Murder in the Secret Garden (3 page)

“Please, Madame.” Butterworth intervened by placing a firm hand on her elbow. “Do not trouble yourself. Many guests are overwhelmed upon their initial arrival, so we are quite accustomed to mishaps, I can assure you. Miss Jane will escort you to the reception desk.” He started to bend over. “If you need assistance with your, er . . .”

To Jane's astonishment, Butterworth faltered. Butterworth
never
faltered. His speech and movements were as fluid as running water. But when Jane glanced down at the rug, she understood what had shocked the unflappable butler.

Several photographs had escaped from the woman's portfolio case and Jane stared at them in disbelief. Unless her eyes were deceiving her, she was seeing close-up images of female body parts. They'd been distorted somehow, but that's what they looked like to Jane.

What I'd give for a fig leaf
, she thought.

Dropping to her knees, she carefully pushed the photographs back into the case before any passersby could see them. With flushed cheeks, she faced her guest and beckoned toward the check-in area. “If you'd follow me, Ms. . . .”

“Kira Grace. Free spirit by nature, photographer by trade.”

The name was familiar, and Jane knew that she'd just met another Medieval Herbalist. “My great-aunt is an admirer of yours.”

“I never get tired of hearing that,” Kira said happily, and Jane wondered if the photographer was always so effervescent. “Tell her that I brought prints to sell. I always sell out during our annual meetings. Year after year, rumors about the erotic nature of my work circulate through the hotel, and when the other guests finally get curious enough—and brave enough—they come find me!” She let loose a tinkling laugh.

Claude Mason had booked the Great Gatsby Ballroom so that the herbalists could put on a small medieval fair on Sunday afternoon. Jane had pictured tables covered with handmade soaps and scented satchels. Too late, she realized she should have vetted the herbalists' wares. How would her guests react when they saw Kira's photographs? And what of the villagers? They were bound to walk up to Storyton Hall following church services and a large midday meal. What would they think of her erotic prints?

Jane thought about the photographs she'd seen. If Kira was interested in herbs, then surely her work reflected her passion. “Forgive me, but I'm not well versed in photography. How do you create erotic images using plants?”

“Ever heard of Georgia O'Keeffe?” Kira asked and Jane nodded in understanding. The photograph she'd seen had featured a close-up of a plant part, not a human female body part.

Still, Jane wondered what the other herbalists had sold at previous fairs. She didn't want to hear that the Poison Princess was hocking packs of belladonna seeds to children after the fact, so she asked Kira to describe some of the items her friends would be putting up for sale in a few days' time.

“Oh, lovely things!” Kira cried in response. “Perfume, lotion, insect repellent, candles, honey, spices, jewelry . . .”

“What about Ms. Meredith?”

Something in Kira's face shifted. She tried to keep her smile from slipping, but failed. “She'll have copies of her book to sign. And she also sells pamphlets on regional poisonous plants. How to recognize them and what to do if you, your child, or your pet has accidentally ingested one—that sort of thing.”

Jane relaxed. Mr. Green at The Potter's Shed had similar pamphlets on a display rack in his shop. Of course, his were free. She shared this detail with Kira.

“Well, your Mr. Green probably doesn't need to maintain
the lifestyle of a
princess
.” Kira's tone sharpened dramatically. “You'd think she was
real royalty
because she's been on TV. Big deal! I've had shows in major art galleries across the world. You'd think she was the only celebrity among us—the way people fawn over her. And while she laps up their admiration, she
feels
nothing for them. Not even the ones she takes to bed.” Kira raised her hands and shook her head. “No, no. I will
not
allow negativity to taint my time here.” She closed her eyes and exhaled, and when she opened them again, her smiled had returned. “I can't wait to see my room! If it's as gorgeous as this lobby, I'll be in heaven!”

Recognizing her cue, Jane left Kira in the capable hands of the desk clerk while she fetched the brass room key from the key cabinet. No sooner had Kira headed for the elevator banks than two more female guests arrived.

The first woman looked like a Parisian runway model. Tall and slim, she had high cheekbones, full lips, and deep blue eyes with a hint of violet. Her blond hair was gathered into a loose bun, leaving several wisps to frame her lovely face.

