Understood.” Sheriff Evans tipped his hat again, said she was free to go, and moved to speak with the men bearing the stretcher.

Jane and Sterling left the professionals to their work. To the casual observer, it would appear as though Jane's part in the drama was mostly done, but nothing could be further from the truth.

The moment they were alone in the car heading back to Storyton Hall, Jane and Sterling began plotting their next move.

“We'll search Kira's room first,” Jane declared as soon as Sterling eased the Rolls onto the road. “If there's a killer
under our roof, we need to discover that person's identity immediately.”

“I agree.” Sterling rolled down the window and made a minor adjustment to his side mirror. “I've already let the rest of the Fins know what's going on. We'll have to search Ms. Grace's room swiftly and carefully. It won't take the sheriff long to transfer her body.”

“We have a hotel filled with plant experts. If we find out that Kira was given poison that came from a local plant . . .” She trailed off, recalling what Mrs. Hubbard had said about the Poison Princess.

Sterling remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

Jane shook her head. “There's no sense jumping to conclusions. I just hope we find a tangible clue in Kira's room.”

Sterling drove without speaking for a full minute, but as Storyton Hall's massive wrought iron gates came into view, he scratched the back of his neck—a sign that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the subject he was about to raise—and said, “I heard you tell the doc that you were fine, but are you? With Mr. Alcott's abrupt return—”

“I'm glad he came along when he did, as I was having trouble getting Kira out of the water,” Jane said in a neutral tone and then abruptly punched the seat. “Actually, I wish he could have stayed longer. I would love to have demonstrated a few of my martial arts maneuvers on him.”

The corners of Sterling's mouth twitched. “If he'd seen your board-breaking sessions, he might have been more communicative over the past few months.”

Jane couldn't find any humor in the situation. Between the discovery of Kira's body and Edwin's unexpected reappearance, the merriment she'd felt biking into town for the duck race had been replaced by a feeling of gloom.

As the Rolls passed through the open gates, which were carved with Storyton Hall's motto in Latin, Jane considered
the translation,
Their story is our story
. She'd heard it hundreds of times, of course. And yet its meaning seemed to change with every season.

I must discover your story, Kira
, Jane thought, her resolve to seek justice for the plucky photographer banishing her despondency.

For once, Sterling didn't bother garaging the car. He parked behind the kitchen and followed Jane through the staff doorway. Butterworth was waiting on the other side, a brass room key resting in his white-gloved hand.

“Where's Sinclair?” she asked, taking the key.

“Making extra copies of the background checks he ran on The Medieval Herbalists,” Butterworth said as the trio made their way down the staff corridor. “He'll meet us after we've finished searching Ms. Grace's room.”

That left one Fin without an assignment. “And Lachlan?”

“Mr. Sterling used his cell phone to identify the GPS coordinates of the bend in the river where you found Ms. Grace.” Butterworth ascended the staff stairway first, his patent leather shoes echoing on the cold stone. After many years of servants traveling up and down carrying laundry, wood for fireplaces, food trays, and more, the stairs had become concave. By now, as Jane's employees literally followed in the footsteps of the former servants, the stone was smooth and shiny with use.

Jane loved these stairs and the history they represented, just as she loved every other part of the Stewards' ancestral house and would do anything in her power to protect it and those who called it home.

Kira's room was on the second floor overlooking Milton's Gardens. Jane made sure no other guests were nearby before knocking, which she did out of habit, and then hastily unlocked the door.

Inside, the room was in a state of complete disarray.

Kira's clothes were everywhere. A Japanese silk robe
was draped over the lamp, a pair of jeans and a batik blouse had been tossed on the reading chair, a nightgown lay in a heap just outside the bathroom, and all the towels had been used and dumped on the writing desk. Kira had piled several art magazines and a book called
A Poultice for a Healer
by Caroline Roe on top of the towels. Tennis shoes, sandals, and a pair of silver pumps were scattered across the floor and a straw hat had been deposited on the bedside table.

“Did anything make it into the closet?” Sterling wanted to know.

“You can check after you put these on.” Butterworth held out a pair of latex gloves. “Miss Jane.”

