Murder in the Secret Garden (7 page)

Jane gaped. “You wouldn't!”

Mrs. Hubbard gave a noncommittal shrug. “Actually, I don't think I can count pinecones as an herb. However, there
are
several foul-tasting samples on my list. Who's to say the Poison Princess won't end up trying all of them?”

“There's no sense borrowing trouble. We have enough of that already,” Jane said and left.

*   *   *

Much later, Jane stood on the back terrace, glancing up at the star-pocked sky. A warm breeze bearing the scents of honeysuckle, wild rose, and Confederate jasmine ruffled the hem of her dress. The evening was so lovely that it seemed incongruent with Claude's impromptu wake.

Per Jane's request, the staff had moved The Medieval Herbalists' tables away from the other diners. Extra tealight candles had been scattered across the white tablecloths and a sprig of rosemary, the herb representing remembrance, had been entwined around each napkin ring.

Having left the twins in the care of her great-aunt and -uncle, Jane circulated around the terrace. She tried to remain unobtrusive. Listening. This way, she could make sure her guests had everything they needed.

And what The Medieval Herbalists seemed to require was wine. Bottles and bottles of it. They also ate copious amounts of pasta primavera and homemade bread dipped in olive oil, which Jane hoped would serve as a sponge for some of the alcohol.

The group members, along with their overwhelmed spouses and partners, toasted Kira a dozen times. They told stories about her and alternated between laughter and tears. At times, they grew very loud. And then, a moment later, someone would whisper poetry from the Middle Ages. Jane recognized a few snippets from Dante, but not the lines about being laid to rest under the grass by a poet named Marie de France.

As she watched from her place behind a column, she observed the faces of The Medieval Herbalists. Butterworth, who'd been trained to interpret body language, had been schooling Jane in this inexact science, and while she tried to put her new skills to use now, she found she couldn't. There
were just too many people. Plus, the candlelight transformed their features, making them simultaneously more beautiful and more grotesque.

“Any telltale signs?” Sinclair asked, creeping up behind her.

Jane shook her head. “They seem to genuinely enjoy being together. Everyone has had something kind to say about Kira. Even Constance Meredith. Though her anecdote centered more on her own finer attributes than on Kira's, it was still positive.” She sighed. “The only complaints I've heard about Kira were her refusal to adhere to a dress code and that she could be as rambunctious as a child.”

Sinclair looked skeptical. “If those are the worst things that can be said of her, then either Ms. Grace never offended her fellow herb lovers, or those who truly disliked her know how to conceal their feelings.”

“But the three most likely suspects are in the clear,” Jane said. “The sheriff was able to establish a timeline for all of them based on our record keeping. Unless Constance or one of the Scannavinis gave Kira a slow-acting poison the night before she died, they're innocent.”

A waiter approached Claude and moved to refill his glass, but Claude smiled and waved him off.

“The wine has been flowing freely since six o'clock,” Jane whispered. “I was hoping it might encourage a few confessions, but all it's done is inspire the recitation of poetry.”

As if compelled by her words, Claude got to his feet and tapped the side of his glass with his fork. The assembly fell silent.

“Every year, Hannah Billingsley produces the itinerary for our annual retreat. These lovely, handmade booklets always commence with a poem. This year, Hannah chose ‘From Homer's Hymn to Earth: Mother of All,' by Percy Shelley. I won't read it all—just a few lines with which to close our meal and our memorial to Kira. Shelley does a far
better job than I ever could in saying farewell to one of our own, and Kira would have loved this imagery.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. When he next spoke, his voice was hushed and reverent.

O universal mother, who dost keep

From everlasting thy foundations deep,

Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing of thee!

With bloom-inwoven dance and happy song,

On the soft flowers the meadow-grass among,

Leap round them sporting—such delights by thee

Are given, rich Power, revered Divinity.

