Murder on the Poet's Walk, page 1
Praise for Ellery Adams’s previous novels
“Love Chopped and mysteries? This delightful character-driven cozy is just the treat for you.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Murder in the Cookbook Nook
“Creating a group of suspects that will keep readers intrigued until the last page, Ellery Adams has proven one thing with this book: This is one series that should and will go on for a long time to come. In fact, the author has done such a brilliant job, readers will find themselves wanting to live in Storyton, no matter how many people end up dead there.”
—Suspense Magazine on Murder in the Locked Library
“Ellery does a wonderful job in capturing the essence of this whodunit with visually descriptive narrative that not only lends itself to engaging dialogue, but also seeing the action through the eyes of Jane and her fellow characters.”
—Dru’s Book Musings on Murder in the Locked Library
“A love letter to reading, with sharp characterizations and a smart central mystery.”
—Entertainment Weekly on The Whispered Word
“Adams launches an intriguing new mystery series, headed by four spirited amateur sleuths and touched with a hint of magical realism, which celebrates the power of books and women’s friendships. Adams’s many fans, readers of Sarah Addison Allen, and anyone who loves novels that revolve around books will savor this tasty treat.”
—Library Journal (starred review), Pick of the Month, on The Secret, Book & Scone Society
“This affecting series launch from Adams provides all the best elements of a traditional mystery.... Well-drawn characters complement a plot with an intriguing twist or two.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Secret, Book & Scone Society
Also by Ellery Adams:
Book Retreat Mysteries:
Murder in the Mystery Suite
Murder in the Paperback Parlor
Murder in the Secret Garden
Murder in the Locked Library
Murder in the Reading Room
Murder in the Storybook Cottage
Murder in the Cookbook Nook
Murder on the Poet’s Walk
The Secret, Book and Scone Society Mysteries:
The Secret, Book & Scone Society
The Whispered Word
The Book of Candlelight
Ink and Shadows
The Vanishing Type
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
ELLERY ADAMS
MURDER ON THE POET’S WALK
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Author’s Note
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Ellery Adams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2948-4
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2949-1 (ebook)
This novel is for all the folks on Bookstagram, Book-Tube, and BookTok. Your videos, photos, shout-outs, reviews, and enthusiasm for all things bookish amaze me. Whether you have a million followers or just one, what you’re doing matters.
Keep reading.
Keep sharing.
Keep shining.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of
wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
—Robert Frost
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken
off, I know that is poetry.
—Emily Dickinson
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. Templeton
Head Cook—Mrs. Hubbard
Spa Manager—Tammie Kota
SELECT MERCHANTS OF STORYTON VILLAGE
Run for Cover Bookshop—Eloise Alcott
Daily Bread Cafe—Edwin Alcott
Cheshire Cat Pub—Bob and Betty Carmichael
Canvas Creamery—Phoebe Doyle
La Grande Dame Clothing Boutique—Mabel
Wimberly
Tresses Hair Salon—Violet Osborne
Pickled Pig Market—the Hogg brothers
Geppetto’s Toy Shop—Barnaby Nicholas
Hilltop Stables—Sam Nolan
Storyton Outfitters—Phil and Sandi Hughes
The Old Curiosity Shop—Roger Bachman
CURRENT MOOD CARD COMPANY PERSONNEL
Jeremiah Okoro
Gilbert “Gil” Callahan
Stephanie Harbaugh
NOTABLE POETS
Professor Dodge Ashley
Gretchen West
Connor Jensen
Farah Khan
Chapter 1
Jane Steward always looked forward to afternoon tea, but never more so than today. She couldn’t wait to share her exciting news with Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia.
I hope I beat Mrs. Hubbard to the punch, she thought, hurrying out to the terrace. Mrs. Hubbard’s culinary skills were exemplary, but the head cook of Storyton Hall also possessed a taste for gossip that was as insatiable as Aunt Octavia’s sweet tooth.
Catching sight of the tea spread, Jane hoped her great-aunt wouldn’t overindulge on sugary treats. The plucky octogenarian was the uncrowned regent of all she surveyed and tended to do exactly as she pleased, but she was also diabetic, which meant eating foods that were good for her health over those that felt good to eat.
“Hello, dear!” Aunt Octavia cried as Jane took a seat at the table reserved for the Steward family. “Don’t these apple-cinnamon scones look glorious? Mrs. Hubbard is so clever. She put a rolled-up copy of Robert Frost’s ‘After Apple-Picking’ inside our napkins. Should we each read a few lines in between bites?”
