Murder in the Secret Garden (2 page)

“Wonderful. Thank you so much.” And before Jane could offer Tammy a cold glass of water or escort her to the gate, the expert gardener had helped herself to one of the hand trowels and had begun to dig up one of the diseased spinach plants. “Please,” Jane said, feeling uncomfortable. “You're a guest of Storyton Hall. You shouldn't be working in my garden.”

“But this is where I'm most content,” Tammy said. “Please let me stay. I'll sit on the other end and be very quiet. You won't even know I'm here.”

Having no choice but to acquiesce, Jane offered to get Tammy a set of tools and a pair of gloves. When she returned from the maintenance shed, Tammy and the twins were chattering away like old pals. Clearly, if the boys still considered her a witch, they'd come to the conclusion that she performed white magic.

“What about mosquitoes and flies?” Hem was asking her. “There were a billion last summer!”

“You could plant basil,” Tammy said. “Those bugs hate basil. Your mom could also use the leaves to make a salad with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella cheese.”

Jane handed Tammy her tools. “Sounds delicious.”

Fitz pointed at the small pile of dandelions in his bucket. “Can we do something with these, Ms. Tammy? Didn't you say they weren't bad?”

“They're not bad, Fitz. No plants are, but we have to make choices about which plants we want in our gardens. We've chosen not to include dandelions in this garden.” Tammy pursed her lips in thought. “You could feed them to a goat. Or a pig.”

Fitz and Hem grinned at each other. “Pig Newton!”

By the time they'd finished telling Tammy about the most famous pet in Storyton Village, the spinach plants had been
pulled, and the twins were making excellent progress with the chickweeds. Jane, who'd given herself the job of rooting out the dandelions and invasive grasses, made a silent vow to weed the garden on a more regular basis in the future.

Much later, four hot, sweaty, and dirt-encrusted workers crossed the back lawn leading to the manor house and paused by the kitchen door. “Are you sure you won't come in for a drink?” Jane asked Tammy. “Mrs. Hubbard always keeps a supply of sun tea and lemonade on hand.”

“What I want most is a shower,” Tammy said. “Between my morning hike and the lovely hours spent in your garden, I probably smell worse than Pig Newton. I'll take a rain check on the sun tea.” With a wave, she headed for the guest entrance.

“Pig Newton doesn't smell,” Hem said, instantly coming to the pig's defense.

Fitz looked at Jane. “It's true. Mr. Hogg put a baby pool under the tree behind The Pickled Pig Market. Mr. Hogg tosses some Cheerios in the water, and while Pig Newton's busy eating, Mr. Hogg gives him a good scrubbing.”

“We could all use a good scrubbing,” Jane said. “Wash up to your elbows, both of you, or Mrs. Hubbard will have a fit.”

As though the mention of her name had conjured her from thin air, Mrs. Hubbard appeared from inside the closest pantry. “Hello, my darlings! You're just in time for lunch.” Her apple-cheeked face was more flushed than usual. She exhaled loudly and put a hand over her ample chest. “I've been running around like a madwoman making sure we have everything we need for the Billingsley-Earle wedding, but I've gone over my list three times now and I'm satisfied.” Sliding a notepad into her apron pocket, she smiled at Jane and the boys. “As for you three, you can be my official taste testers. I want to add new sandwiches to the Rudyard Kipling
Café's summer menu. Take a seat at the counter and I'll be right back with the first candidate.”

She paused to issue orders to the kitchen staff and then returned carrying three plates. “Turkey club with herb mayonnaise. I mixed fresh parsley, thyme, and basil in with the mayo. There's locally grown lettuce and tomatoes and crunchy bacon too. I know how much you boys like your bacon.”

“Is this spinach?” Fitz lifted off his top slice of bread and pointed at a few pieces of mayo-smeared lettuce. Jane caught the apprehension in her son's voice and knew that he was picturing the diseased leaves from their vegetable garden.

“No, honey. That's romaine.” Mrs. Hubbard put her hands on her hips. “Now put your sandwich back together, have a taste, and tell me what you think.”