Mother of gods, thou Wife of starry Heaven,

Farewell! be thou propitious, and be given

A happy life for this brief melody,

Nor thou nor other songs shall unremembered be.

Vivian Ash, who was sitting next to Claude, stood up and raised her glass. “To Kira.”

One by one, The Medieval Herbalists followed suit. They toasted Kira once more before putting their napkins on the table and heading inside for their taste-test contest. With one exception. A woman with brown hair heavily threaded with filaments of gray moved in the opposite direction, descending the stairs and slipping behind the hedgerow into Milton's Gardens.

“I'm going to see what Tammy's up to,” Jane told Sinclair. “Would you monitor the tasting contest? You'll have to keep an eye on Mrs. Hubbard along with the herbalists. If you don't, she might feed Constance a mouthful of chopped earthworm mixed with fennel. Or fly wings tossed in cumin.”

Sinclair grinned. “I'd rather like to see that. The woman is insufferable. After criticizing the layout of the Henry
James Library, she proceeded to lecture me on the shortcomings of our toxicology collection. When I informed her that the majority of those books were in the Isak Dinesen Safari Room, she groused about the inefficiency of housing our books in different rooms.”

“Constance has a toxic personality—to use a term she'd understand—but she's still our guest,” Jane reminded Sinclair before hurrying into the garden after the dark-haired woman.

Several couples were strolling along the gravel paths, and Jane couldn't help wondering how Victoria Billingsley felt about her forthcoming wedding. Had a pall been cast over her big day because of Kira's death? Even though Victoria hadn't been close to Kira, she obviously thought highly enough of The Medieval Herbalists to invite them to her wedding.

Or did she do that just for Hannah?
Jane silently mused.

Jane was so lost in thought that she nearly passed by the woman she'd set out to find.

“Hello,” she said softly. She didn't want to startle the solitary figure on the bench beneath the wisteria-covered arbor. “Not in the mood to be blindfolded?”

“By the right man, sure. But to taste mustard seeds or basil leaves? That's not my idea of dessert. I'd rather have a piece of chocolate cake,” Tammy said.

Jane laughed and gestured at the bench. “May I join you?”

At Jane's nod, Tammy touched a leaf on the wisteria vine. “If I lived here, I'd wake up every day and pinch myself. It's so beautiful. It's nice in Tennessee too, but this place is pure heaven. I just can't believe Kira won't get a chance to experience all the fun things you have lined up for us. It won't be the same without her.”

Seeing the tears pool in Tammy's eyes, Jane reached for the other woman's hand. “I'm sorry. Were you two close?”

“We were. Kira was the only person in the group I kept in touch with all year long. We'd e-mail and even talk on
the phone every now and then. She didn't look down on me like some of the others do. I don't have a bunch of degrees on my wall, but Kira respected my craft.” She raised Jane's hand to her nose and sniffed. “Ah, you used my gardener's soap.”

Jane smiled. “It worked perfectly. Even my boys liked it and that's saying something. They usually avoid soap like the plague.”

Pleased, Tammy released Jane's hand and gave it a pat. “Send your boys to my table during Sunday's fair. I'll give them samples of my favorite products.”

“What other products do you make?” Tammy's wares genuinely fascinated Jane, but that wasn't the only reason she asked about them. She was also hoping to distract Tammy from her grief for a few moments.

“Soap, scrubs, body wash, lotion, lip gloss, insect repellant, essential oils, and a household cleaner or two.”

Jane waved her arm, indicating the garden. “All plant-based? Amazing. Your entire group is talented. Your unique products. Kira's photographs. Vivian's renovations. And you all seem to get along so well. Has it always been that way?”

Tammy looked up at the stars. “We've had our squabbles, but they're few and far between. Probably because we're a bunch of tree huggers. We hang out in greenhouses and gardens. We go on long hikes and drink herbal tea. That's why this thing with Kira—I can't wrap my head around it. I don't get how she could accidentally drown. She was a good swimmer!” She stared intently at Jane. “Did the sheriff tell you anything else? Anything that would help me make more sense of this? Did she trip and fall—get knocked unconscious before she went in the river? Please. I need to know. This doesn't
feel
right to me.”