Jane pulled on her gloves while continuing to scan the room. “I guess Kira had more important things to do than tidy up.”

The bed had been made at some point during the morning and was the only neat thing about Kira's room. The housekeeping staff had done their best to vacuum, dust, and straighten, but because Storyton's employees were told never to touch a guest's personal belongings unless absolutely necessary, they'd left Kira's clothes, books, scarves, socks, shoes, hats, and jewelry just as they were.

Butterworth walked over to the chest of drawers. A black stocking foot hung from the top drawer, and when the butler opened it, the stocking fell to the floor and a jumble of undergarments seemed to swell from the cavity. Scowling, Butterworth pinched up the stocking between his thumb and forefinger and pushed it back into the heap of lingerie.

“‘And this mess is so big,'” he grumbled. “‘And so deep and so tall. We cannot pick it up. There is no way at all!'”

Despite the gravity of their situation, Jane laughed. “I don't think I've ever heard you quote Dr. Seuss before.”

Sterling, who'd been inside the walk-in closet, reappeared holding Kira's portfolio case. “Which book is he citing?”

“
Cat in the Hat
,” Jane said. “The twins never cared for
that story. Even though they knew everything would be okay in the end and that the children's house would be cleaned up before their parents came home, the boys got so anxious about the increasing mess—especially when Thing One and Thing Two showed up. It's a stressful book for some kids.”

Sterling put the portfolio case on the bed and stepped back to allow Jane to open it. “There was no camera in the closet?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just her suitcase and two cocktail dresses. She actually hung them on hangers.”

Butterworth, who was still examining the contents of the chest of drawers, grunted.

“Could you take a peek in the bathroom while I look through this?” Jane reached for the zipper on Kira's case. For a moment, there was only the sound of the zipper teeth parting, and Jane paused. Somehow, she felt that the contents of Kira's case were far more intimate than the contents of her drawers, closet, or cosmetic bag. Jane had only met the woman once, but even from that brief encounter, she could tell that Kira had been passionate about her work.

Butterworth came over to the bed carrying Kira's handbag—an enormous Vera Bradley tote. “I think I should put a towel down before emptying the contents,” he murmured and proceeded to do so. Jane watched as he upended the bag and a cascade of tissues, lotions, lip balm, pens, film canisters, receipts, and finally, a wallet came tumbling out.

“Nothing unusual in here,” Sterling said, standing on the threshold between the bedroom and the bathroom. “She was a fan of plant-based products and sunscreen.” He flicked his gaze at Butterworth. “You might have a stroke if you go in there.”

Butterworth grunted again and pulled a card out of Kira's wallet. “Mr. Sterling, would you take an image of Ms. Grace's Social Security card? It will speed things along later on if we have reason to look into her financial affairs.”

Sterling fished his cell phone from his pocket while Jane opened the portfolio case.

At first, she saw prints that were similar to the ones she'd seen yesterday. There were at least a dozen color photos focusing on a particular part of a flower. In each case, the image resembled a human female's reproductive organ. These photographs were all neatly aligned in plastic folders, as were the next group, which featured plants. Jane almost flipped past them, assuming there was nothing interesting about the detailed shots of foliage or stems, when she spotted an insect on one of the photographs. It looked like a green beetle and had blended in so perfectly with the plant leaf that Jane had initially missed it. All the images in the series contained camouflaged insects.

“Did Ms. Grace use her art to convey her own need to hide?” Jane wondered aloud. “Was she scared? Did she have a secret to keep?”

When she flipped to the next section of prints, she gasped. This series had nothing whatsoever to do with plants. It showed the most celebrated member of The Medieval Herbalists in a state of partial undress, locked in the embrace of a silver-haired man with a very tanned torso.

“It's the Poison Princess,” Jane said. She pointed at a small band of gold on the third finger of the man's left hand. “It looks like she was captured fooling around with a married man.”

“Perhaps Ms. Grace intended to blackmail one or both of these individuals, but her plan—” Sterling began.

“Backfired,” Jane finished for him. “Maybe she left this morning for a meeting in a secluded place, taking one of the damning photographs with her, when suddenly the tables were turned. The blackmailer became the victim. And she ended up paying the ultimate price.”

