Murder in the Secret Garden (6 page)

Sinclair rubbed his chin, his brows furrowed. “Why bring her to the river? If the killer knew about the duck race, he took a risk in bringing her to that location. Why not leave her body in the woods?” He fixed his attention on Jane. “Isn't that where Ms. Grace was headed this morning? The trails behind the village?”

“That's what she told me. However, if blackmail was her goal, she might have been lying about her destination. Maybe she was heading somewhere else entirely.” Jane turned to Lachlan. “I don't know how you found those tracks. I didn't see a thing, and I don't think Deputy Phelps did either. Thank you.”

Lachlan reddened slightly. “I'm not much of a car guy, but the truck tires seemed to belong to a smaller truck. I took a photo of the marks the right tire made in the dirt in the side of the road. It's only a partial imprint, but Mr. Sterling might recognize the type of tire.”

Jane rubbed her temples. “The killer doesn't sound like one of our guests. They all come to Storyton by train. A Storyton Hall driver meets them at the station. After that, it's a forty-five-minute drive through mountainous terrain to our resort. Without knowing someone with a truck, how can one of the three suspects in our tea room be a killer?”

“I could be wrong,” Lachlan said quietly. “Tracking is guesswork. Instinct. It's not a science.”

“And Gavin says there's none better than you when it comes down to it.” Sinclair clapped Lachlan on the shoulder. “We're just not seeing the whole picture yet.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and examined the screen. “Mr. Butterworth is escorting the sheriff to your office, Miss Jane. Sheriff Evans would like to question the suspects immediately.”

Jane's stomach lurched at this news, but she didn't let her anxiety show. “Sinclair, please tell Mr. and Mrs. Scannavini that I'd like a word with them after tea. Ask them to remain in the Agatha Christie Tea Room. As for Ms. Meredith, ask her to wait for me on the back terrace.”

Sinclair understood Jane's plan at once. “Mr. Butterworth can watch over Mr. and Mrs. Scannavini while I keep Ms. Meredith company. I can show her some of the books I pulled from the stacks for The Medieval Herbalists. Perhaps she'll be suitably distracted until it's her turn to be questioned by the sheriff.”

“Are you going to tell Sheriff Evans about my wheelbarrow theory?” Lachlan asked Jane when Sinclair was gone.

Jane shook her head. “No. And it isn't because I don't have faith in your abilities. I do. I just don't want to muddy the waters where Sheriff Evans is concerned. As for us? We need to continue investigating independently. If the sheriff makes an arrest, we'd better be sure he has the right man or woman. After all, these people are our guests. Until we're completely convinced one of them is a murderer, we must be their advocates.”

“I'll get with Mr. Sterling right away,” Lachlan said. At the doorway, he paused. “I admire your desire to protect the guests, Miss Jane, but experience has taught me to keep my guard up at all times, especially when it comes to strangers. We shouldn't trust our guests, because people are rarely what they seem. There's the side people present to the world and the dozens of other sides they keep to themselves. Even with background checks and security cameras, there's still plenty our guests can hide from us.”

An image of Edwin flashed in Jane's mind, but this was not the time to dwell on his duplicity.

“You're right.” She smiled at Lachlan, who'd spoken more in the past ten minutes than he had all week, and followed him out of the room. “I won't let my deep-rooted Southern hospitality override my caution, though I am hoping it'll help sway the sheriff into doing things my way.”

Sheriff Evans had been in Jane's office for all of two minutes before Jane realized that he wasn't going to be influenced by offers of tea and cake, an outpouring of courtesy, or anything else.

Declining the guest chair across from Jane's desk, he stood with his hands on his utility belt and announced his intention to speak with her three guests posthaste. He also wanted to meet with all three of them at the same time.

“As of this moment, I'm viewing Ms. Meredith and Mr. and Mrs. Scannavini as persons of interest. Until I receive confirmation that Ms. Grace was poisoned, I don't have a murder case. I have an accidental drowning. I expect those results tomorrow afternoon at best—Monday at the latest—seeing as I called in a favor. Therefore, anything your guests share with me will be voluntary. Right now, I'd like to establish a timeline for each of them for this morning.”

“But why are you speaking with them as a group?” Jane asked.

“To see how they react,” Sheriff Evans explained. “This will be our only opportunity to witness how they react to the news. Will they point fingers? Get upset? Say things they might not have said had they not been taken by surprise? Because the second I let them out of that tea room, the whole resort will know that Ms. Grace is dead.”

