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Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, Lord Peter Wimsey, Nick and Nora Charles, Brother Cadfael, Miss Marple, and so on.
Jane told her great-aunt and -uncle about her Murder and Mayhem Week idea.
English countryside to an isolated valley in western Virginia. When Jane
Guests savored the October sunshine while the waiters bustled about serving Julius Caesar salads, Herman Melville chowder, Homer’s pulled pork sandwiches, or Mark Twain chicken biscuits along with iced tea and lemonade.
Let alone The Famous Five? I am in literary heaven!”
“That’s not true. There’s also Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius,” she murmured. “And Eloise. The Cover Girls. Sinclair, Sterling, Butterworth, Ned, and Mrs. Hubbard.”
“We live by a code written by the Greek scholars Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Centuries ago, they penned a detailed set of rules and guidelines for us to follow. We have abided by this code ever since. One of the rules clearly states that a guardian who
can no longer fulfill his duties must pass the responsibility to his heir. That, my dear, is you.”
Isak Dinesen Safari Room.
“‘Shakespeare, William. Three unpublished plays.’” After glancing back at Sinclair, she read the label directly to the right. “‘Dickens, Charles. The Mystery of Edwin Drood (Complete Manuscript).’” She shook her head. “Impossible. Dickens didn’t finish that novel.”
He was right. Jane moved from drawer to drawer, gasping and exclaiming as the labels revealed Storyton Hall’s secret collection. The vacuum-sealed drawers contained volumes of poetry, illuminated manuscripts, ancient scrolls, history books, a Gutenberg Bible, Leonardo da Vinci’s journal, The Canterbury Tales—Part Two, the scientific notes of Galileo, and on and on.
Jane was beginning to understand. “The tweed suits. The worn leather boots and the fishing hat. His appearance as a country gentleman from a bygone era was nothing but a costume?” Sinclair touched her arm. “No, Miss Jane. Aloysius Steward is the epitome of a country gentleman. Everything you know about him is true. He just never revealed his special talents to you. In turn, yours must also be kept secret. If you are bruised during Tae Kwon Do practice, you’ll say you fell off your bike. If you’re cut juggling daggers, you’ll tell people that you were distracted in the act of chopping onions.”
“Yes,” Sinclair interrupted smoothly. “It is imperative that their pasts remain a secret. One of the advantages we have over those who wish to steal from our library is that the thieves assume they need only get past the guardian to gain access to Storyton Hall’s treasures.” He gave a smug chuckle. “Before they set foot in our lobby, every guest is screened. If our suspicions are aroused, they are then watched throughout their stay. No one escapes our scrutiny, Miss Jane.”
Sinclair nodded. “He is. As for Ms. McKee, she’s the current president of the Broadleaf School of the Arts. Alice Hart was a faculty member at the same institution.”
His smile grew wider. “Not for Marcus Didius Falco, the most intrepid investigator in all of first-century Rome.”
She then shook hands with Nick and Nora Charles, Inspector Morse, Sam Spade, and Precious Ramotswe. A dead ringer for Lord Peter Wimsey eyed the buffet offerings through his monocle, and a lanky Hamish Macbeth, sporting a kilt and a shock of red hair, helped himself to punch.
When I called her parents to find out what had caused such a sudden demise, they told me that she had a condition called . . .” She trailed off. “Ah, I remember now. It was called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Alice had an enlarged heart with thick walls and something particular going on at the cellular level. Apparently, this condition kills young athletes with no warning. And by young, I mean people in their teens and twenties. It’s very rare.”