Hem hurriedly yanked the tomato slice out of his sandwich before taking an enormous bite. His right cheek inflated like a balloon and he grinned at Mrs. Hubbard and gave her a thumbs-up.

Though Jane took a more conservative sample of her sandwich, she was immediately impressed by how many flavors and textures Mrs. Hubbard had managed to squeeze between two slices of bread. The fresh tomato and lettuce slices lightened the heaviness of the crispy bacon and salt-and-pepper seasoned turkey, and the aromatic creaminess of the herb mayo provided the perfect finish.

“This is a keeper,” she told Mrs. Hubbard.

With a nod of satisfaction, Storyton's head cook walked to the prep station and returned with three small bowls. “Watermelon salad with fresh mint to round off your meal.”

“Ms. Tammy says that mint helps you digest,” Hem informed her.

Mrs. Hubbard looked pleased. “She found you, then? Good!”

“She knows
everything
about plants,” Fitz said. “She's
like Professor Sprout in the Harry Potter books. Ms. Tammy could teach herbology at Hogwarts.”

“I believe she would take that as a high compliment.” Mrs. Hubbard gestured at their empty plates. “Tammy encouraged me to experiment with different herb combinations based on recipes from the Middle Ages. You should see my kitchen garden, Jane. Tammy kindly mailed me dozens of seed packets shortly after we first started corresponding. With her help, I'm now growing a real medieval herb garden right out there.” She pointed toward the back door, which led to both the loading dock and a raised garden bed enclosed by a low stone wall. “I have the more exotic plants at home because they require more care. I even have licorice!”

“Can you make candy?” the boys asked in unison.

Too caught up in her narrative to be misdirected, Mrs. Hubbard winked at them and prattled on. “I'm growing ginger too. Can you believe it? I hope to harvest my first crop of baby ginger in October. To me, these herbs are as precious and wonderful as one of those illuminated manuscripts would be to you, Jane, my dear.”

At the mention of illuminated manuscripts, Mrs. Hubbard's voice faded as Jane's mind turned to thoughts of Edwin Alcott. The last communication she'd had from the man she'd fallen hard and fast for had arrived in the form of a mysterious package. Inside the package, Jane had discovered a missing page belonging to the Gutenberg Bible hidden in Storyton's secret library. Edwin had recovered the page from an untold location in the Middle East and had sent it to Jane in an attempt to prove that he was not a book thief—not in the pure sense of the word anyway. He promised to explain himself when he returned to Storyton, but that had been months ago, and Jane's doubts about his character had grown more and more with each passing day.

I should just forget about him
, Jane chided herself for the hundredth time.
He must be a thief and a rogue. Why
else would he stay away? Why else would he make his sister worry? Or make me promises that he never meant to keep?

“Mom?” Fitz waved his hand in front of Jane's face and she blinked.

“Sorry,” she said. “I drifted off for a second there.”

Mrs. Hubbard studied her closely. “You should stick your nose in my rosemary plant and take a deep breath. That'll clear your head. If you're not growing any in your own garden, take some of mine. You could whip up a lovely rosemary-lemon chicken for supper—it'll help focus all of your minds.”

“We don't need to focus,” Hem countered. “It's summer!”

Smiling indulgently at him, Mrs. Hubbard said, “So it is. But there's a saying about idle hands and the devil.” She shot a conspiratorial glance at Jane. “If it's all right with your mother, I'd like to hire you boys to weed and water my kitchen garden. The groundskeeping staff is too busy to deal with it. And in all honesty, I think you two would take better care of my plants. Not because the groundskeepers aren't hard workers,” she hurriedly added, “but I believe you boys will come to love the garden as I do. You'd have to tend the plants for an hour every day except for Sundays. I'll pay you on Friday. In cash. Are you interested in the job?”

The twins laced their fingers together and made begging motions. “Can we, Mom?
Please?
”

“Only if Mrs. Hubbard and I can come to an agreement about your wages,” Jane said. “Thank her for the delicious lunch and then go play while we talk.”

Hem and Fitz hugged Mrs. Hubbard before racing out of the kitchen. As soon as they were gone, the two women settled in for a good-natured haggling session.

