Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) by Ellery Adams

weeks since it happened and there hasn’t been any mention of it in the paper.”
    The group of women looked to Mrs. Pratt to supply the answer. There was nothing she liked better than being the center of attention. Her face glowed as she sucked in a great lungful of air. “Well . . .” She then raised a finger and took a delicate sip of her gin rickey, as if she couldn’t possibly begin without first moisturizing her throat. “They never did discover her real name, you know.”
    While the rest of the women exchanged perplexed glances, Jane recalled an image of a motionless body covered by a white sheet. She thought of a pale, lovely face and waves of golden hair and felt a prick of guilt.
    How could I have put her from my mind so quickly?
It was true that she’d been overwhelmed with preparations for the Murder and Mayhem Week, but it was no excuse for forgetting that a stranger had recently lost her life in the middle of Storyton Village.
    “I thought she rented a horse from Hilltop Stables,” Anna said.
    “So she did,” Mrs. Pratt agreed. “But under a false name.”
    This statement was met with several shocked gasps.
    Delighted, Mrs. Pratt fed her captivated audience another tidbit. “She used a fake name and address on both the information form and liability waiver. Claimed she was staying here at the Hall. She even wrote down a room number. Paid in cash, mounted that mare, and, well, you know how her tale ended, poor girl.”
    “But what spooked her horse?”
    Mrs. Pratt shrugged. “No one knows. But I think it’s quite peculiar that her horse was frightened near the wooden bridge leading into the village. It’s as if someone wanted the mare to leave the path and come racing down Main Street.”
    Betty made a dismissive noise. “That’s rather fanciful. The mare probably saw a snake or was bitten by one of those giant horseflies.”
    “Big as hummingbirds,” Phoebe said with a shudder. “That’s why the garden’s full of lavender, bay leaves, and tansy. Keeps the flies away.”
    “Is that also why you have so many pinwheels?” Eloise asked.
    Phoebe nodded. “The art I display out front features types of kinetic sculptures. You know I keep the naughty stuff behind the shop.”
    A wave of laughter swept through the kitchen. Phoebe’s “back garden” statues were well known throughout Storyton and beloved by all the Cover Girls. Crafted by Phoebe, these sculptures were made of everyday objects such as bottle caps, tin cans, vinyl records, road signs, wire, buttons, and cooking utensils. Each one featured a woman reading. The ladies were as big as giantesses and more voluptuous than Peter Paul Rubens’s Venus. Jane loved their auras of repose. One woman lay on her belly with a book propped open on her palms. Another was sprawled sideways in a chair, a book resting against her ample thighs, while a third was flat on her back, asleep, a hardcover splayed across her mountainous breasts. Like her bibliophile sisters, the dozing reader was completely nude.
    There were seven altogether, forming their own little book club behind the Canvas Creamery. Phoebe’s “Book Junkie” sculptures had been photographed by most of Storyton’s guests, and occasionally, she sold one for a ridiculous sum of money to a besotted tourist. Whenever that happened, Phoebe would round up the Cover Girls and they’d all take a ride to a salvage yard to help her choose treasures for the next sculpture. Phoebe was a superstitious woman who felt that the number seven was truly lucky. There had to be seven women in her garden and seven flavors of frozen custard in the shop. Even the toppings she offered were multiples of seven. The last time Fitz and Hem counted, there’d been twenty-one types of candy and thirty-five charcoal sketches hanging on the wall.
    “What about Doc Lydgate?” Anna asked Mrs. Pratt. “Didn’t the coroner get back to him? Enlighten him as to the cause of death? Or mention that she wasn’t