This suggestion was met by a pair of groans.
On the other side of the table, Jane’s twin sons, Fitzgerald and Hemingway Steward, wore matching expressions of disapproval.
“That’s a lovely idea,” Jane said, plucking a turkey, Brie, and apple finger sandwich from the tray.
Uncle Aloysius beamed at his wife. “You should start, my dear. Your voice is pure poetry.”
The twins rolled their eyes and sighed. Though Jane knew they wanted to eat and run, she wanted to savor such moments. During the workweek, this was their only chance to gather as a family. Jane’s responsibilities as resort manager kept her busy from sunup to sundown—if not later—which is why afternoon tea was sacred to her. She’d miss it only if faced with a crisis.
Unfortunately, the luxury resort catering to bibliophiles from all corners of the globe had been plagued by one catastrophe after another. During her tenure as manager, she’d dealt with challenges that were part and parcel of running a country estate–turned–hotel. The upkeep of its aging structures and extensive grounds demanded a great deal of time and money, and as if that wasn’t enough to worry about, Storyton Hall seemed to be a most favorable setting for murder and mayhem.
However, on this sultry afternoon in mid-August, Jane wasn’t thinking about the numerous acts of violence that had occurred in her ancestral home. Her thoughts were of the future. Her sons would soon be heading back to school as middle schoolers, and her best friend, Eloise Alcott, was getting married in two weeks.
These weren’t the only changes on the horizon either. The ruined folly was being rebuilt, and the orchard, which Jane was tentatively calling Chekov’s Orchard, had finally been restored. The cherry and apple trees wouldn’t bear fruit this year, but guests still loved to wander among the trees. The boughs provided welcome shade, and the soft grass muffled all sounds but the songs of insects and birds. Bees and butterflies drifted through the field of wildflowers dividing the orchard from the untamed forest. It was the perfect place to escape the oppressive heat and humidity.
“Mom?”
Jane started. She’d been gazing over Milton’s Gardens and the great lawn toward the blue hills surrounding the village of Storyton and had been too lost in thought to realize that the table had gone quiet.
“You’re meant to be picking apples, not gathering wool.” Her eyes twinkling in amusement, Aunt Octavia tapped the Frost poem with a flamingo-pink nail that matched the flowers on her pink and green dress.
“Your turn, Mom,” Fitz added impatiently.
“Did I ever tell you how sweet and cute you were as a toddler? Before you learned to talk?” Jane teased. Then, she read a few lines of Frost’s poem aloud. “ ‘There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.’ ”
She passed the poem to Hem, who raced through five lines before holding out the paper so that Fitz could recite the remaining six.
When Fitz was done, he popped an apple-sausage ball in his mouth. After chasing it down with a swallow of cider, he said, “It doesn’t sound like a poem about apples. It sounds like a poem about being tired.”
Looking pleased, Uncle Aloysius said, “Very perceptive.”
“What gave you that idea?” asked Aunt Octavia.
Fitz dropped a spoonful of maple cream onto his scone. “He says he’s overtired. And he mentions sleep a bunch of times.”
“He has aches and pains too,” Hem said, chiming in. “He sounds like you first thing in the morning, Mom.”
Jane was tempted to throw a sausage ball at her son but restrained herself.
“If your mother wakes up with stiff joints, it’s because she works so hard,” Aunt Octavia said loyally. “And since we’re on the topic of hard work, Mrs. Hubbard tells me that you two have taken excellent care of her kitchen and vegetable gardens. We’re all very proud of how dedicated you’ve been to that job while also working on your jam business.”
Fitz flashed his most winsome smile. “Thanks. Would you please pass the mini candy apples?”
“Only one treat at teatime,” Jane reminded him.
“But we’re growing boys,” Hem parroted Mrs. Hubbard so perfectly that everyone laughed.
Uncle Aloysius doffed his fishing hat and used it to hide his face from Aunt Octavia as he leaned closer to Fitz and Hem. “If you boys were older, you might be more interested in poetry. Men have been wooing ladies with romantic poems for centuries.”
The corners of Hem’s mouth dipped down as he turned to Jane. “Do all the guests write love poetry?”
“No. They write all kinds of poems. A few are working on novels written entirely in verse, some are songwriters, and others write free-verse poems about everything and anything. Most of them are interested in writing short poems for greeting cards.” She smiled at her sons. “You might not know it, but you’ve created poetry. Think of how many verses you’ve come up with about Broken Arm Bend. And that jingle you’re working on for your jam business? That rhymes too. Songwriting is a close cousin to poetry.”