“That must be our bride,” Sue, the desk clerk, whispered. “She has that glow.”

Jane nodded in agreement. “She does indeed. She's Victoria Billingsley. The woman beside her must be her sister and maid of honor, Hannah. Hannah is also a Medieval Herbalist, so for the first time ever, our wedding guests and special event guests are nearly interchangeable.”

Hannah was easily a foot shorter and sixty pounds heavier than Victoria. She walked with a pronounced slouch to her shoulders. Her hair, which was the same hue as her sister's, was parted in the middle and hung over her face like a pair of curtains. She kept her gaze on the carpet, only glancing up when Victoria pointed at something.

“I think Hannah's limping,” Sue said quietly. Her brows were knit with motherly concern. “Is she injured?”

Jane turned to Sue. “When Victoria and I spoke on the
phone, she told me that Hannah was born with a spinal deformity. Hannah has undergone numerous back and neck surgeries throughout her life. She suffers from chronic pain, so we must do our best to make her comfortable.”

Sue put a hand over her heart. “That poor child. If Storyton Hall can help other guests escape their troubles, it can help this young lady too. I'll let the staff know to give her the star treatment.”

“I know you'll make the Billingsley ladies feel right at home,” Jane said and moved forward to greet the bride-to-be and her sister.

Ignoring Jane's outstretched hand, Victoria hugged her instead. “After all you've done to help me, I feel like you're part of the family! Besides, I'm a hugger. Hannah isn't.”

“It's lovely to meet you.” Jane applied gentle pressure to Hannah's hand, which was cold and covered with pigment. “You have such long, graceful fingers,” Jane said. “Like those of a pianist. Or a painter.”

Hannah blushed, clearly touched by the compliment. “I love music, but I don't play an instrument. When I was younger, I wanted to play the harp, but I couldn't take the weight . . .” The color in her cheeks deepened.

“My sister has other talents,” Victoria declared proudly. “I brag about her whenever I have the chance. She restores antique art. Anything that was hand-colored. Drawings, maps, book illustrations. But her real love is botanicals.”

“I can see why you joined The Medieval Herbalists,” Jane said.

“I'm the secretary,” Hannah said, meeting Jane's eye for the first time. “I put together our newsletters, moderate our listserv, and maintain our website. It's a ton of work, but I love it.”

Victoria nudged her sister playfully in the side. “You should modify your title. Instead of going by secretary, you
should go by patron saint. You should get a portion of the member dues for everything you do. No one else spends their free time toiling away on projects for the good of the group.”

“They're my friends,” Hannah protested.

Her sister immediately relented. “You're right. They're the reason we're here.” Victoria smiled at Jane. “I had no clue where to have my wedding until Hannah showed me where she was going for her annual meeting. When I saw the photos of the Henry James Library, the Jane Austen Drawing Room, and the Agatha Christie Tea Room, I knew I had to be married here—in a place filled with books. It has everything I love inside and everything my sister loves outside.”

“And the groom?” Jane asked. “Does he share your enthusiasm?”

Victoria gave a sheepish shrug. “Carson's just happy that I made a decision! Often, it's the woman who's in a rush to get married, but not me. Carson and I are both in our late twenties, and I thought we'd travel around and have some adventures before settling down, but Carson was ready to take the next step, so here we are.”

To Jane, this didn't sound like a ringing endorsement for marriage. Judging from Hannah's pinched expression, she didn't think so either.

“Well, until your wedding night, you and Hannah are booked in our Secret Garden Suite.” Jane said hurriedly. Marriage counseling was not in her job description. “The suite has two bedrooms and a sitting room, and a private garden with a patio area.”

“See? You can paint in your pajamas while I read in my pajamas. It'll be just like being at home, but better,” Victoria said, and the sisters exchanged smiles.

Watching them, Jane smiled too. Their fondness for each
other moved her, and she couldn't help thinking of Fitz and Hem. She hoped her sons would be as close as these sisters when they were grown.