Sterling looked at his phone screen. “The guests are starting to return from the duck race.”

Jane nodded. She didn't have much time to decide what to do with the information they'd discovered. “Butterworth, you'd better go back to your post. Please escort the sheriff and his team through the rear door and the staff corridors. There's no need for the rest of the guests to learn of Ms. Grace's demise until absolutely necessary.”

As Butterworth slipped from the room, Sterling gestured at the portfolio. “Should I replace this or leave it for the sheriff to find?”

“Forward images of the incriminating photographs to Sinclair first,” Jane said. “His first priority should be identifying Constance Meredith's lover.”

“And what about Constance?” Sterling asked while snapping photos with his phone. “Did you see her at the duck race?”

Jane searched her memory, but the only Medieval Herbalists she'd noticed were Sandi Hughes, Vivian Ash, Claude Mason, and Hannah Billingsley.

“I didn't see her,” she answered. “However, if Constance went into town, her name will appear on a passenger list. She doesn't strike me as the type to have arranged bicycle rental through Spokes. Not when a vintage Rolls-Royce and a driver in livery is at her disposal.”

“I'll scan the clipboards in the garage before meeting you back in the surveillance room. If we're lucky, we can deliver Ms. Grace's killer into the hands of the sheriff before tea service is over.”

Jane opened the door, waited for Sterling to step out into the hallway, and then cast a quick glance back into the room. Despite Kira's untidiness, it was still a lovely, welcoming space. The summer sun streamed through the tall windows and warmed the cozy reading chair and footstool. Jane was saddened to think that Kira wouldn't have a chance to peruse her books or magazines in that chair. It was easy to picture her sipping tea and nibbling Mrs. Hubbard's homemade shortbread cookies while she flipped pages. Jane could envision Kira's feet encased in the polka-dot slipper socks she'd seen in the dresser drawer and could imagine her wriggling her toes in delight as she dunked a cookie into her tea.

But your own actions ruined any chances of that
, Jane thought, silently berating Kira.
Were you desperate for money? Or were you just plain greedy?

She remembered Kira's expression at the mention of Constance Meredith's name. Kira had clearly disliked her fellow group member. Perhaps the dislike was mutual. And if Kira did something to threaten the success the Poison Princess currently enjoyed, Jane didn't think Constance would stand passively by.

All conjecture
, Jane thought as she closed the door and locked it. To Sterling, she said, “I hope things turn out as you say, but somehow, I don't feel that lucky.”

Sterling looked contrite.

Jane touched his arm. “Don't mind me. It's just that I
caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror a moment ago and I really need to get cleaned up. I can't let our guests see me like this.” She handed Sterling her great-uncle's fishing hat. “Give this to a bellhop, would you? At least I was able to rescue something today.”

As they descended the staff stairwell, Sterling shot her a brief glance. “I would have warned you about Mr. Alcott had I known he was back. He must have returned to the village—”

“Like a thief in the night?” Jane allowed a hint of anger to creep into her voice. “I hear that's one of his many skills. Sneaking into places.” She shook her head to stop herself from focusing on Edwin's secret identity—the one that identified him as a famous book thief called The Templar. “I might be furious with him, but I'm glad he showed up when he did. He was able to get Kira out of the water and fetch Doc Lydgate. His timing was fortunate.”

“I doubt Mr. Alcott was at that bend in the river by chance,” Sterling grumbled. “When you separated from the crowd to chase after your uncle's hat, Mr. Alcott probably saw an opportunity to speak with you in private.” A gleam appeared in Sterling's eyes. “He must have been surprised to see that the object you were trying to retrieve from the water was a far cry from a fishing hat.”

“If he was surprised, he hid it well,” Jane said. “I did a terrible job concealing how I felt, even though I'd mentally rehearsed how I'd react when I saw Edwin Alcott again. I was going to be the picture of courtesy. But cool and distant. Untouchable.”

Sterling raised his brows. “And?”

“I didn't exactly pull it off.”