“They should be doing the job for free,” Jane began. “Stewards have been maintaining Storyton Hall for centuries. Even my great-aunt and -uncle have assignments, though their tasks are far less physical.”

“But Master Hem and Master Fitz are just children,” Mrs. Hubbard countered. “Let them see what's it's like to earn money for a job well done—a job not assigned by a teacher or a parent. It'll do them good. Give them a sense of pride.”

Eventually, Jane capitulated. It was nearly impossible to say no to Mrs. Hubbard.

“Time to bake the scones,” Mrs. Hubbard said, rising to her feet and smoothing her apron, which was embroidered with tiny pink and white teapots. “And since a handful of herbalists have checked in early, I've added cheddar and chive biscuits to the tea menu, so I'll have to make those as well.”

It never failed to amaze Jane that Mrs. Hubbard, who rarely left the kitchen, was able to keep tabs on the goings-on at Storyton Hall. It didn't hurt that the majority of the employees fed her the choicest tidbits of gossip in exchange for a piece of shortbread or a slice of Victoria sponge.

“Maybe I shouldn't have taken the day off,” Jane mused aloud. “I wonder who else has arrived early.”

“Tammy said that she'd seen their group's president alighting from one of our cars just as she was heading out on her hike this morning. She didn't want to delay her walk, so she didn't stop to say hello. One of her closest friends, a photographer named Kira Grace, is also en route. She's very eager to explore the trails around Storyton.” Mrs. Hubbard's jovial face suddenly clouded over. “And the
other
early arrival showed up just before you and the boys came into the kitchen. Billy carried her bags to her room.” She lowered her voice. “Apparently, her luggage—and there was quite a bit of it—gave off a nasty odor.”

Jane was surprised by the note of disapproval in Mrs. Hubbard's voice. It was most uncharacteristic of the jolly cook.

“Do you know this guest?” Jane asked.

Mrs. Hubbard scowled. “It was Constance Meredith.”

Jane frowned. The name was familiar, but she'd reviewed so many names recently in reference to both the upcoming wedding and The Medieval Herbalists booking that they'd all begun to blend together.

“You'd probably recognize her by her
stage name
.” Mrs. Hubbard's note of disapproval had morphed into outright disdain. “Does the Poison Princess ring a bell?”

“Ah, the Poison Princess!” Jane smiled. “According to Mr. Mason, the group president, she's their most famous member. She's served as an expert witness on dozens of murder trials, advised physicians, toured the world giving lectures on poisonous plants, and appeared on several television shows dealing with illusive medical diagnoses.” Jane's smile faded as she examined Mrs. Hubbard's troubled expression. “You're worried. Why?”

Mrs. Hubbard twisted the corner of her apron and pulled a face. “At first, I was thrilled to learn that the Poison Princess was staying at Storyton Hall. As you know, I hardly ever use the computer, but I went into Mr. Sinclair's office and asked him to pull up her website. The more I read, the more I disliked the woman. I also watched some video clips and they made my skin crawl. She's as cold as the White Witch of Narnia. You should hear how gleefully she describes the manner in which certain poisonous plants affect people—she truly admires their power to injure or to kill. And one only has to watch her for a few minutes to tell that she didn't give a fig about the fate of the poor souls who came into contact with these plants.”

“Maybe it's all for show,” Jane suggested.

Raising her index finger, Mrs. Hubbard said, “She bears watching, Jane. Trust me.”

Jane reached out and took Mrs. Hubbard's hand. “After what happened here during the Romancing the Reader convention, I wouldn't dream of ignoring your instincts. I'll keep a close eye on her. I promise.”

“There's something else.”

“Yes?” Jane asked, feeling an inexplicable sense of dread.

Mrs. Hubbard squeezed Jane's hand for emphasis. “Don't let that witch within a mile of my kitchens. Or near any food, for that matter. She knows a hundred different ways to kill someone using plants. And many of those plants are now growing right outside our back door.”

As much as Jane wanted to view Mrs. Hubbard's behavior as purely theatrical, she didn't dare. Ever since Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia had informed her that Edwin Alcott was a notorious book thief, Jane had started to doubt her own ability to form character judgments.

