Off the Books

by Lucy Arlington

  Cora nodded, but still headed off, I assumed to talk to the Hammer Man. I stood and pushed in my chair, resisting the urge to grab another roll for the road, and started following Bentley toward the door. At the last minute, she turned back to the table of authors and donned her business face. “Please know that every single agent at Novel Idea is here to assist you in any way—”

  A metallic jingling sound interrupted the start of her spiel. We turned to see Cora leading a handsome middle-aged man our way. He was clad in jeans and a fitted T-shirt and wore a leather tool belt strapped around his waist. As he approached, his friendly smile faded and his eyes narrowed. I turned to see the object of his sudden switch in attitude and saw Lynn staring back with a wide-eyed expression. “Chuck?” she said, a slight tremble to her lower lip.

  “Hello, Lynn. It’s been a while.”

  My head ping-ponged between the two of them. This must be someone Lynn knew from when she lived in the area, but judging from the look on her face, she certainly wasn’t happy to see the guy.

  “Oh, so you two already know each other,” Cora gushed. “Everyone else, this is Chuck Richards. Chuck’s helping me redo the butler’s pantry. It’s one of those projects I never got to when I renovated the rest of the kitchen.” She swept her hand around the room’s antique white cabinetry, granite counters, and state-of-the-art appliances with pride. Who could blame her? She’d done a marvelous job updating, while still maintaining much of the original integrity of the room. Her expression suddenly sobered. “But I am so sorry for the timing. I just hate it that everyone has to endure the noisiness. But Chuck was supposed to have started a couple of days before you all arrived. And”—she offered an apologetic shrug to us while tipping her head at him—“he promised the project wouldn’t take more than a day, two tops.”

  Chuck shook his head. “I never promise. I estimate. And my previous job took longer than expected. And, actually, it’s looking like yours will now take two or three days.” He raised his palms upward. “Sorry, ladies, but you’ll just have to put up with the noise a little longer.”

  Bentley eyed him pointedly. “I tell you what … uh, Chuck. The authors will be out this afternoon at a meeting, so you can make all the noise you want then. But it just won’t do to have them constantly disturbed by this racket for the next couple of days. They’ll need to be well rested and on top of their game for all the events. You could work out a schedule over, say, the next four days around their events so that—”

  “I don’t really have time to work out a schedule around your events,” Chuck said, folding his arms across his chest and leveling his gaze on Bentley. “I’ve got other jobs this week and I’m trying to wrap things up because I’ve got a trip planned.” He sighed. “And last week, I took on a contract to do maintenance for the Arts Center. I’m a busy man.”

  Bentley cast a furtive look Cora’s way. “Can’t this project wait for a while?”

  Chuck shifted and gave her a hard glare. I knew Bentley was just being … well, Bentley. She knew no boundaries when it came to making things right for her authors and probably didn’t realize how officious her comments were sounding. Or, maybe she did. It would be just like Bentley to think she could change the handyman’s and Cora’s schedules to better suit her authors.

  Cora answered with a shake of her head. “I’m afraid I’m booked solid for the next two months. I wouldn’t know when to get it done.”

  Bentley drew in her breath and took a step forward. As quickly as I could, I stepped in and grabbed hold of her arm, while glancing at my watch. “You wanted to stop by the Arts Center to check on the other agents’ progress before heading over to the pub for the meeting, right?” It would be prudent to get her out of there before she said something even more offensive. I gently coaxed her away from Chuck before she could even switch gears to answer me. “Thank you for the tea, Cora. No need to see us out. We can manage just fine.” I cast a waning smile at Chuck as we passed by on our way to the front hall closet to retrieve our coats.

  Bundled up and back outside again, Bentley turned to me. “Why’d you usher me out like that, Lila? I had something more I wanted to say to that arrogant jerk in there.”

  No doubt. But telling her that she couldn’t boss around someone else’s hired help would only aggravate the situation. So instead I said, “With this snow and all, I know you didn’t want to be late to the Arts Center, right?”

  Bentley stood a little straighter. “Absolutely.”