Jane couldn't tell Tammy that her instincts were correct. She had to let Sheriff Evans handle things, but her heart ached for Tammy. She and Kira had obviously shared a
genuine friendship. Of all The Medieval Herbalists, Tammy was the only person who was unable to move on—to go inside and attend the next event. Her grief was more acute. Jane could sense it in the air surrounding Tammy. It draped around her shoulders like a heavy shawl. If it had a color, it would be the hue of the sky during a winter rainstorm.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Jane asked Tammy. “Or could I find you something made of chocolate? There's always a fresh supply in our kitchens, and while I can't answer your questions, I can offer you comfort food.”

Tammy managed a wan smile. “No, thanks. I suppose I'll watch the contest after all. It'll make me feel better if Constance guesses wrong. She can't stand to be wrong.”

“Is it hard to hang out with a celebrity?”

“Nah,” Tammy said. “Constance knows that I'm just as smart as she is when it comes to poisons. She has book learning, but I have hands-on experience with the plants and herbs used during medieval times. I can't diagnose people like she does, though. I like hearing about her cases and she likes talking to me about plant care. Constance is all right when you get her alone.” Tammy plucked a wisteria blossom off the vine and held it in her palm. “Over time, this flower has had many meanings. Endurance, clinging love, the releasing of burdens. Tonight, you helped me release a burden. Thank you.”

Tammy walked away, but Jane stayed where she was. It was so peaceful on that bench, watching the sky deepen from cobalt to dark violet, that she did not want to leave.

“‘The moon looks upon many night flowers,'” a voice said from behind the hedge and Edwin stepped out onto the path. “‘The night flowers see but one moon.'”

Jane's heart hammered in surprise, but she kept her cool. “Are you quoting poetry?”

“Jean Ingelow,” Edwin said, approaching Jane slowly, warily. “I hadn't planned on borrowing the poet's lines. I
came to give you this, but you look so beautiful—like Rossetti's painting of Helen of Troy. Men would go to war over you too, Jane Steward.”

Anger coursed through Jane's body. She opened her mouth to flay Edwin with her tongue. To rebuke him for daring to compliment her now, after ignoring her for so long. But she never got the chance.

Edwin closed the distance between them, tossed something on the bench, and cupped Jane's chin in his hand. Tilting her head upward, he kissed her. Though it was a brief kiss, it was still forceful and hungry.

And when Jane pushed him away, Edwin grabbed her by the shoulders and whispered in her ear, “Read this. I want you to understand what I am.”

Then he released her. Pinching off a wisteria flower, he set it on top of what Jane assumed was a book wrapped in brown paper. “In Japanese legend, which is older than the Victorian language of flowers, a maiden waited for her lover under a wisteria vine,” Edwin said. “Through many heartaches and trials, she never wavered. She endured. She was a woman like no other woman. She was like you, Jane.”

And with that, Edwin Alcott melted into the shadows, leaving Jane alone with clenched fists and the fire of his kiss on her lips.

Jane knocked on the twins' bathroom door, reminded Hem to wash his hair, and then sank down on the edge of her bed. Holding the package Edwin had given her in both hands, she took a deep breath and removed the brown paper.

“What's that?” Fitz asked. He sat in Jane's bathroom, holding a comic in one hand and an egg timer in the other. His pajamas, which resembled a Hogwarts uniform, were on the floor. Jane's white bath mat was covered in dirt from Fitz's soiled clothes.

“A journal maybe. There's no title or author on the cover.” Jane walked into the bathroom and showed Fitz the camel-colored leather.

Fitz pointed at the cover's elaborate engravings. “What are those shapes?”