Jane swallowed hard. This was not how she wanted the summer weekend to start. She wanted people to stroll through Milton's Gardens, sip champagne cocktails on the terrace, and dance on the back lawn. She didn't want the hallways filled with whispers of fear and excitement. However, Jane realized that there was little point in delaying the inevitable. And unless someone confessed to killing Kira Grace, the news of her passing wouldn't alter the course of either investigation—the sheriff's nor Jane's.

Squaring her shoulders, Jane met the sheriff's direct gaze and said, “I insist on being present for this interview, regardless of its informal nature. These three individuals need someone to serve as their representative. Besides, I can't protect my staff or the rest of my guests if I'm kept in the dark.”

Sherriff Evans was on the verge of responding when the
intercom button on Jane's phone lit up and a front desk clerk said, “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Jane, but Mr. Butterworth wanted you to know that Mr. and Mrs. Scannavini are waiting for you in the Agatha Christie Tea Room.”

Jane pushed the talk button. “Would you ask Mr. Sinclair to escort Ms. Meredith there as well? Thank you, Sue.”

“I can see there's no use in arguing.” The sheriff signaled to his deputies to follow Jane out of her office, through the staff corridors, and through a narrow doorway leading into the hallway near the tea room.

Most people, when unexpectedly confronted by members of law enforcement, act nervous. Or at the very least, subdued. Not Constance Meredith.

At the sight of Sheriff Evans, she rose to her feet and extended a limp hand, as though the sheriff ought to plant a kiss on it. “Do you need my assistance with a case?”

Her question clearly threw the sheriff off balance and Michelle Scannavini offered her own response. “Not
every
man enters a room looking for you
.
”

“Most do,” Constance countered without averting her gaze from the sheriff.

Nico Scannavini, who sat next to his wife, seemed preoccupied with polishing his watch face with a napkin.

“I'm here to talk to all of you about Kira Grace,” the sheriff said, recovering. He gave Meredith's hand a brief and formal shake and then asked her to join the Scannavinis at their table.

Michelle sighed in annoyance and scooted her chair farther away from Constance's and closer to her husband's. As for Nico, he kept his eyes on his watch.

Jane took a seat near the table, making it appear as though she were siding with her guests. However, she positioned herself so that she could closely watch all of them.

“I'll begin with you, Ms. Meredith.” Evans spread his hands in a friendly, open manner. “When did you last see Kira Grace?”

His body language failed to conceal the directness of his question, and Constance arched her pencil-drawn brows. “This sounds an awful lot like the opening to a murder investigation.”

“Please answer the question,” the sheriff said.

Constance smiled and leaned back in her chair. Jane recalled how unnerved she'd been while viewing the video clips on the Poison Princess's website. Constance Meredith was even more unsettling in person. Not only did she possess a confident, almost predatory air, but she also seemed to derive pleasure from the discomfort of others. She stared at Sheriff Evans, allowing the silence to stretch until it became awkward. Everyone else in the room began to fidget. Except for Butterworth, that is. He stood as rigid as a yeoman warder.

“Ms. Meredith?” the sheriff prompted with admirable calm.

“All right, I'll play along,” she relented. “I saw Kira last night. I was entering the Ian Fleming Lounge just as she was leaving. It was going on eleven. I'm a creature of the night, you see.” Her eyes flashed.

Again, her comment seemed to throw Sheriff Evans off his game, but he blinked and continued his questioning. “And today?”

Constance shook her head. “Never saw her. I slept until nine and enjoyed a late breakfast in my room while I caught up on e-mails. After that, I had a video chat with my agent. Around noon, I had a driver take me into the village. I wanted to pop into the bookstore, but it was closed, so I ended up in a charming café instead. You can ask the owner about me. I'm quite positive that I made an impression on him.” She smiled like a cat whose just been given a saucer of cream.

“Thank you.” Sheriff Evans turned to the Scannavinis. “Mrs. Scannavini? When did you last see Ms. Grace?”

“A year ago,” Michelle said simply.

Nico raised his index finger. “Same here. My wife and I arrived at Storyton around eight last night and went straight
to our room. We're still trying to get over our jet lag from a recent trip to Paris. We renewed our vows last week.” He reached for her hand and she surrendered it to him. The couple held each other's eyes for a long moment and Jane saw true affection in their gaze.