Edwin's secret profession wasn't the only thing that had turned Jane into a more suspicious person. As the Guardian of Storyton Hall, she was responsible for protecting the hidden library located in the tallest tower. And if a duplicitous potential lover and an invaluable collection of books, documents, and scrolls weren't enough to keep Jane on alert all the time, the fact that several murders had occurred at Storyton Hall since she'd become the resort's manager certainly had.

“That's over with now,” she told herself en route to her office. “This week is all about nature lovers. History buffs, gardeners, and foodies. What could be more peaceful than a bunch of events attended by people who spend their free time studying, growing, and using herbs?”

And yet Jane felt compelled to visit Constance Meredith's website. At first glance, the site was unremarkable. The moss green background and black font were easy on the eye, and there was a banner that said
THE POISON PRINCESS,
surrounded by delicate roses. Constance's photograph, which revealed her to be a raven-haired beauty with pale skin and dark, impenetrable eyes, looked more like a Broadway headshot than the photograph of a renowned botanist. Jane reasoned that with Constance's numerous television appearances, she probably saw herself as the botanical version of Dr. Oz. To capitalize on that image, she marketed herself as a celebrity professor.

Jane clicked on a link called “Poison Plants by Zone” and was startled when the roses around the banner turned from pink to brown and the thorns grew dangerously sharp and pointy. A quote floated to the top of the screen.

Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence and medicine power.

“Shakespeare,” Jane said and tried to recall which play. She could picture a portly friar explaining that the flower in his hand had the power to heal or to kill. “The flower had the power to poison,” she murmured. “It foreshadowed the doom of two young lovers.
Romeo and Juliet.
”

Scrolling farther down the page, Jane found several video clips of the Poison Princess at work. One showed her reviewing a patient's mysterious medical symptoms with a physician. Mrs. Hubbard was right. Constance Meredith described the symptoms, some of which were quite gruesome, with ill-disguised zeal. She didn't seem to care a whit about the person who'd been poisoned. In another clip, she discussed her tendency to travel with at least a dozen deadly plants in her possession.

“It's not enough to show someone a slide of a plant,” the Poison Princess said. Her confident tone held a hint of
condescension, but she was undeniably captivating. “Consider the difference between seeing a photograph of a cobra and having a cobra on the ground at your feet. The difference is significant.” Constance gave a little laugh and Jane shuddered at the analogy. Was Constance Meredith a fan of all biological organisms that produced toxins, poisons, or venom?

“Plants are living things,” Constance continued. “I endeavor to give my audience an appreciation of their beauty, scent, and power.”

“Oh boy,” Jane muttered. She exited the website, pushed back her desk chair, and flung open her office door. It was her intention to march straight into the Henry James Library and ask Sinclair for a copy of the background check he'd run on Constance Meredith. The head librarian would have paperwork waiting for Jane's perusal on all The Medieval Herbalists, but she couldn't enter a public space in dirty jeans and a soiled T-shirt emblazoned with
BOOK LOVERS NEVE
R GO TO BED ALONE
.

At home, Jane discovered a note on the kitchen counter. The brief missive informed her that the twins had gone fishing with Uncle Aloysius.

Jane smiled at the picture of the fish in the note's margin. She loved it when Fitz and Hem spent time with her great-uncle, for he always entertained them with tales from his boyhood. Having never known a father, seeing as theirs died in a car accident before they were born, Fitz and Hem looked on Uncle Aloysius as their model of what it was to be a man. A Southern gentleman of impeccable principles and a kindly demeanor, Jane couldn't have asked for a better example. Of course, there was no shortage of gentlemen tutors at Storyton Hall. Butterworth, Sinclair, and Lachlan also contributed to the twins' upbringing, and Jane counted herself lucky that her sons were surrounded by father figures who not only cared for them, but were also willing to lay down their lives for them.

