Murder in the Paperback Parlor (6 page)

Naturally, the Cover Girls glanced down the corridor.

“I think he caught a mole,” Phoebe said.

“If one of the guests spies him with that . . .” Violet began, but Jane was already moving to intercept the portly tuxedo before he could reach the doorway to the theater.

Fortunately, the women were so bent on securing seats near the front of the room that they failed to notice the approaching feline. However, the moment Muffet Cat spotted Jane, he dropped the small creature he'd been carrying, sat back on his haunches, and meowed. Knowing he expected to be praised, Jane bent over and stroked his head. “Good boy. Yes, you're an excellent hunter. Well done.” She glanced over her shoulder and, to her horror, saw that one of Storyton's few male guests had also caught sight of Muffet Cat.

Damn it,
Jane thought. Seeing no other recourse, she scooped up the dead mole and dropped it into the pocket of her suit jacket.

The Cover Girls released soft cries of horror and then ducked into the theater. At the same time, a tall man in his late forties made his way down the hall toward Jane. Squatting next to Muffet Cat, he held out his hand for the feline to sniff.

“He's a handsome fellow,” the man said. “What's his name?”

“Muffet Cat,” Jane replied and inwardly sighed in relief for having managed to remove the mole corpse in time. “When we found him, we thought ‘he' was a ‘she,' so my sons named him Miss Muffet. He went by that name for months before the vet explained that Miss Muffet was a male.”

“How emasculating.” The man laughed. He was attractive in a bookish sort of way and Jane found herself smiling at him. He scratched Muffet Cat under the chin and the tuxedo arched his back in delight and rubbed up against the man's pant leg. “I'm Nigel Poindexter,” the man said after giving Muffet Cat a final pat. “I'm a freelance journalist and one of the few men attending Romancing the Reader. Lucky me, right? To be surrounded by all these lovely ladies?”

Jane moved to shake his hand but then remembered she'd just touched a dead mole with it. She pretended to sneeze. “I'm so sorry,” she said, abashed. “Sometimes I sneeze around the cat.”

It was a complete lie, but Nigel nodded in understanding. Holding up a notebook, he jerked his head in the direction of the theater. “I'd better go in. Rosamund York's publicist told me that her boss is making a major announcement tonight. If I miss the big news, then I won't have an article to sell tomorrow. It was nice to meet you both.”

As soon as Nigel was gone, Jane cooed and snapped her fingers in hopes of coaxing Muffet Cat into following her to the kitchen. Instead, he sniffed the edge of the carpeted runner where he'd dropped his prize and then narrowed his yellow eyes. “How about some tuna?” Jane asked and the glare instantly vanished. The tip of Muffet Cat's tail curled like a question mark and he trotted alongside Jane as she entered the servant's passageway leading to the kitchen.

After thoroughly scrubbing her hands, Jane removed her jacket and held it upside down over the trashcan. She heard a thud as the mole dropped to the bottom.

“I won't be wearing that again this evening!”

Muffet Cat meowed impatiently and Jane gave him a scoop of canned tuna fish. He devoured it greedily. When he was finished, he licked his lips, blinked sleepily, and started to purr.

“I guess you're ready for bed,” Jane said as he sauntered toward the exit. After accompanying him upstairs, Jane left the cat in the hall outside her aunt and uncle's apartment. She knew Muffet Cat would scratch on the door until someone let him
in. He'd then spend the rest of the night sleeping on Aunt Octavia's pillow. He adored Aunt Octavia and she adored him right back. She kept the pockets of her housedresses stuffed with kitty treats and always gave him a small bowl of cream at teatime. To show his gratitude, he sat on her lap while she read, snuggled with her at night, and glowered at anyone she disliked.

With Muffet Cat's needs met, Jane returned to the theater in time to witness the arrival of the four female novelists. First in line was a stocky woman with mousy brown hair and pink glasses. She waved at the audience and sat on one of the chairs positioned in the center of the dais. Behind her came a tall, willowy woman with a heart-shaped face. To Jane, she looked like a fairy. Next, Rosamund and Georgia strode in. The crowd clapped wildly.