Constance yawned loudly and rudely, and the movement wasn't lost on the Scannavinis.

“I know about your fling with Nico,” Michelle said, swiveling to face Constance. “He told me everything. I have no idea what he saw in you, but it was a one-night stand and it's in the past. So focus your wiles elsewhere, because I'd like to enjoy this retreat.” Having delivered her message, Michelle turned to Sheriff Evans. “This morning, Nico and I also had a late breakfast. We were in the Madame Bovary Dining Room. We were so late that we almost missed the start of the duck race, but a driver was able to get us to the village in time.” She spread her hands, repeating the sheriff's opening gesture. “We've answered your questions. Now it's time for you to answer ours. Where is Kira and why did you chose to speak with the three of us in particular?”

“Because the sheriff wanted us to supply him with our alibis. That way, he can check them,” Constance declared with a sniff of condescension. “Which can only mean one thing. Kira Grace is dead.”

Nico started. “Dead?”

“Yes,” Constance said, her eyes shining. “And I doubt her death was an accident. I'd bet you my collection of antique herbals that Kira was murdered, and that
we're
the suspects.” She sat back in her chair with an eager grin, as though she couldn't wait for the process to continue.

Watching her, Jane couldn't decide if the Poison Princess was a skilled actress or a psychopath, but she was leaning toward the latter.

Sheriff Evans realized that he was losing control of the interview, and he swiftly explained that Kira was found in Storyton River and that her death was being viewed as an accidental drowning. After informing the three guests that the investigation was ongoing and admonishing them about spreading rumors, he released them.

“The news will be all over the resort by suppertime,” Jane said the moment they were gone.

“It can't be helped.” Sheriff Evans gestured for Deputy Emory's notebook. “Their movements should be easy to confirm. Your drivers keep logs, correct?” At Jane's nod, Evans went on. “And your kitchen staff would have records of the room service delivery, right?”

Jane's nod was more impatient this time. “Yes, yes. Mr. Butterworth can help you collect the records. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should speak to the president of The Medieval Herbalists. I'd prefer his group to hear of Ms. Grace's death from me rather than Ms. Meredith or the Scannavinis.” Pausing by the door, she gave the sheriff a plaintive look. “Will
you share the lab results as soon as you get them? If Ms. Grace was poisoned, I need to know immediately. After all, I'm hosting a group of thirty-odd experts in herb lore.”

Evans understood the gravity of Jane's comment. “I will inform you. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open. Call me if anything raises your suspicions.”

Leaving Butterworth to assist the sheriff, Jane went in search of Claude Mason. Luckily, Billy the Bellhop had spotted the older man entering the Henry James Library. Jane found him standing shoulder to shoulder with Sinclair.

“It's magnificent,” Claude was saying. “Many museums and academic institutions show a complete lack of representation when it comes to the subject of medieval herb lore. Frankly, I'm surprised by the depth of your collection.”

“We cater to guests with an amazing variety of interests,” Sinclair said, clearly pleased by Claude's enthusiasm. “Also, we've been amassing material for hundreds of years. It helps to have a seemingly endless amount of shelf space.”

Claude chuckled and went on to ask Sinclair a question about provenance.

Jane hated to interrupt, as she knew that Sinclair had taken great pains to organize a special display on medieval plants. And for the first time in the history of the Steward Family, an item from Storyton's secret collection was being shown to the public. Of course, none of the guests were aware that the illuminated manuscript Sinclair kept locked in a glass case next to his desk numbered among the hundreds of rare and wonderful literary treasures housed in a windowless turret room.

And while people could look at the manuscript, only Sinclair could touch it. Even Claude, who was a museum curator and was experienced in handling fragile and priceless items, wasn't invited to slip on a pair of white gloves and run his fingers over the beautiful pages. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes
drinking in the curves of the illuminated capital letters and the delicate floral designs in the margins.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” Jane said softly and both men turned.

The light from Sinclair's lamp reflected off Claude's spectacles and he lowered his chin to get a better look at Jane. “Ah, Ms. Steward. I was just admiring your marvelous manuscript. It's not often that our members have the chance to see an original twelfth-century herbal. You've already made our visit memorable, and it's just begun.”

Claude's cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and again, Jane was reminded of Ben Franklin. Knowing she was about to make this sweet man's visit unforgettable in a most unpleasant manner, she reached for his arm. “Would you sit with me for a moment?”