Jane showered and changed into a navy blue sundress. She pinned her strawberry blond curls into a loose twist and then returned to the manor house. Having expected the boys to be long gone, she was surprised to hear Fitz's voice echo down the lobby. This was followed by a shrill shout by Hem. Jane sighed in annoyance. The twins were breaking two rules. They weren't to loiter in public areas without permission, and when they did visit these areas, they were supposed to speak in hushed tones.

“Use your Sunday school voices,” Jane had told them. Now she couldn't help wondering if they were behaving during Sunday school.

Fitz caught sight of Jane and, clearly hoping to reach her before Hem, sprinted to her side. “Mom! Guess what?”

“Would
you
like to guess how many rules you've broken?” Jane asked in reply, her eyes steely with disapproval.

Fitz deflated. “Uncle Aloysius said we could come to the front to meet Mr. Hughes. He gave us free tickets to the rubber duck race!”

“Lower your voice, Fitzgerald,” Jane admonished sharply. “And I do
not
want to see you run in this lobby again or you'll be sitting in your room instead of watching the duck race, do you hear me?”

Chastised, Fitz nodded. “I'm sorry. I was just really excited because I saved my allowance to buy a ticket, so now I can pick
two
ducks. Hem can too.”

Jane glanced down at her son. A few seconds ago, his face had been shining with happiness. The light had dimmed a little, but it was still there. Despite his transgressions, Jane realized that she'd rather see the gleam in his eye than have him be contrite. The rubber duck race was new to Storyton, and the staff had been talking about it with childlike glee ever since the local paper had printed a contest inviting people to name the ducks.

“Tell me about this Mr. Hughes,” Jane whispered conspiratorially. “Does he hint at which duck is the fastest?”

Fitz's glimmer reappeared. “
No
. He said that the winner would be decided by the currents and Lady Luck.” After a moment's hesitation, Fitz asked, “Is she real, Mom?”

Jane laughed. “No, honey. So Mr. Hughes gave you tickets to the race? That was very kind of him, especially since tickets don't go on sale until tomorrow.”

“Well, it's
his
race after all!” Fitz declared.

“Yes, Mr. Hughes is the proprietor of Storyton Outfitters, the village's newest business. I've been so looking forward to meeting him.” Jane proceeded down the lobby. Fitz marched at her side, waving his ticket in the air as though he were in a parade.

Mr. Hughes was a tall man in his mid-sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes that reminded Jane of mountain lakes. Judging from his weathered skin and the lines etched into his face like a road map of his journeys, Mr. Hughes preferred to spend his time in the open air.

He shook hands with a firm grip, and his smile was genuine and warm. “I was just telling your great-uncle how much I enjoyed speaking with Mr. Lachlan in person. We've talked on the phone many times over the past few months, but neither of us are phone people. That's my wife's department.” He chuckled. “Anyway, Mr. Lachlan and I have worked out an arrangement that will be mutually beneficial. I believe this is the start of an excellent friendship and partnership between Storyton Hall and Storyton Outfitters.”

Jane was delighted by this news. When Lachlan, whose full name was actually Iain Landon Lachlan, the head of the activities department, first heard that an experienced sportsman planned to open a shop on the outskirts of the village featuring fishing, hiking, and camping equipment, he'd become very animated. It was Lachlan's hope that he and
the new owner of Storyton Outfitters could work together to provide Storyton's guests with the opportunity to take half- or full-day fishing excursions, and it seemed as though his wish had been fulfilled.

“I know my uncle has probably told you how thrilled he is to welcome another fisherman to Storyton, Mr. Hughes,” Jane said. “But I'd love to invite you and your wife to dinner one night next week. After all, we're neighbors now.”

“Please call me Phil. Sandi—that's my wife—made me promise to tell you that she'd like you and the boys to come for lunch after The Medieval Herbalists have cleared out.” He shrugged helplessly. “So you two ladies will have to get together and mark your calendars. I just go where I'm told.”

Jane laughed. “Fair enough. I'll see her tomorrow at the duck race, right?”

“And for all The Medieval Herbalist events,” Phil said. “She's one of them. In fact, that's how we heard about Storyton. When the notice went out about the meeting, Sandi started reading up on the place. At first, I thought we shouldn't come . . .”