By this point they'd reached the rear exit. Sterling was just about to head to the garage when he turned back to Jane and said, “We Fins swore an oath to protect you, and we're more than willing to teach this man a lesson about what it means to trifle with your feelings, Miss Jane.”

Jane smiled. “I shouldn't have mentioned Mr. Alcott. Sometimes I forget that I have highly trained personal bodyguards, all of whom happen to dote on me and defend my honor as they would their own kid sister. And while I'm not former CIA or a retired Army Ranger and have never worked as an analyst in Her Majesty's Secret Service, I am learning to hold my own.”

Sterling nodded. “You are developing skills, Miss Jane, but you are no match for the likes of Mr. Alcott.”

Jane stared at him. “What makes you say that? He's a book thief, not a trained assassin.” She glared at Sterling. “Please tell me I was
not
falling in love with a hit man.”

“Falling in love?” Sterling looked taken aback.

Cheeks burning, Jane mumbled something about needing a shower and dashed outside. As she hurried behind the loading dock, she heard the sound of the twins' laughter.

“I'm home, boys!” she called. “Did you have fun at the duck race?”

“We can't talk now, Mom!” Hem shouted back. “We're working!”

“Yeah, we're on the clock!” Fitz added, doing his best to sound macho.

Stifling a laugh, Jane continued toward home, all thoughts of Edwin Alcott temporarily banished. Hearing the twins laboring in Mrs. Hubbard's kitchen garden had reminded Jane of why she needed to get cleaned up in the first place. She'd gotten wet while trying to pull Kira's body out of the water. Right about now, her friends would be lining up outside the Agatha Christie Tea Room. Would any of The Medieval Herbalists notice Kira's absence?

Jane took a quick shower and changed into her cornflower blue dress. After forcing her damp strawberry blond curls into a tight braid, she dabbed on tinted lip gloss and added blush to her cheeks before hurrying back to the manor house again.

She found Sinclair in the surveillance room, pacing in front of the bank of monitors like a restless cat.

“There you are,” he said upon seeing Jane.

“I couldn't risk being seen looking like a drowned rat.” Jane gestured at the papers in Sinclair's hand. “Did you identify Constance's lover?”

Sinclair nodded. “Nico Scannavini. He's in the perfume business. His family has turned plants into scents for the past two hundred years. Nico is the younger son. The older brother, Matteo, makes all the decisions while Nico flits around the world attending conferences, movie premieres, car races, and the like.” He showed Jane a color printout featuring a row of glass bottles with decorative labels. “Elements is a niche company. They produce artisan perfumes using all-natural, botanical ingredients.”

“Pretty,” Jane said. Sinclair flipped to a second page and passed it to her. It was an article from an Italian newspaper and showed the man Jane recognized cozying up to two very tall, very thin blondes. “Nico obviously likes the ladies.”

“Yes,” Sinclair agreed. “There are dozens of photographs of him in the company of attractive women. However, they are always taken as a means of promotion and the parties involved are always fully clothed.”

Jane examined several images. “In other words, the pictures Kira took are far more incriminating because she
caught
Nico cheating on his wife.” Jane looked at Sinclair. “What's Nico's wife like? And is she here in Storyton?”

“Unlike her Italian-born husband, Michelle Scannavini is an American. She was hired as a chemist in Elements' New York plant, which is also where Nico Scannavini's office is located. The two met, had a whirlwind courtship, and were married. Mrs. Scannavini accompanies her husband on all his trips.” Sinclair rubbed his chin. “And even though both of the Scannavinis are Medieval Herbalists,
Nico, it would appear, joined simply to earn brownie points with his parents. They are Elements board members and history buffs. Michelle, on the other hand, is genuinely interested in herbs and their chemical makeup and loves to study how they were used throughout the ages.”

“Which means she would have been busy attending all the scheduled events during last year's retreat,” Jane said. “Leaving Nico free to sneak off for trysts with Constance.”

Sinclair frowned in disapproval. “That's what I would assume.”

“Another possibility is that Michelle already knew about the affair,” Jane mused aloud. “Maybe she forgave her husband. Maybe she wasn't going to allow Kira to expose him. Either that, or she wasn't going to let Kira's blackmail tarnish the company's reputation. Michelle could also be a suspect.”