As Jane escorted Victoria and Hannah to the reception desk, she explained that the lobby was becoming more and more crowded because it was almost teatime.

“People line up early,” Jane said. “Though I don't know why. Mrs. Hubbard would never allow one of the menu items to run out.”

Victoria clapped. “I love tea! And cake! Let's hurry and check in, Hannah Banana. I want to try one of everything!”

Hannah hesitated. “Can't we go when most of the other guests are done?”

“And settle for the leftovers?” Victoria asked before immediately softening her tone. “What does it matter if they stare? You'll never see these people again. By tomorrow, you'll be among mostly friends.”

“You don't know what it's like, Via. You've always been beautiful,” Hannah said with remarkable calm. “It gets really old. The feeling of eyes on me. That's why I stay at home. I'm just tired of it, okay?”

Victoria put an arm around her sister's waist. “Okay, Banana Boat. I get it. Why don't I grab plates for both of us and bring them back to our room? That way—”

“There's no need,” Jane cut in smoothly. “I'll have Mrs. Hubbard make a tray of the choicest selections and have it delivered to your room. Along with a pot of tea, of course. You can enjoy your tea service in your private garden.”

Hannah flashed her a grateful smile. “That sounds really nice.”

Leaving the sisters with Sue, Jane popped into the kitchen to make the arrangements. When she was done, she wound her way through the staff corridors until she reached the Agatha Christie Tea Room. As anticipated, over a dozen eager guests were already waiting in the hallway.

Jane made her way down the line, chatting briefly with each guest. When she finally reached the end, she encountered a family of four. The parents were both dressed in tennis whites and had their eyes locked on the door to the Agatha Christie Tea Room. Their two teenage daughters were slouched against the paneled wall at a deliberate distance from their parents. They twisted pink earbuds around their fingers and studied the tea menu with marked disdain.

“The only thing that doesn't sound gross is the strawberry shortcake,” the first girl said in a sluggish drawl. “I'm gonna have, like, four pieces.”

“Me too.” The second girl's speech was equally lethargic, as though she found it too taxing to enunciate. “The heifers ahead of us can't afford the extra calories anyway. We'll be doing them a favor.”

Jane's eyes widened over this rude remark. She looked to see if the girl's parents had heard her, but they were busy whispering to each other.

At that moment, Victoria and Hannah crossed the lobby en route to the western wing and the Secret Garden Suite.

“Oh my gawd! Check her out!” The first girl pointed at Hannah. “I had no idea that the Hunchback of Notre Dame moved to Virginia.”

The second girl sniggered. “It's more like
Beauty and the Beast on Ice
. Without the ice.”

Both girls burst into giggles.

Jane glowered at them, but they were as oblivious to her presence as their parents were to their inexcusable behavior.

“Someone should tell the management that the gargoyles belong on the
outside
of the hotel,” one of the girls said and let loose a shriek.

Fuming, Jane turned on her heel and hurried into the tea room. Gathering the wait staff around the delectable spread of cakes, cookies, sandwiches, scones, and tarts, she pointed at the strawberry shortcake and said, “Two teenage girls are
about to enter this room. They're both wearing pink earbuds. No matter what it takes, I don't want either girl to receive a single piece of this cake. Not even a crumb. Do you understand?”

When the staff responded with blank stares, Jane quickly told them about Hannah's condition and how the girls had belittled her with their cutting remarks.

“We'll see to it, Miss Jane,” one of the waiters said through lips tight with anger.

Jane lingered just long enough to watch, with no small amount of satisfaction, as the same waiter whisked the platter of strawberry shortcake into the kitchen the moment after the guest in front of the girls had helped himself to a generous slice.

Seeing the girls standing at the buffet table with their mouths unhinged and their foreheads furrowed in shock and indignation, Jane thought,
Who looks like a pair of gargoyles now?

Even though the following day was a Thursday, it had a beginning-of-a-weekend feel. Jane suspected the atmosphere had something to do with the fact that tickets for Storyton's inaugural rubber duck race would be available for purchase when Storyton Outfitters opened its doors for the first time that morning.