  “Then we’d better get a move on.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Bentley relented. “Besides, if a little extra noise is the only problem we have this week, then we’ll be in good shape.”

  Chapter 2

  By one o’clock that afternoon we were gathered in the James Joyce Pub, a cozy, wood-paneled bar and grill located just down the street from the agency. The other agents and I often came here for business lunches, finding it easier to hash out contract details or divvy up assignments for upcoming author events over a pitcher of ale and a hearty bowl of Irish stew.

  Today, I was seated at a table with my friend and fellow agent Flora Merriweather, who was raving about the shepherd’s pie. “You should really try this, Lila. The crust is just so flaky, and the meat …” She took a quick bite and rolled her eyes. “Mmm … so tender.”

  Next to her, Jodi nodded in agreement. “It is divine. Does everyone in this town cook this well? The rolls Cora served with tea this morning were out of this world.”

  “I’d say,” agreed Pam. “If I keep eating like this, I’m not going to fit into my jeans by the end of the week.”

  I squinted at her slim figure and sighed, wondering if she seriously ever had to worry about her weight. “I believe Cora orders those from the Sixpence Bakery. Nell, the owner, makes wonderful baked goods. But Cora is a good cook in her own right; she’s …” My voice trailed off as I noticed that Lynn was only picking at her food. She’d hardly said a word since we’d arrived. “Is your food okay, Lynn?”

  Her head popped up. “What?” Then, noticing that everyone was staring, she sighed and put down her fork. “I’m sorry to be such a downer. I have something on my mind, that’s all.”

  I wanted to ask if that something, or rather someone, was the handyman whom she’d seemed to recognize earlier that morning, but Bentley’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me. If I can have your attention, please. Welcome, authors, to Inspiration Valley and to Novel Idea’s exclusive event, Booked for a Wedding. I’m proud to announce that, thanks to my hardworking agents, this week’s events are completely sold out!”

  A round of applause erupted across the room. Bentley glanced over the rims of her bejeweled reading glasses and signaled toward our sports and screenplay agent, Zach Cohen, who stood and scooped up a thick stack of papers. “I’m sending around an itinerary of this week’s events,” Bentley continued. “Please take note of your assignments.”

  I smiled and accepted my copy of the itinerary from Zach and glanced over the schedule. The sheer number of vendor booths and events scheduled for this week was dizzying. Thank goodness, the other agents and I had been able to convince Bentley to bring in an expert organization to help us coordinate this venture. Not that convincing Bentley was an easy task. True to her nature, she’d wanted the agency to take on the entire expo alone, but after a lot of arguing, and a threatened mutiny, Bentley wised up and hired Southern Belles Bridal Company, a professional wedding exposition group out of Raleigh. Their people brought with them their own nationally based exhibitors and a professional setup team to help transform the Marlette Robbins Center into a professional venue. However, the best part of the package was the ability to add our own local flavor to the event. In addition to the plethora of national vendors and keynote speakers, Southern Belles Bridal sent one of their reps, Ms. Lambert, to act as a local liaison for our own business community.

  As if on cue, the pub’s door swung open and Ms. Lambert rushed in on a wintery blast of cold air, brushing sn
ow from the faux-fur trim of her maxi coat. She shot Bentley an apologetic look and immediately headed for an empty chair at the head table. Jude Hudson, our agent representing thrillers and quite the lady thriller himself, immediately stood and pulled out her chair.

  Bentley cleared her throat and continued, “Tomorrow is opening day and will commence with a meet and greet reception. There will be vendor booths set up throughout the Arts Center. We’ll also have a table near the entrance stocked with your books for customers to purchase. Each one of you will have your own table, which our agents have already set up with everything you’ll need to sign books as well as plenty of promotional materials to hand out to prospective readers. Remember, people, this is your chance to connect with your readers and sell your books.” She paused for a second to shuffle papers. “In the queue for tomorrow’s schedule is a reading from renowned author and local psychologist Dr. Sloan Meyers. She’ll be reading from her blockbuster hit, Strong Women: Strong Marriages.”