“This looks like a cross worn by a group of men called the Knights Templar,” Jane said, pointing at the cross with two intersecting beams of equal length. “These two men riding the horses must be knights. They're wearing armor and have lances. Aunt Octavia gave you a medieval castle play set, so you know what lances are, right?”

“Lances are okay, but Hem and I like other weapons better.” The egg timer stopped ticking and abruptly sounded its alarm. “Hem!” Fitz shouted. “My turn!”

Jane heard vigorous splashing from down the hall and imagined brown water sloshing over the edge of the tub to coat the floor.

“You should see the water!” Hem yelled. “It looks like chocolate milk!”

Fitz scooped up his pajamas and hurried into the hall. “Show me!”

“Wait until I get a towel!”

There was a click as Hem unlocked the door and let his brother in.

“Cool.” Fitz sounded impressed. “Put some in a cup. That way, when I'm done, we can see whose water was darker.”

Grinning, Jane returned to examining Edwin's book. She gently opened the supple cover, noted the marbleized end paper, and turned two blank pages until she reached a single line of text stating, “The Diary of Lionel E. Alcott, 1876.”

The words had likely been written using a metal dip pen. The original black ink had faded with time, but Jane had no trouble reading the opening lines. They described Lionel's preparation to embark on a long journey to recover a valuable treasure.

“You too, eh?” Jane scowled at the page. Were all the men in Edwin's family thieves? Had Edwin read this dairy as a boy and, influenced by Lionel's adventures, decided to follow in his relative's footsteps? Had the Alcott men been recruited by some maniacal secret society? Or were they independent agents—mercenaries who stole rare and priceless books in exchange for monetary gain and for the thrill of the hunt?

Jane didn't make much progress with Lionel's diary that night. There was supper to prepare, laundry to do, a Harry Potter audiobook to play, and after the twins were asleep, e-mails to read and schedules to review.

By the time she put on her nightgown, it was almost eleven. And though her body was tired, her mind wouldn't quiet down. She kept revisiting the moment when she'd turned Kira's body over in the river and that ghostly, bloated face had stared up at her.

This calls for medicinal wine
, she thought and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. She took the glass and her cell phone out to the garden and dialed Eloise's number.

“Are you still up?” she whispered.

“Of course,” Eloise said. “I'm reading. What else would a single, thirty-something bookstore owner be doing on a Thursday evening? My hot dates with a certain shy and sexy but very busy falconer are few and far between, so I'm getting my thrills by burning through the latest Jade Lee novel instead.”

Jane smiled. “Do you have a glass of wine to help you drown your sorrows?”

“Only the finest vintage—straight from the box.” Eloise laughed. “Actually, that's not true. I have a lovely chilled dessert wine from Italy. Edwin gave it to me. I didn't know whether to accept or bludgeon him with the bottle.” She took a breath. “Oh, Jane! I was afraid to call you. What if you didn't want to be my friend anymore?”

“Because of Edwin?” Jane asked in astonishment.

“He's been a total cad,” Eloise exclaimed softly. “You haven't said a word, but I know you. He hurt you with his disappearing act. He does this all the time, and while I'm used to him jetting off without a word, you're not. I warned you about him. He's my brother and I love him. He does have admirable qualities, but his faults are hard to overlook. And he's so damned secretive!”

Jane was about to ask Eloise if she'd ever heard of Lionel Alcott when she decided against it. She didn't want to talk about Lionel. Or Edwin. Not until she'd read Lionel's book and had a chance to see for herself if the diary explained
anything about Edwin's double life. “Your brother doesn't seem to operate like other people,” Jane said eventually. “But nothing he did or might do would ever interfere with our friendship. You're like a sister to me. Which is why I called you. I can't stop thinking about—”

“Oh, Lord!” Eloise cried in dismay. “Here I am going on about Landon and Edwin and I totally forgot to ask if the rumor Mrs. Pratt is spreading about a drowned Storyton Hall guest is true.”