According to the ad in the paper, participants could bet on a favorite duck as if they were betting on a horse at the racetrack. Storyton Outfitters was not only providing prizes to three winners, but also donating half the race profits to the Virginia Conservation Network.

“We moved to Storyton because we love nature,” Phil Hughes was quoted as saying. “As residents and business owners, Sandi and I want to do our part to keep our rivers unpolluted and our mountains litter free. This is one of the most beautiful places in the country, and we'd like to preserve its beauty.”

Jane was prevented from reading the rest of the article because Hem's fingers curled over the edge of the paper,
crinkling the words until they were illegible. “Can we go now?”

“Is your room clean?” Jane asked.

Behind Hem, Fitz saluted. “Shipshape, Captain!”

Jane tossed the paper on the kitchen counter and glanced at her watch. There was still plenty of time to bike into the village and select their ducks. “Mr. Hughes is the only official captain in Storyton that I know of, and I bet he wouldn't approve of dirty clothes stuffed under the bed or pushed into the closet.”

The boys gave her guileless stares.

“I can predict what I'll be doing when we get home,” Jane murmured, realizing that the twins had undoubtedly scooped everything off the floor and shoved it into the laundry basket in the hall closet. Still, they'd fulfilled their end of the bargain, so she ruffled their hair and said, “We can go now.”

“Race you to the shed!” Hem shouted, and with a bang of the front door, they were gone.

Jane followed at a more sedate pace. After collecting water bottles and her handbag, she headed to the large shed where the staff and family bicycles were stored. She loaded her items into her bike basket and pedaled to the end of the long driveway, where she knew the twins would be waiting.

She insisted on taking the lead whenever they biked into town. For most of the trip, the road took them through the quiet countryside with its tree-covered hills and cornfields. They passed fields of wildflowers, rolling pastures dotted with grazing cows, and a chestnut pony who never failed to meet them by the fence, hoping for a lump of sugar or a snack of sliced apples or carrots. Despite their rush to get to Storyton Outfitters, the boys stopped to give the pony his treat and were rewarded with a whinny of gratitude as they rode off again.

Jane slowed her pace as she approached the final bend
before the bridge. Even though a sign had been erected warning of its sharpness, the curve took visitors by surprise. Dozens of tourists riding rental bikes from Spokes either ignored the sign's warning or didn't respond to it in time. These sorry souls ended up in the thicket of blackberry bushes if they were lucky or slamming into a tree if they weren't. Dubbed Broken Arm Bend by the locals, that bit of road had the village's only doctor stocking fiberglass for casts all year long.

When Fitz and Hem spotted the sign, they shouted the poem one of the village children had made up to commemorate the danger of the infamous curve.

Broken Arm Bend,

Where rides come to an end,

In screams and scrapes.

Yes, your bones will mend,

But it would have been better

If you'd used your brakes!

Jane laughed. Hem and Fitz's classmates were constantly revising the poem. By now, there had to be a dozen different versions.

“Where are we parking?” Fitz yelled as their tires rattled over the wooden bridge.

“The Cheshire Cat,” Jane called back over her shoulder. She'd already asked her friend Betty if she and the boys could stow their bikes in the pub's garage. With nearly all of the villagers, the majority of Storyton Hall's staff and guests, and visitors from over the mountain attending the duck race, every parking spot and bike rack would be needed.

“Come in!” Betty Carmichael beckoned from the back entrance of Storyton's pub. “Bob and I made special drinks for the kids today. Would you be my taste testers, boys?”

Fitz and Hem were more than happy to comply and Betty
told them to sit at the bar. They rested their forearms on the polished wood and watched her as she placed paper coasters in front of them.

“Bob calls this the Fluffy Ducky.” Betty took a plastic pitcher from the cooler and filled two mason jars with a pale yellow liquid. Sticking a straw into each jar, she set the drinks down with a flourish. “The adults will have their own version,” she said to Jane. “The Fuzzy Duck.”

“Is it like a Fuzzy Navel?” Jane asked.

“Something like that,” Betty replied with a wink and then focused on the boys again. “Well, gentlemen. What's the verdict?”

“Delicious!” Hem cried.

