Murder in the Paperback Parlor (A Book Retreat Mystery, Band 2) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ellery Adams is the author of three New York Times bestselling series, including the Book Retreat mysteries (Murder in the Mystery Suite), the Books by the Bay Mysteries (Lethal Letters, Poisoned Prose, Written in Stone, The Last Word, A Deadly Cliche, A Killer Plot), and the Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries (Peach Pies and Alibis, Pies and Prejudice). Ms. Adams has held many jobs, including caterer, retail clerk, car salesperson, teacher, tutor, and tech writer, all while penning poems, children’s books, and novels. She writes and creates culinary delights from her home in central Virginia.

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WELCOME TO STORYTON HALL

OUR STAFF IS HERE TO SERVE YOU

Resort Manager—Jane Steward

Butler—Mr. Butterworth

Head Librarian—Mr. Sinclair

Head Chauffeur—Mr. Sterling

Head of Recreation—Mr. Lachlan

Head of Housekeeping—Mrs. Pimpernel

Head Chef—Mrs. Hubbard

SELECT MERCHANTS OF STORYTON VILLAGE

Run for Cover Bookshop—Eloise Alcott

Daily Bread Café—Edwin Alcott

Cheshire Cat Pub—Bob and Betty Carmichael

The Canvas Creamery—Phoebe Doyle

La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique—Mabel Wimberly

Tresses Hair Salon—Violet Osborne

The Pickled Pig Market—the Hogg brothers

Geppetto’s Toy Shop—Barnaby Nicholas

The Potter’s Shed—Tom Green

ONE

“You expect me to break that with my bare hand?” Jane Steward, manager of Storyton Hall and mother of six-year-old twin boys, pointed at a piece of wood in disbelief.

“I certainly do,” replied Sinclair, Storyton’s head librarian. He was looking at Jane with the fixed stare he reserved for guests who made too much noise in one of the resort’s reading rooms or had mishandled a book.

Storyton Hall had thousands of books, and Sinclair knew the location and condition of every volume. He cared for the books as though they were priceless treasures. And to those who worked and visited Storyton, that’s exactly what they were. People came from across the globe to spend a few days in the stately manor house tucked away in an isolated valley in western Virginia. Surrounded by blue hills and pristine forests, Storyton Hall was heaven on earth for bibliophiles.

Jane glanced around and for a moment, nearly forgot that she was standing directly beneath the carriage house in a room that didn’t appear on the official blueprints. In fact, only a few people knew of its existence. Like Sinclair, they used the practice space to hone their martial arts skills. Butterworth, the butler, was particularly fond of attacking the seventy-pound weighted bags hanging from the ceiling. Sterling, the head chauffeur, preferred to spar with nunchucks, and Sinclair’s weapon of choice was a set of throwing knives he kept hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of The Art of War.

Not too long ago, Jane would have found the idea of practicing roundhouse kicks utterly ridiculous, but now, as she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall-length mirror, she knew that there was nothing amusing about her situation. It was also clear from Sinclair’s expression that he expected her to break the board with her bare hand, and he expected her to do so without delay.

“It’s easy, Mom! Fitz and I did it on our first try.”

Displeased by the idea of being shown up by her sons, Jane frowned. “All right, I’m ready.”

Sinclair held the rectangular piece of pine by its sides and braced himself for impact. “Check your stance,” he ordered. “The power comes from your body. Whip your trunk around and you’ll break the board without injuring your hand. Focus on a spot in the center of the board. See your hand going through the wood and continuing to move forward. Don’t stop. If you think about stopping, you won’t succeed. Lead with your palm, not your pinkie finger.”

“Got it.” Taking a deep breath, Jane trained her eyes on the board. She saw the grains in the wood and visualized the exact location she intended to strike. Raising her right arm, she pivoted her entire right side toward the back wall. Concentrating on whipping her hip and shoulder around as quickly as possible, she drove her hand, palm facing the ceiling, into the board. It parted with a satisfying crack, and a large splinter of wood flew past Jane’s cheek and landed on the floor mat near Hem’s feet.

He picked it up, tested its sharpness with his index finger, and promptly jabbed it into his brother’s side.

“Ow!” Fitz howled and immediately retaliated by administering a front snap kick to his brother’s wrist. The splinter came dislodged from Hem’s hand and was snatched midair by Sinclair.

“What have I told you gentlemen about martial arts?” he asked, his voice steely with disapproval.

Hem dropped his gaze and tried to appear penitent. “We should only use it for self-defense.”

“Or if our safety is . . . threatened,” Fitz added, looking smug over having remembered the second half of the creed Sinclair recited at the end of every class. Too late, Fitz realized that he should have adopted a contrite expression as well.

“Next class, you two will drill the entire time while your mother learns a new kick.” Sinclair turned to Butterworth, who’d just finished pummeling a practice bag. It was still jerking on the end of its chain as though it had been electrocuted. “Mr. Butterworth? Would you be so kind as to demonstrate a spinning hook kick?”

“Certainly,” said Butterworth. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his left leg. In a flash, he whipped his right leg around in a sweeping, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. When he struck the bag with the ball of his foot, Jane was sure he’d knock it clean off its chain.

“You need to train until that kick is second nature,” Sinclair said.

“Perhaps that kick should wait until after the Romancing the Reader week,” Jane said. “I don’t want to pull a muscle before the Regency Fashion Show. I’d be a poor representative of La Grande Dame if I limped down the catwalk in the gown Mabel toiled over for months.”

Amusement glinted in Sinclair’s eyes. “Ah, the fashion show. I’d nearly forgotten about that particular event—probably because every female under our roof can speak of only two subjects: the male cover model competition and the habits, interests, and whereabouts of Mr. Lachlan.”

Taking the broken pieces of wood from Sinclair, Jane laughed. “Weeks before Lachlan first stepped foot on our property, you predicted that many ladies would fall in love with him.”

Sinclair sighed. “Indeed I did. I also assumed that after two months, his allure would have dimmed somewhat. Obviously, I underestimated Mr. Lachlan’s appeal.” He shot her a sly glance. “How do you find him?”

Jane made a shooing gesture at her sons. “Run home and change. If you get your chores done in time, I’ll hand over your allowance before we drive to the village. A little bird told me that the Hogg brothers are hosting an indoor picnic lunch and special contest for all kids twelve-years-old and under. The winner will receive a new bicycle from Spokes and a gift certificate from the Pickled Pig.”

The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks and raced off. Butterworth followed at a more dignified pace, his spine straight and his shoulders squared. Jane recognized that Butterworth was leaving his role of combat expert behind in favor of his butler persona and wondered if such a marked change came over her when she finished one of her training sessions.

I doubt it, she thought. I’m still getting used to living a double life. Sinclair, Butterworth, and Sterling have been doing it for decades. And now, Lachlan has joined our secret circle.

Once the sound of the boys’ shouts and jostles faded, Jane finally answered Sinclair’s question. “I find Lachlan a bit of an enigma. He’s hardworking, courteous, and organized. He’s also a master salesman. For such a quiet person, I’m amazed by his ability...