Though surprised by the request, Claude was too much of a gentleman to refuse. “Of course.”

Jane led him to a pair of wing chairs by the windows. The chairs were angled toward each other, lending her the privacy she needed. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Ms. Grace was found in the river a little while ago.” Jane hesitated for a second before continuing. “I'm afraid she's dead.”

“What?” Claude's bushy eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “Kira? How could that be?”

“This must come as a terrible shock,” Jane said gently. “But I also wanted you to know that the sheriff's department is conducting an investigation. At this time, Ms. Grace's death is being viewed as an accidental drowning.”

Claude ran his hand over his shiny pate and released a long, slow breath. “I can't believe it. I just saw her yesterday, and she was in fine spirits. Like always. ‘Full of piss and vinegar,' as she used to say.” He shook his head. “I'm a conservative man by nature, and I admit that there were times I found Kira's exuberance a bit irritating. But overall,
she was refreshing. In my line of work, people tend to be serious. Studious. Quiet as church mice. Kira was the opposite. She was colorful and noisy. She laughed without hindrance—loud and often.”

Jane nodded to show that she was listening, but Claude lapsed into silence. His gaze moved to the windows and traveled over the Lewis Carroll Croquet Lawn until he was staring at the blue-green hills surrounding the resort.

“I can't fathom how she ended up in the river,” he said at last.

“Ms. Grace set out from Storyton Hall early this morning intent on hiking the trails behind the village. I don't know how she turned up where she did,” Jane replied honestly.

Claude rubbed his hands together as though he felt chilled. “During our retreats, I advise our members to hike in pairs, but Kira often preferred to go out alone. She didn't like to work in front of an audience. She explained this to our group once.” He frowned and Jane had the sense that it was important to him to recall the exact words. “She said that photography was very intimate. An adulation of nature. It was the only time she felt self-conscious.”

“As the group's president, I'm turning to you for guidance,” Jane said softly. “Should we cancel this evening's taste-testing contest out of respect for Kira's passing?”

This question seemed to agitate Claude. He rose from his chair and began moving in a slow circle around it. “I don't think she'd want us to,” he said. “And since we're dining as a group on the back terrace this evening, we could use that time together to express our grief. We could share stories about Kira and raise glasses to her memory.”

Jane smiled. “That's a lovely idea.” Again, she hesitated. She wanted to be sure that Claude understood what the next day or two held in store for The Medieval Herbalists. Not only would they have to go on with their scheduled events without Kira—and that included Victoria Billingsley's
wedding—but they also needed to be prepared to face scrutiny by the sheriff's department.

Claude was astute enough to realize that Jane wasn't quite finished. Forcing himself to be still, he waited for her to continue.

“You should probably warn your members that they will be questioned. While this is routine when someone has died unexpectedly, it can be an unnerving experience,” Jane said. “Sheriff Evans has already spoken with three Medieval Herbalists, but he may want to talk with the rest of the group tomorrow.”

“I think the sheriff will find us a cooperative bunch,” Claude said. “We'll do anything in our power to help find out what happened to Kira.”

Unless one of you killed her
, Jane thought harshly.

“Thank you for being so frank and so sensitive, Ms. Steward.” Claude stole a glance at his watch. “Can you get a message to The Medieval Herbalists? I'd like to gather on the terrace earlier than we'd originally planned. I'm thinking an impromptu Irish wake is in order.”

“I'll have the desk clerks call their guest rooms right away.” Jane got to her feet. “What time would you like them to arrive?”

Claude shared his vision for the evening and then left the library. After phoning the front desk from Sinclair's office, Jane went to the kitchen to check on the twins.

They were no longer in the garden, but perched on stools at a work counter, devouring open-faced peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They'd been given milk to drink, and their glass tumblers were marred with grimy fingerprints. As she drew closer to her boys, she saw that their hands were probably their cleanest parts. Their arms were covered with garden soil and their fingernails were rimmed with dirt. Their clothes were stained, and they both had dirt smeared on their cheeks, noses, and foreheads.

Fitz looked up from his sandwich and smiled. “Guess what? We worked for almost
two hours
!”

“That's why we're starving!” Hem added proudly.

Jane touched his head and discovered that his hair was also coated in a layer of dirt. “Was rolling around in the garden bed part of your job?”

Hem shook off her hand. “
No!
We were weeding and watering—just like Mrs. Hubbard asked us to.”