“Maybe that’s why I like hip-hop. Remember that song I played for you the last time we slept over?” Fitz directed his question at Aunt Octavia.
To Jane’s utter astonishment, Aunt Octavia replied, “The one from A Tribe Called Quest? I most certainly do. Such clever wordplay.”
“Was I there?” asked Uncle Aloysius. “I don’t remember.”
Seeing his confused expression, Aunt Octavia patted his hand and told him that he’d probably been in his study.
“I ran into two of the poets in the garden. We had a nice chat about nature and Whitman. I showed them one of his poems and told them we’d named our spa after him. We spoke all the way—” After a pause, he said, “I don’t remember where I was headed, but it doesn’t matter.”
Jane and Aunt Octavia exchanged worried glances. Uncle Aloysius had been more forgetful as of late. He’d even gone fishing without his beloved hat. Her uncle was never without his fishing hat, much to Aunt Octavia’s consternation, and when Jane drove down to the lake to return it to him, he touched the top of his head, clearly confounded to find that he wasn’t already wearing it.
After the poets are gone, I should talk to Aunt Octavia about this. Doc Lydgate could pop over—just to be sure Uncle Aloysius is okay.
Hem gulped down the rest of his cider and swiped his napkin across his mouth. “Can we go back to the kitchens? Mrs. Hubbard needs more cucumbers for the dinner service.”
As soon as Jane excused the twins, they leapt from the terrace with the nimbleness of two jungle cats and trotted down the path leading to the kitchens. Once they were out of sight, she turned back to Aunt Octavia and said, “I have news.”
“Oh?”
“Tobias was working the deli counter at the Pickled Pig this morning,” Jane said, referring to the village grocery store. “I’ve never seen a man slice salami with such gusto, but he has every reason to be happy.”
Aunt Octavia leaned forward in her chair. “Does this have anything to do with his children’s book?”
“In a way. His book launch is scheduled for the second Friday in September, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be able to have it at Run for Cover.”
“Why ever not? What better place for a book launch than a bookstore?”
Jane grinned. “Because people have been calling Eloise for days, asking to buy tickets for the event.”
“I didn’t realize we needed to a ticket to attend Mr. Hogg’s book launch. Such things should be free to the public. We wouldn’t want to discourage future readers,” Aunt Octavia grumbled.
“Neither does Eloise. She’d never dream of selling tickets, but apparently, Tobias has become a legitimate celebrity. No, not Tobias. Pig Newton is the celebrity. Hundreds of thousands of people follow him on social media. And now, thanks to the publicity, The Near-Sighted Pig has had so many preorders that it’s already hit several bestseller lists. Tobias has offers from toy and clothing companies interested in producing merchandise featuring the pig from his book. A sweet little pig with glasses. I can just see backpacks and bedsheets. Poseable figures. The works!”
Aunt Octavia put her hand on her heart. “Are we about to witness the birth of a storybook icon? A pig as adored and revered as Wilbur?”
“I hope so. Tobias is a sweetheart, and his book is as heartwarming as they come. And even though his big brothers have teased him mercilessly, Barbara supported his writing dreams from the get-go. Imagine having two authors under one roof. Barbara’s already writing two romance novels a year, and Tobias has tons of ideas for The Near-Sighted Pig series. Storyton has its own famous author couple.”
“I wonder if he’ll retire from the grocery business,” Aunt Octavia mused.
“You can ask him at his book launch, seeing as it’ll be taking place in Shakespeare’s Theater. The Storyton Players are going to perform a puppet show, Mrs. Hubbard will whip up a few hundred pig cookies, and Eloise will handle the book sales.”
Aunt Octavia glanced around. “I love it when we host creative types. At the moment, Storyton Hall is full of poets. I see them scribbling away in the reading rooms and the Henry James Library. I see them in the Anne of Green Gables Gazebo, the dining rooms, and the lobby. I don’t think we’ve ever had such an industrious group of guests before. I can practically feel their energy. It’s electric! Wouldn’t you agree, Aloysius?”
“I would. In fact, when I was out on the lake, I saw a young man walking and writing in a little notebook at the same time. He was inches away from going in the drink but looked up just in time. After avoiding that mishap, he ended up wandering into a dense patch of poison ivy.” He chuckled. “If you see a young man scratching his ankles this evening, that’s the Poison Ivy Poet.”