“She could,” Sinclair agreed.

Jane sank into a chair, the printout of the perfume bottles on her lap. “I don't know, Sinclair. The world has become such a jaded place. Even if Nico's philandering became public, would the news really impact Elements' bottom line? He just doesn't seem that important. Looking at these other articles, he only manages to get media attention by being in proximity to famous people.” She shrugged. “Still, Sheriff Evans will have to question both Nico and Michelle.”

“As well as Ms. Meredith,” Sinclair said. “Fortunately, all three suspects have already returned and headed directly for the tea room.”

Jane considered what to do next. “After we escort the sheriff to Kira's room, where he'll discover the incriminating photographs, we can arrange for him to interview the three suspects in one of the conference rooms. If we handle this correctly, we might not have to issue an announcement that a woman died under mysterious circumstances until tomorrow.”

“I believe that the rest of The Medieval Herbalists will notice that four of their members have gone missing,” Sinclair said.

“Especially since tonight is the blindfolded taste test competition hosted by Mrs. Hubbard.” Jane groaned. “How will I explain this to our special guests?”

Sinclair put a hand on her shoulder. “I don't think it'll be your place to do so, Miss Jane. The crime did not occur within these walls or on our grounds, remember? The sheriff is up for reelection this year, so he's bound to handle every nuance of this case. And while he's welcomed our assistance in the past, we can't assume that he'll welcome it now.”

Jane touched the tip of her finger to the screen showing a view of the long driveway. At that moment, two sheriff's cruisers were rolling over the gravel. Because most of the guests were in the tea room or lounging by the Jules Verne Pool, no other vehicles were in motion.

“Good. They're parking by the loading dock,” she said. “And Butterworth's at the door, waiting for them.”

“I should keep an eye on our suspects until the sheriff sends for them. When that time arrives—” Sinclair was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

Jane leapt to her feet.

Landon Lachlan entered the room. His cheeks glistened with sweat, and the wave of sandy-colored hair falling across his forehead was damp. The Storyton Mews T-shirt he'd designed last spring, which featured a falcon flying over the manor house, was plastered to his muscular chest. The new head of recreation had been at Storyton for half a year now, but his novelty hadn't worn off with the female staff members. His shy smile, bright blue eyes, and rugged, outdoorsman appearance had instantly charmed the ladies of the village and the Hall alike. However, it was Lachlan's introverted nature that lent him an air of mystery. Lachlan suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and, in general,
preferred the company of raptors to people. His unpredictable behavior only increased his appeal with the local women, and they endlessly whispered about him in the stores and in Tresses, Violet's beauty salon. However, he had eyes for only one woman, and that was Eloise.

Wiping his face with a handkerchief, Lachlan gave Jane an apologetic look. “Sorry. I didn't want to waste time getting cleaned up.”

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “You should have seen me earlier. I was a frightful sight. Did you find anything?”

Lachlan nodded. “A tire track leading from the river to the road. It was faded, but I followed it up the rise.”

“A single tire track?” Sinclair sounded perplexed. Then, he brightened. “Ah! From a wheelbarrow?”

This elicited another nod from Lachlan. “I think the killer pulled a truck to the side of the road, unloaded the wheelbarrow, and took Ms. Grace's body out of the passenger seat. The killer pushed her down the bank and dumped her in the water. It was early and the grass was wet, so the tire left a depression. I found another divot right at the river's edge too. That would have come from the metal encasing the front tire, which would have bit into the ground as the killer tipped the wheelbarrow forward and the weight of Ms. Grace's body bore down.”

This was a lengthy speech for Lachlan, and he seemed more spent from talking than from tracking. Reaching behind her, Jane poured him a glass of water from the water cooler and handed it to him. She waited until he drank several swallows before asking, “Was this spot far from where I found her?”

“Not very,” Lachlan replied. “My guess is that the killer knew about the duck race. There was no reason anyone would walk to the place where the river bottlenecks. They'd be focused on the action near the bridge. And even if someone did, the killer probably felt safe. He had hours to put between himself and the place where he dumped the body.”