Sinclair, who was serving as auctioneer, turned on the microphone at the podium and introduced the authors. The stocky woman was Barbara Jewel and her willowy neighbor was Ciara Lovelace. Jane knew their names and recognized their faces from examining the books Eloise had been displaying at Run for Cover for the past month. Jane wished she'd had the chance to read at least one work by all four authors, but she'd only had time to get through Georgia Dupree's and Rosamund York's latest novels.

Sinclair cleared his throat officiously. “Please hold your numbered bidding cards high in the air. Our lovely authoresses have volunteered to exhibit tonight's items and they'll help me spot bids as well.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the animated whispers and excited mutterings coming from the crowd. “Ladies, are we ready to begin?”

The audience applauded raucously. Jane heard shouts and shrill whistles and smiled in amusement over the enthusiastic demonstration.

Eloise joined her by the doorway. “If this is what they're like at the auction, what can we expect at the male cover model contest? The only person who's keeping their cool is that man who was petting Muffet Cat. Do you think he'll bid on Regency-style trinkets?”

Jane noticed Nigel seated at the back of the room. “No, he's a journalist. He'll be here all week. Go ahead and sit with the Cover Girls. I'm going to hang out near the front in case Sinclair needs assistance. I see he's roped Lachlan into recording the winning bidder numbers.”

Eloise glanced at the desk where Lachlan sat, his eyes fixed on Sinclair. “How can someone that good-looking be so dull?”

Jane followed her friend's gaze. “He's not dull. He's just reserved.”

“But he's never been to the bookstore.” Eloise shook her head in wonder. “Does he borrow books from your libraries?”

“I don't keep track of what my staff does with their free time,” Jane said.

Eloise frowned. “Just remember what Lemony Snicket said: ‘Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them.'”

Jane smiled. “I trust Lachlan, but he could probably use a good story or two to help coax him out of his shell. Flaubert said that we should ‘read in order to live.' Maybe Mr. Lachlan just hasn't found the right book to bring him to life. Maybe he needs the help of a professional bibliophile.”

Eloise snapped her heels together and saluted. “I will make it my mission to find the perfect book. I'll have to ask him what he read as a boy. Remember that C.S. Lewis quote?”

“‘No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond,'” they spoke in unison.

“We sound like the twins.” Jane laughed and then pointed at the dais. “You'd better sit down. Sinclair is waving his gavel.”

Eloise nodded and hurried to her seat.

Sinclair opened the auction with a beautiful crushed velvet cape. Mabel had donated the item as a means of advertising La Grande Dame. Sinclair also took the opportunity to inform the attendees that there were still spaces available in Mabel's Make Your Own Reticle workshop, which would take place later in the week.

The bidding was surprisingly robust for a piece of clothing that wasn't exactly practical. And it continued to grow more
aggressive over items like a ribbon and cameo choker necklace, a hair bandeau embellished with faux gems, kids gloves stitched with pearl buttons, a gold armlet, and a magnificent crimson shawl with a gold paisley border.

Following these lots was an assortment of baskets stuffed with candles and lotions, romantic comedy DVDs, handmade stationery, and signed novels by several notable historical romance authors who weren't able to make the event.

Finally, it was time for the four authors to present their items. Barbara Jewel offered to critique the first three chapters of a work-in-progress while Ciara Lovelace presented a special book club package.

“I'll send your group a list of discussion questions as well as a few fun prizes. I'll also use Skype to join in on the conversation,” Ciara explained. “If your club is interested, I'll talk about some of the real men who inspired my fictional hunks.”

This created quite a stir among the audience members and cards shot into the air all over the room.

When the bidding was done, Ciara graciously thanked everyone who'd participated and passed the microphone to Georgia Dupree.

Georgia gestured at the projector screen behind her and smiled. “Readers. Friends. You've been so loyal and devoted for all these years that I decided to save the cover reveal of the all-new Fitzroy Fortune novel until this evening.” She waited for a wave of applause to die down before continuing. “Not only will you be the first to view this cover, but you can also bid on the honor of naming Lady Cecelia's love interest. The Fitzroy family is full of dramatic characters, but in this novel, the oldest daughter, Lady Cecelia, pulls out all the stops. She's become entangled with a dangerous man. A rogue. A scoundrel. A man who takes what he wants when he wants. Could this brigand become the hero Lady Cecelia secretly desires? Could there be more to him than avarice and villainy? Is he really a thief or is he a member of the nobility in disguise? That's for you to decide, dear readers. And now, I give you
The Lady and the Highwayman
!”