Fitz pointed at his mason jar. “Awesome! What is it?”

“Promise not to give away the secret ingredients?” Betty held out her pinkie.

Fitz and Hem took turns exchanging pinkie promises with her.

“Canned pineapple and nonfat yogurt. That's all,” Betty said. “Sweet, healthy, and refreshing. Bob built a little rolling cart just for today's race. We have coolers filled with Fluffy Ducky and hope to sell lots of smoothies while the sun is shining. Later, when the race is over, we plan to serve more hot and thirsty customers here in the pub.”

“If I didn't
really
want to buy a duck race ticket, I'd pay for a Fuzzy Duck, Mrs. Carmichael,” Fitz said. “No matter how much you charged, it'd be worth it.”

“You're such a charmer.” Betty beamed at him. “Have you decided which duck to pick?”

Fitz nodded. “But I'm not saying. Neither is Hem. We think it's luckier not to tell.”

“Fair enough.” Betty looked at Jane. “What about you?”

“I want to see what their costumes look like first—get a vibe for each one before I choose,” Jane said. “Did you and Bob already buy your tickets?”

“Bob did, but I'm torn between two ducks. Maybe you can help me decide which one to pick.”

Hem slung an arm around his brother. “You should bet on both of them, Mrs. Carmichael. Two is always better than one.”

Laughing, Betty scooped up their mason jars and plunked them in the sink. “Well said, Master Steward. Let's go, gentlemen. We're off to the races!”

The party of four walked back across the bridge to the two-story stone house Phil and Sandi Hughes had converted into Storyton Outfitters. Like many Storyton merchants, the Hugheses had set aside the ground floor for their business while the kitchen and second floor made up their living quarters. However, Storyton Outfitters didn't fill its front garden with flowers, sculptures, or comfortable benches, but with kayaks and canoes.

“Cool!” Fitz ran his hand along an orange kayak. “Can we try these, Mom?”

“Maybe later in the summer,” Jane said. “I'll have to see what options the captain has for children.”

She reached for a painted oar, which served as a door handle, and tugged. The moment the door opened, the sounds of children shouting, “Captain Phil! Captain Phil!” came tumbling out.

Glancing over shelves of camping and fishing gear, Jane saw kids of all ages mobbing the checkout counter at the back of the shop. In their eagerness to purchase rubber duck race tickets, they'd forgone everything they'd been taught about good manners. Not only were they shouting, but they were pushing and shoving one another as well.

Suddenly, the blast of a boat horn cut through their clamor. Every child covered his or her ears and froze in place.

“That's better.” Phil Hughes touched the brim of his blue fisherman's cap. “I'm Captain Phil. Welcome to my shop. I'd be glad to sell tickets to any lady or gentleman who can
stand straight and tall in an orderly line. If you can't, I'd be just as glad to toss you into the river with the ducks.”

Several adults chuckled at this, but the children immediately began forming a line. They'd recognized the indisputable authority in Captain Phil's voice.

“The names of the twenty ducks are listed here.” Captain Phil pointed to a chalkboard. “Their photographs are next to their names. The real ducks are in a special container waiting to be taken to the river.”

A little girl standing in the middle of the line raised her hand. “Captain Phil? Did you decorate the ducks?”

“No, miss. The costumes and paint jobs are the handiwork of Mrs. Hughes. You'll meet her at the starting line.” He smiled at his first customer. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“A ticket for Frankenduck, please,” said a small boy. “Green's my favorite color.”

Jane told the twins to join the line and then turned to Betty. “I want to study the photographs before I pick my lucky duck, and I can't see them from back here.”

“Me either,” Betty said. “Oh, look! Mabel and Mrs. Pratt are heading for the chalkboard too.”

Mabel Wimberly and Eugenia Pratt were fellow members of the Cover Girls, the book club Jane held in her home. Mabel owned La Grande Dame, a clothing and fabric shop, and was known throughout the valley for her skill as a seamstress and dress designer. As for Mrs. Pratt, she was mostly known for her propensity to gossip.

“Hello, ladies!” Jane greeted her friends warmly.