  Everyone began clapping, their eyes drawn to the table where Dr. Meyers sat with Franklin Stafford, our nonfiction agent. He had several authors to keep track of this week, including a popular author of wedding craft books and a woman who’d written a top seller about budget-friendly weddings.

  Bentley adjusted her glasses and continued, “Then, on Tuesday night, the main attraction will be our display of unique wedding cake creations from both local and statewide bakers.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” All eyes turned to Ms. Lambert, who’d stood and was now addressing the room in her sweet southern drawl. “And everyone in attendance will have a chance to taste these marvelous creations, too.”

  Bentley took a couple of steps forward, removed her readers, and leveled her gaze on the woman. “Thank you, Ms. Lambert,” she said tightly. “Everyone, this is Ms. Trudy Lambert. She’s the local coordinator from Southern Belles Bridal Company. Her organization is responsible for the wonderful setup you’ll see later at the Marlette Robbins Center for Fine Arts.” Bentley paused politely while everyone clapped for Ms. Lambert. “And right before the cake display and tasting”—she nodded toward the coordinator, who took the hint and sat back down—“patrons will be treated to a reading from one of our newest clients, Lynn Werner.” Bentley pointed our way. “Ms. Werner is a promising writer of cozy mysteries. We thought her reading would appropriately accompany Tuesday’s cake theme, since the murder victim in her mystery was found facedown in a wedding cake.”

  A chorus of spirited laughter broke across the room along with an enthusiastic round of clapping. Poor Lynn, not used to so much attention, shrank back in her chair, her face flushing. But she didn’t have to endure the scrutiny for long, because a series of sharp yaps and high-pitched whimpers sounded from the other side of the pub’s front door. Zach hurried over to investigate, opening the door and allowing a little brown and white dog to dart inside.

  “Zach!” Bentley started to admonish, but stopped when the dog came to her side and pawed at her legs, whimpering and shivering. I held my breath, thinking surely Bentley would be upset that the pooch was pawing her designer trousers, but instead my usually fastidious boss bent over and rubbed her hand between the dog’s fluffy ears. “Well, who do we have here?” she cooed. And then, “Oh my goodness, you’re so cold. You poor thing.” I watched in amazement as she squatted down lower, repositioned her readers on her nose, and leaned in to examine the dog’s ID tag. “Olive. What a cute name.”

  Olive? That sounded familiar. Then I remembered that I’d seen this dog last summer at the pet shop down the street. Of course, it was just a puppy then, but how many Cavalier King Charles spaniels named Olive could there be in this town?

  “Lila!” Bentley called out. “Go find this cutie pie’s owner. This sweet little thing shouldn’t be out in this snowy weather. We’ll keep her here until you get back.”

  Cutie pie? Sweet little thing? That was a shocker. Bentley never used endearments. Who’d have thought our can’t-keep-a-houseplant-watered, all-business boss would ever have a soft spot for animals? And a dog inside a restaurant? I wasn’t sure how that was going to go over with the James Joyce Pub people. I shot a furtive glance at Flora, but she simply shrugged and offered to have the waitress keep my plate warm for me. So I slipped back into my coat and headed out in search of the dog’s owner.

  *

  MY BREATH CAME out in sharp white bursts as I made my way up and down High Street, searching for anyone who might have lost a dog. I wasn’t having much luck. Determined, though, I continued walking, passing by Sherlock Holmes Realty and the Sixpence Bakery. When I reached the corner, I decided to cut through the town’s small center park, pausing for a second to admire the Nine Muses fountain. Even though the water had been drained in anticipation of colder weather, the fountain, with its nine beautiful goddesses, was still awe-inspiring. Today, the goddesses seemed to have dressed for the weather, the snow making it appear like they were wearing white shawls and fluffy caps.

  Then, as I gazed in wonderment, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud, causing the snow to sparkle like diamonds. Like magic, their shawls and caps were transformed into dazzling sequined attire, fit for a wedding party. I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to visions of my own dazzling yet-to-be-chosen wedding gown—maybe I’d find the perfect one this week! Along with my work duties, I hoped to get a lot of personal wedding planning done with my best friend and our local barista, Makayla. To our delight, we’d both become engaged just last summer. Which made planning our weddings double the fun.