At this moment, Uncle Aloysius seemed to suffer a brief coughing fit. “Boys, would you go fetch me a glass of water? I have a tickle just below my Adam's apple. Take your time and don't spill.”

When the twins were a safe distance away, Uncle Aloysius looked at Phil and said, “You were concerned about the resort's unsavory history.”

Phil nodded. “I was. Not Sandi. She was intrigued by this place the second she saw it online. Before I knew it, we were packing our bags and driving here for a weekend stay. I don't think we even finished walking to the other end of the village before Sandi had decided this was where she wanted us to live out our golden years. We signed the contract on the building by the river before we left on Monday and the rest is history.”

“The entire village will be at tomorrow's duck race. The other merchants have decided to close early and we're going down to a minimum number of staff during the event so our employees can also attend,” Jane said. She didn't want to dwell on the tragic events of the past. Even though those events had brought the media flocking to Storyton Hall and had increased their bookings by two hundred percent, Jane didn't want the resort to flourish because people had met their untimely end under its roof. She wanted it to thrive because it was a book lover's paradise.

The twins returned with a glass of water for Uncle Aloysius, who stared at it blankly for a second before recalling his throat tickle. After feigning another small coughing attack, he drank down the water and bustled the boys and Phil out the front door.

“The fish are waiting, Jane!” he called back over his shoulder. “Phil only has an hour or two to spare, so must we be off.” He touched the brim of his fishing hat in farewell and gestured at the twins to hurry into the idling Rolls-Royce sedan.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Jane. See you at the duck race!” Phil waved and then hurried down the steps to the car.

Butterworth, Storyton's butler, watched the Rolls pull away and ease down the gravel drive.

“What do you make of Mr. Hughes?” Jane asked him.

“I believe he's cut from the right cloth,” Butterworth replied. “Like Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Sterling, Mr. Lachlan, and myself, Mr. Hughes is former military. He was an environmental science officer for the army.”

“The only war he'll be waging will be against Uncle Aloysius—the battle over who lands the bigger fish,” Jane said. She was about to comment on the extraordinary circumstances that had led Phil and Sandi Hughes to hang their shingle in Storyton Village, but the arrival of a new guest distracted her.

Butterworth's gaze was also fixed on the woman who alighted from the vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. She wore baggy green trousers, a filmy white peasant blouse, and bug-eye sunglasses. A long braid of copper-colored hair swung over one shoulder as she bent to collect her belongings from the backseat.

“Excuse me, ma'am.” Billy the bellhop darted outside and hurried to the car, tipping his cap at the lady guest as he made for the trunk and her luggage. She flashed him a bright smile and jogged up the steps leading to the massive oak doors as though she couldn't wait to get inside.

As for Butterworth, he slowly pivoted in order to collect a silver tray bearing a linen cocktail napkin and a single champagne flute. He kept a printout of guest arrivals in his breast pocket and Sterling had apparently delivered this guest right on time. Jane backed away from the main doors to allow the butler to greet their new guest properly.

“Madame.” Butterworth proffered the tray when the woman was in the vestibule. “Welcome to Storyton Hall. I hope your journey over the mountain was a pleasant one.”

“It was absolutely breathtaking!” she exclaimed. She accepted the champagne and took a fortifying slurp. After gazing around the lobby with evident delight, she turned back to Butterworth. “Yes! Breathtaking! Dozens of red-tailed hawks swooped through the clouds! And the trees! They stretched on and on. An undulating sea of green.”

“It is a most verdant landscape,” Butterworth agreed politely, though Jane could tell that he was eyeing their new guest with suspicion, as though she might suddenly burst into song. Or worse, embrace him.

However, the woman, who had a camera bag dangling from one shoulder and a portfolio case hanging from the other, merely gesticulated with both arms. “I felt like I was entering another world traveling here. A place where people are unfettered—as light as leaves!” She thrust both arms
into the air and champagne splattered on the rug and speckled Jane's ballet flats. The woman gasped and apologized for her clumsiness. Dropping all of her things, she began to dab at the beads of moisture with her cocktail napkin.