“Howdy, gals. Is this the cutest thing you've ever seen?” Mabel gestured at the board. “Sandi Hughes is a creative genius. Get a load of these costumes.”

Jane and Betty moved as close to the board as they could without blocking the view of the children now waiting patiently in line. As Jane's eye moved down the list of names,
she began to grin. By the time she reached the twentieth name, she was smiling in childlike delight.

“These are so clever!” She glanced over at Phil Hughes and found him watching her. He seemed pleased by her response to the board. “I'm thrilled to discover that you and Sandi are bibliophiles.”

“Guilty as charged,” Phil said. “When we first talked about having the race, I tossed out Moby Duck as a joke, but Sandi loved the idea of giving the ducks literary names. Minutes later, she was on the phone with the Storyton paper, setting up the contest calling for duck names. Here we are, nineteen ducks later.”

“I'd like Katniss Everduck, please,” said a teenage girl and laid her money on the counter.

“Excuse me.” Captain Phil touched his fisherman's tap in deference to Jane and then turned his attention back to his customers.

“Which yellow darling has caught your eye, Jane?” Mrs. Pratt asked. “I'm choosing Ducktor Zhivago. How can I resist a duck with a fur hat and mustache? He also reminds me of one of my all-time favorite books. Some of those Russian novelists really knew how to blend epic tragedy and romance.”

“The movie was wonderful too,” Mabel said.

While her friends launched into a discussion of the film's high points, most of which featured Omar Sharif's smoldering eyes, Jane reread the list of duck names and tried to make a decision:

The Ducks of Storyton

1. Quack and the Beanstalk
   
2. Ganduck the Wizard
   
3. “Bill” Shakespeare
   
4. Ducktor Zhivago
   
5. Quacktain Hook
   
6. Quackenezer Scrooge
   
7. Duckelberry Finn
   
8. Katniss Everduck
   
9. Peeta Mallard
   
10. Quack in the Hat
    
11. Frankenduck
    
12. Jane Eggyre
    
13. Pippi Longducking
    
14. Nurse Quatchet
    
15. Sherduck Holmes
    
16. James Pond
    
17. Lisbeak Salander
    
18. Duckter Jekyll
    
19. Moby Duck
    
20. Count Quackula
    

“I'm putting all my eggs in James Pond's basket,” said a familiar voice from behind Jane. Eloise Alcott, Jane's best friend, joined the other Cover Girls and began studying the board with an amused expression. “How could I go wrong with a pistol-toting duck in a white dinner jacket? Besides, James Pond always gets his man.”

“He could end up swimming in circles around all the lady ducks and come in last,” teased Phoebe Doyle, the owner of Canvas Creamery and another Cover Girl.

Violet Osborne, the final book club member to join her friends at the chalkboard, pointed at Lisbeak Salander. “As a professional stylist, I declare that she has the hippest hair. Not only does that duck have a spiked Mohawk, but she also has piercings and a dragon tattoo. She's going to leave all the other ducks crying in her wake.”

“I'm going with Pippi Longducking.” Jane said. “She was my one of my favorite book characters when I was little.
And just look at those pigtails. They're sure to help her stay balanced as she zooms down the river.”

Eloise arched her brows. “I was positive you'd want Jane Eggyre. Especially with that cute blue bonnet and the book tucked under her wing.”

Jane shook her head. “Too predictable.”

Laughing, the Cover Girls took their places in line.

“I'm really looking forward to our book discussion with The Medieval Herbalists,” Eloise told Jane. “But I'm a little intimidated too. Our Cover Girl meetings are relaxed and low-key. We share a meal, have a few cocktails, and talk about the book. There are no rules and we all respect one another's opinions. Most importantly, we have a good time.”

“Are you worried that we won't have a good time with our guests?” Jane asked.

Eloise shrugged. “I just hope they don't respond to the books we chose with an analytical, academic manner. It's possible to dissect novels in a way that takes all the feeling out of them.”

“I've already met three Medieval Herbalists and they don't seem stuffy. In fact, there's a photographer who might focus solely on the sex scenes in
Outlander
and ignore all the references to herbal medicine.”