  On an impulse, I opened my cell and called my fiancé, Detective Sean Griffiths. I apologized for calling him at work, but he said he was glad to take a break from his paperwork. He was immediately concerned whether I was calling because of still feeling blue. Ever since Christmas break ended and my son, Trey, had headed back to UNC Wilmington, I’d been a bit in the dumps. “If you’re thinking about Trey, don’t worry, Lila. I’m sure he’s doing fine. Besides, it’ll be spring break before you know it and then he’ll be back and eating you out of house and home.”

  I laughed. So true. Trey had recently developed an interest in cooking, and his new hobby had taken its toll on my food budget. “Actually,” I said, “Bentley’s got us all hopping enough that I haven’t had time to worry as much about Trey.” Then I told Sean about my hunt for the wayward dog’s owner, and he suggested calling the pet store, where I’d seen what I thought might be the same puppy last summer. If it was the same dog, they might have records on the buyer.

  But I didn’t need to call. I glanced across the street and noticed the lights were on at All Creatures, Feathered and Furry. The store wasn’t usually open on Sundays, but it looked like the owner, Matt, might be in doing a little extra work.

  “Hello, Matt?” I called out, entering through the shop’s main door. The place appeared to be empty. “Matt?”

  Somewhere in the back of the store I heard a soft swishing noise. I made my way down the cat toy aisle, my eyes catching here and there on new little treats I’d love to buy for Eliot, an orphaned cat our office manager, Vicky, had introduced to the agency last summer. “Matt?” I called out again. “It’s Lila.”

  “I’m back here,” he answered.

  I finally found him in the back corner of the store near the puppy and kitty area. He was stooped over sweeping up water and broken glass. Pieces of splintered wood and sea coral littered the floor around him. “Oh no! What happened?”

  He stopped sweeping and glared up at me. My stomach gave a little lurch. With his larger-than-a-linebacker size, Matt was an imposing figure under any circumstances, but I’d never seen him look angry before. It was more than a little intimidating. “I’ll tell you what happened. That menacing little mutt killed half my fish. Look at all this damage! Do you know how much this setup cost me?”

  “Olive?” I asked, my eyes roaming to what must have been a very large saltwater aquarium. It looked like the stand had been tipped over. “You think Olive did this?
”

  “Well, what should I think? I’d just come by to check on a few things and when I opened the door that dog shot out of here like a bat out of hell. Come over here,” he said, leading me to the area where he kept puppies. “Look at this.”

  I’d always liked the way Matt set up his shop. He housed only a few animals at a time, all of them “last chance” animals brought in from shelters across the state. He kept the dogs in a large, open pen where they could trot around and play together. “I’ve only got one cat and two other dogs right now. They’ve been going home with me in the evenings and on the weekends, but Olive …” His voice trailed off as he shook his head and pointed down at the doorframe, which looked like it’d been attacked by a shark. “That darn dog’s chewed it to the point where I can’t even get the door to shut anymore. That dog’s such a pain in the—”

  “I’m sorry, Matt. This looks like a huge mess. It’s hard to believe that one little dog could do this much damage.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t even know the half of it. You should see what she did to our house last time I took her home. My wife is still upset about it. You know, I’m glad that dog is gone. For all I care, she can fend for herself out there on the streets!”

  I had to keep from laughing at the absurdity of this statement. When I first met Matt I was taken aback, alarmed even, by his imposing physical stature, immediately thinking of Lennie Small, Steinbeck’s lumbering character in Of Mice and Men. Not a good thing, since Lennie often killed the animals in his care. But as I’d come to know Matt, especially the uncanny rapport he had with the animals in his store, I’d begun to think of him more like Lofting’s Dr. Dolittle. Admittedly, I sometimes caught myself wondering if Matt actually did possess a secret ability to talk to animals. But one thing I knew for sure: He cared. He cared for every animal he ever came across, and Olive was no exception.

  “Oh, is that so?” I bantered back. “Are you sure you don’t care about what’s happened to her?”