“It's true,” Jane said. “I found Kira Grace in Storyton River.”

Eloise groaned. “You poor thing. Tell me everything.”

Eloise was an excellent listener, and Jane held nothing back. She even told her best friend of Doc Lydgate's suspicions that Kira had been poisoned. When she was finished, she felt better for having let it all out.

“If the sheriff has to wait until Monday for the lab results, then I think the Cover Girls should get involved,” Eloise said. “We could use our book discussion as an opportunity to get to know The Medieval Herbalists better—maybe ask them a subtle question or two.”

Jane considered the idea. “It couldn't hurt. Maybe we'll learn that they're not quite as chummy as Claude Mason would have me believe. I keep coming back to those photos Kira took of Constance and Nico. What if this wasn't Kira's first attempt at blackmail? What if she's done it before?”

“A member other than Constance or the Scannavinis
must
have had it out for her,” Eloise declared firmly. “Otherwise, you wouldn't have found her floating in the river.”

*   *   *

The next day was jam-packed with activities and arrivals. Sheriff Evans appeared when the halls and corridors were still hushed and established himself in the William Faulkner Conference Room. He started his first interview at six thirty and, according to Sinclair, was focusing on each Medieval
Herbalist's relationship with Kira Grace, as well as their movements the morning of the duck race. By the time breakfast was finished, every member had been interviewed.

Evans met with Jane in her office and explained that it would take a few hours to organize and check on the members' statements.

“Can they go on their scheduled nature hike in the meantime?” Jane asked.

The sheriff hesitated. “We can't let thirty people wander into the hills without supervision. One of them might be a murderer, after all. Who's leading the group?”

“Tom Green,” Jane answered.

Evans grunted. Tom Green was a mild-mannered man of small stature. With his shaggy hair and gentle ways, he often reminded Jane of a Hobbit. “Mr. Lachlan will be going too,” she quickly added. “He's a retired Army Ranger.”

“I want one of my people there as well,” Evans had said. “I'll send a deputy in plainclothes. Someone the members haven't seen before. You can say he's on your staff.”

Jane agreed, and by the time Tom Green showed up to lead The Medieval Herbalists, a Deputy Mills was standing with Lachlan. As for Tom, he looked every inch the seasoned hiker in his cargo pants, brown T-shirt, and worn boots. He also held a walking stick in his right hand. The stick had clearly seen much use. The hand-carved flowers and ivy vines encircling its shaft had become so smooth in places that they glistened beneath the light of the lobby chandeliers.

“Thank you for recommending me to these folks,” Tom said. “I've been hoping to rub shoulders with them for years.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I've wanted to apply for membership, but I've been too intimidated. They're all so accomplished, and I'm just a guy who runs a plant store in a tiny town.”

“You're not ‘just' anything,” Jane protested. “Besides, you should be proud of The Potter's Shed. Even people with
brown thumbs are able to grow things with your help. And I bet you impress master gardeners as well. You have some unusual specimens in your greenhouse.”

At that moment, Claude Mason and a large contingent of Medieval Herbalists exited from the Madame Bovary Dining Room, heading straight for Jane and Tom. Tom shot them a worried glance. “Not unusual enough for this lot, I'm afraid,” he muttered.

By the time the hikers had gathered around Tom, he was smiling brightly again, and Jane put his momentary lapse of good humor down to nervousness.

The group set off—minus Hannah Billingsley, Jane noticed—at a leisurely pace with Lachlan and Deputy Mills in tow. The two men were charged with carrying water and healthy snacks, and while Lachlan looked like he could hike the entire Appalachian Trail without difficulty, Mills was clearly out of shape.

With the group gone and Butterworth seeing to the sheriff's needs, Jane was able to focus on wedding preparations. The groom's family would be trickling in from Richmond throughout the afternoon, and Jane wanted to assure them that she and her staff had everything ready for tomorrow's celebration.