The image of a book cover filled the screen. Jane recognized
Lady Cecelia Fitzroy—a dark-haired beauty in a torn ivory gown—gazing up at a large and powerful-looking man with a close-cropped beard and stunning blue eyes. He was dressed in black breeches and a black coat and held a shiny dagger in his hand. The tip of its blade hovered seductively over the last scrap of fabric holding Lady Cecelia's gown in place. The audience responded with favorable gasps of delight, followed by cheers of approval.

“One of you will choose the highwayman's name,” Georgia said, clearly pleased by the response to her cover. “As long as it fits the era, of course.”

The bidding war was fast and furious. Jane was astounded by how much the women were willing to pay to name a fictional character, but was thrilled that the money would go to such a worthy cause.

After several minutes, the price escalated to a shockingly high amount. There were only a pair of bidders duking it out and one of them was Mrs. Pratt. Concerned that Mrs. Pratt was being reckless with her savings, Jane shot Eloise a worried glance, but Eloise responded with a thumbs-up. The rest of the Cover Girls were openly egging Mrs. Pratt on. Jane even heard them chanting, “Eugenia! Eugenia!”

Their rallying cries notwithstanding, Mrs. Pratt could not compete with the other bidder. The lady wore a diamond necklace that was probably worth more than the entire contents of Jane's house and simply refused to back down. In the end, Mrs. Pratt had to lower her bid card in defeat.

Jane felt sorry for her friend and fervently hoped that her dashed spirits would be restored by Rosamund York's announcement. Rosamund accepted the microphone from Georgia and wasted no time informing the crowd that she had advanced reader copies of
Eros Steals the Bride
to give to anyone willing to donate a minimum of twenty-five dollars to the literacy fund. The response from the audience was deafening. And when Rosamond's book cover, featuring a half-naked man with a chiseled torso and a wry grin appeared onscreen, the noise increased to the point where Jane feared that the theater's crystal chandeliers would shatter.

Sinclair reclaimed the microphone and tried to convince the women to settle down. When they'd finally stopped screaming and clapping, he said, “Please form an orderly line in front of the desk to my right, beginning with the first row. Mr. Lachlan will accept your donation and—”

Suddenly, a woman bolted from her chair in the middle of the room and started running up the center aisle.

“I want that book!” she cried. Jane recognized her as the passionate young woman from the dining room.

What are you doing, Maria
? she thought and then gasped in alarm as more women leapt from their seats.

“Ladies!” Sinclair admonished from the dais, but they paid him no mind.

Chairs went skittering. Women shoved one another in their eagerness to reach Lachlan's desk and several ladies were pushed to the ground. No one stopped to help them up. The other women just jumped over them, such was their rush to get their hands on Rosamund York's new book.

Jane watched the pandemonium in horrified disbelief. But her shock was instantly replaced by a desire to act. If she didn't do something quickly, her guests could be seriously injured. An idea flashed in her mind and she ran to the bank of light switches and turned them all off, plunging the room into darkness.

Several women screamed, but the sounds of the crowd's chaotic scuffling ceased.

Jane counted to three and then turned the lights back on.

Throughout the room, women were frozen in place.

Taking advantage of the silence, Sinclair commanded everyone to return to their seats.

“There is no cause for such commotion,” he reprimanded the group. “There are plenty of books for all. To prevent further chaos, I will now call you by row. If you cannot maintain order, then no one will receive a copy.”

The women shuffled to their seats except for Maria Stone. “I have be the first person to get that book. I'm Ms. York's biggest fan! I deserve to be first!”

Sinclair's eyes narrowed. “You will return to your seat, young lady, or I'll have you escorted from the premises.”

Maria glared at him, but eventually stomped back to her chair. She didn't sit, however. She stood with her arms folded, a murderous expression on her face.