“There were tons of weeds too,” Fitz said, jumping in to support his brother. “We even pulled out the hard ones. The dandelions and those grasses that go way under the ground.”

Hem nodded. “They have white roots, so Fitz and I pretended they were snakes sent by Voldemort. Voldemort can talk to snakes, remember?”

“I do,” Jane said.

“Some of them went
really
deep!” Fitz lowered his left hand toward the floor. “We had to keep digging and digging to get them out.”

At that moment, Mrs. Hubbard appeared with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “Oh, Jane! You should see how much progress the boys made in my garden. I can't tell you how impressed I am by their efforts.” She gestured at the sandwiches. “Don't worry about this ruining their supper. They'll gobble up every crumb. Men who work out in the sun burn lots of fuel. Isn't that right, gentlemen?”

The boys murmured a low assent, trying to sound as adult as possible.

Mrs. Hubbard beamed at them and lowered the plate of cookies, but Jane's hand darted out and blocked the boys' fingers before they could make contact with the treats. “We'll save those for dessert, Mrs. Hubbard. I believe these
gentlemen
could use a long, hot shower with lots of soap.”

This statement elicited a series of groans.

“Can't we just jump in the pool?” Hem asked.

“And scare off the guests with the dirt cloud you'd create
in the water?” Jane retorted. “No. Besides, Voldemort's snakes probably made you a little itchy, didn't they? I always feel kind of prickly after I've pulled out lots of different weeds.”

Fitz and Hem dropped their gazes to their forearms. “Will soap help?” Fitz asked.

“I have a special soap just for gardeners,” Mrs. Hubbard announced. “Finish your sandwiches and I'll be back in a tick.”

Jane refilled the twins' glasses and watched them polish off the rest of their snack in record time.

Mrs. Hubbard returned several minutes later with a plastic bag containing a single bar of soap, which she proffered to Jane. “Don't use this on your faces, boys. It's too harsh. But this will get the dirt and grime off your hands and arms.”

Opening the bag, Jane examined the soap. “It smells wonderful.”

“Lemongrass and basil,” Mrs. Hubbard said. “Tammy makes it specifically for gardeners. She'll be selling a whole range of soaps at the fair on Sunday, and I plan on stocking up. That woman is truly gifted.” She splayed her hands. “I wash these mitts so many times per day that my skin felt like an onion peel, but not anymore. Tammy gave me a sample of her moisturizing soap, which is made of avocado and almond oil, vitamin E, and honey. Now my hands are like a baby's bottom.”

“Ew!” The twins giggled.

“Go on, you two.” Mrs. Hubbard pulled a dishrag from her apron pocket and made a shooing motion at the twins. “I need to get my staff busy with supper preparations and I have
my
event to prep for as well. I can't have two dirty men in my kitchen with all that needs to be done.”

Thrilled over being called dirty men, the boys hopped down from their stools and carried their plates to the sink. Jane gave the soap to Fitz and watched the twins dart out through the back doorway.

“They won't go near the bathtub until I threaten them. They'll be distracted by a dozen things on the way back to
the house, mark my words,” she told Mrs. Hubbard. “I'll need to make sure they don't flounce on the sofa in their current condition, but before I head home, there's something you should know.”

Mrs. Hubbard tucked the dishrag back into her pocket and smiled. “Yes, dear?”

Once Mrs. Hubbard heard about Kira's death, the news would be spread throughout Storyton Hall like the wind, but it couldn't be helped. Mrs. Hubbard was hosting an event for The Medieval Herbalists and Jane couldn't predict what condition the participants would be in after their impromptu Irish wake. The least she could do was warn her head cook what she had in store.

Mrs. Hubbard's eyes grew round as pie plates when she heard of Kira's death, but instantly narrowed at the mention of Constance Meredith's name.

“Of course the sheriff's checking
her
alibi!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Didn't I tell you that there was something off about that woman?”

“Ms. Meredith is not a suspect. She's a guest, and should be treated like any other guest,” Jane said with a hint of reproach. Remembering her own reaction to the Poison Princess, she added, “To be completely honest, my first impression of her wasn't very favorable. But you and I are professionals in the hospitality business, and it's our job to make every guest feel like we'd bend over backward for them. Even if we can't stand the person.”

“Oh, I can pretend to like Ms. Meredith,” Mrs. Hubbard said. “There'll be a big, Cheshire Cat smile on my face when I feed her a spoonful of ground pinecone during tonight's game.”