Victoria and her future husband, Carson, had decided against a rehearsal dinner. Victoria told Jane that she planned to spend the better part of Saturday lounging by the Jules Verne Pool. As for Carson, he'd booked a fishing excursion with Captain Phil for his groomsmen and would be away from the resort for hours. Jane fervently hoped that the couple's evening wedding could still be magical, despite what had happened to Kira. However, it all depended on what Sheriff Evans and his team discovered today.

One of the most important elements of the Billingsley-Earle wedding was the food, so Jane visited the kitchens, where Mrs. Hubbard was already working on the cake.

Jane poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on a stool. She loved to watch Mrs. Hubbard bake. The cakes she made for tea were lovely and delicious, but her wedding cakes were works of art. Jane kept a scrapbook with photographs of every cake and proudly produced this album whenever prospective brides were touring Storyton Hall.

“What's in Victoria Billingsley's dream cake?” Jane asked.

Mrs. Hubbard, who'd just finished pouring batter into a cake pan, offered Jane a spoon to lick. “Perks of the job, my dear. Can you guess which flavor I've added?”

Jane grinned. “Is this like last night's taste contest?”

“Without the blindfold.” Mrs. Hubbard filled a second cake pan. “It was great fun too. I think it helped that the contestants were a bit tipsy. There was plenty of laughter and no one seemed to mind when they got an answer wrong, which didn't happen often. Those folks know their herbs.”

Jane licked the spoon clean. “And the Poison Princess? She survived?”

Mrs. Hubbard shrugged. “I gave her a taste of fennel and another of cloves. She could have had it much worse.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“Almonds?” Jane guessed.

“Correct!” Mrs. Hubbard cried. “Because Victoria wanted a Hildegard-themed wedding feast, I needed to use the ingredients from, oh, when did Hildegard start writing her book?”

Jane tried to recall the biographical details of Hildegard Von Bingen's life. Hildegard, renowned among herbalists for her knowledge of plant lore, had been born in Germany in 1098. She became a nun at the age of fifteen. Her order followed the Rule of Saint Benedict, and Hildegard proved to be a wise and gifted healer.

“I think she worked on her book from 1141 to 1151,” Jane said. She pointed at the cake pans. “You told me that you
were using herbs mentioned in Hildegard's
Physica
, but I didn't realize the wedding cake was included as well. I guess that rules out any chance of a chocolate mouse filling.”

Mrs. Hubbard nodded. “Which is fine with Victoria. She's not a fan of chocolate. Can you imagine?”

“No,” Jane admitted. “My life requires copious amounts of tea, coffee, books, and chocolate. And not necessarily in that order.” Jane searched the counter and noted a lack of decorating tools and supports for the tiers. “Where are your pillars and other goodies?”

“Don't need them. This won't be a traditional wedding cake. We're serving multiple cakes, but they won't be frosted or covered with the usual fondant decorations. To stay true to the food in Hildegard's book, I've created a sugar-honey glaze and sugared violets.”

Jane smiled. “It certainly won't look like a traditional wedding cake, but then again, this wedding meal is one for the ages. Which reminds me. I'd better make sure the front desk has the menus printed.”

“You can set your mind at ease about the tea treats for your book discussion. Everything will be ready and waiting in the Daphne du Maurier Parlor.”

“Thank you.” Jane kissed her head cook on the cheek. “You are the heart of Storyton Hall.”

Mrs. Hubbard's face dimpled with pleasure. “I'm just the enticing aroma flowing through its corridors. You're its heart, dear. You and those boys. Now, get going before you make me cry in the batter. It wouldn't do for me to add extra salt to this cake.”

*   *   *

When Lachlan returned from the hike, he immediately requested a meeting with Jane. She was having lunch with the twins and Aunt Octavia, but told Butterworth to send Lachlan up to her aunt's apartments.

“He's been hiking all morning, so he'll probably be worried that he isn't presentable,” Jane said.