WHEN I ENTERED the office on Monday, the first day of the new month, its uneasy atmosphere was like a tangible entity. The enthusiasm over the success of the festival was blighted by Melissa’s murder, and my coworkers were unusually listless.
Instead of hunkering down to work at our desks, we hung about the coffee room, hugging our mugs as we dissected the events of the weekend. Zach paced back and forth while Flora and Vicky dipped their tea bags in and out of their cups in tandem. As conversation lulled, Jude pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and stood.
“I need to get to work. I’m sending out an offer of representation this morning.” Without further elaboration he strode out of the room.
Vicky dangled her tea bag over her cup before dropping it into the trash. “I, too, must tick some items off my list,” she said. “There are numerous wrap-up tasks from the weekend cluttering my desk, including sorting through the scores of photos I took and entering the number of people who preregistered for next year’s festival in my database.”
Following Jude and Vicky’s lead, the rest of us headed for the door. There was a stack of proposals waiting for me, and the manuscripts I’d intended to work on at the festival still needed to be read. Before tackling those, however, I intended to research Ruben Felden, the editor at Melissa’s publishing house, and try to discover the identity of the mysterious green-eyed woman.
There were not many steps from the coffee room to our respective offices, yet before any of us could get through the doors, Bentley appeared in the hall, wearing an elegantly tailored teal suit. I marveled that she’d managed to find shoes in the exact same color.
“Good morning, people,” she began in a commanding voice. “It is unfortunate that the untimely demise of Melissa Plume has tainted an otherwise successful venture for this agency; nevertheless, the book festival was a job well done. Congratulations to you all.” She cleared her throat. “Today is a new day and we must get back to business. Vicky, set up a meeting to fit everyone’s schedule in order to do a postfestival assessment. And people, bring notes, comments, and suggestions.” With that pronouncement she walked into her office.
I hurried after her, having been struck with a sudden inspiration. Bentley had many contacts in the publishing world. Perhaps she knew Ruben Felden, and may even have had dealings with him. If that were the case, Bentley might be able to help, and I could focus on finding the woman Makayla saw arguing with Melissa.
“Excuse me, Bentley,” I called after her.
She turned at the threshold to her office. “Yes, Lila?”
“I wanted to ask you about an editor.”
“Come in, then.” She placed her briefcase on the desk, casting a mirror image of the attaché on its glass surface. Sunlight from the arched window shimmered on the chrome and glass in the office, warming the crispness of her Ansel Adams–inspired décor. She waved her hand at the chair opposite the desk as she sat down.
I perched on the edge of the seat. “Do you know an editor by the name of Ruben Felden?”
“I’ve worked with his publishing house but have never dealt with him directly. Why do you ask?” Abruptly she sat forward. “Ah, that’s Melissa Plume’s publishing house. Is this related to what happened to her? Do you have some reason to believe Felden is involved?”
“I’m not sure. I believe he’s what the police call a person of interest. Apparently he bears some kind of serious grudge against Melissa. I was planning to see if he could have been in Inspiration Valley this weekend, but then I thought about the connections you have and—”
“Say no more.” Bentley stretched her palm out to me in the universal sign for stop. “I’ll reach out to my contacts and get a complete dossier on Felden. If he had anything to do with staining my agency’s reputation, he will answer for it.”
“Let’s not forget about seeking justice for Melissa Plume,” I added.
“Of course.” Bentley put her diamond-studded reading glasses on her nose and opened her laptop.
Obviously dismissed, I ventured into my own office and sank into the leather desk chair. I’d redecorated when I was promoted to agent, and this comfy seat was one of the first purchases I made. It was the perfect place to read, to type on the computer, to build up an author’s hopes or possibly shatter their dreams. At this moment, however, I wasn’t considering an author who had queried me, but rather one who had caused trouble—possibly of the fatal kind—for Melissa Plume. How could I find out more about the green-eyed, freckled woman? Had the police gotten any leads from the witnesses to the argument?
I punched in Sean’s number on my cell phone, feeling only a slight twinge of guilt about interrupting him, and a shade more for ignoring the work on my desk.
“Hi, Sean,” I jumped in as soon as he said hello. “Sorry to bother you when you’re at work, but I was wondering if you found out anything more about the angry woman writer.”
“You’re not bothering me, Lila, although I can only talk for a minute.” Sean sighed into the phone. “You’re supposed to leave the investigating to us, remember?”
“I know, but I can’t stop thinking about Melissa and her poor husband and son. I just want to help.”
His tone softened. “You have a good heart. I can tell you that the witnesses we interviewed last night gave us no more information than Makayla did about that woman. We’re currently interviewing Ms. Plume’s list of clients to see if we can identify her.”
“Is Mr. Delaney still in Inspiration Valley?” A nugget of an idea was growing in my mind. Perhaps Melissa’s husband would know who the disgruntled author might be.
“Yes, he’s still in town and is staying at the Magnolia B and B until he’s able to make arrangements to ship his wife’s…body…home.”
Sadness squeezed my heart as I considered how difficult these few days must be for the bereaved Mr. Delaney. “I’d better let you go, Sean. Thanks for sharing the information.”
After hanging up, I pondered how I could tactfully question Melissa’s husband when the grief from his loss was so raw. Then it dawned on me—food. Food provided comfort, bridged gaps, and healed hurts. I’d bring him lunch.
Having made that decision, I managed to get a couple of hours of work done, struggling to stay focused while reading a manuscript about a romance and murder on a cruise ship, but getting through it nonetheless. At half past eleven, I phoned Stella, the proprietor of Magnolia Bed and Breakfast, to find out if Mr. Delaney was there.
“He sure is, hon,” she declared. “Poor man. Spends hours just sitting on the porch and looking out at the front gate. I think he’s hoping against hope that his wife is going to walk up that path. Bless his heart.”
Upon hearing this, I wasted no time in getting to Catcher in the Rye. While waiting in line, I perused the menu on the board, trying to decide which sandwich would best give the message of comfort and support. The Pavarotti—Genoa salami, prosciutto, provolone, and roasted red peppers on toasted Italian—seemed a bit too intense. I briefly considered the Van Gogh—turkey, sliced Brie, and apples with honey mustard on a French baguette—but decided that the tanginess of the apples combined with the creaminess of the Brie and the bite of the mustard wasn’t homey enough. Then I spotted the Mother Hubbard—a grilled ham and cheese on whole wheat—and I knew I’d found the right one.
When I paid for my order, the cashier handed me a card with the name Elizabeth Bennet. One of the delights of patronizing Big Ed’s sandwich shop was seeing which fictional character I’d be assigned. Sometimes they weren’t flattering and I’d sneak up to the pick-up counter in shame when Big Ed bellowed, “Miss Havisham” or “Nurse Ratched.” I groaned aloud the day I’d received a card reading, MEDUSA, in bold block letters.
“Thanks,” I told the cashier with a smile. “Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite novels.”
I mused over Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy’s happy ending as I watched Big Ed slather grainy mustard on a sandwich. Wrapping it in wax paper, he shouted, “FRODO!”<
br />
A tiny gray-haired woman wearing a pink tracksuit stepped forward and reached up to toss the card with her fantasy identity into the basket on the counter. “Thanks, Ed,” she said, taking the bag he held out. “I hope you were heavy on the mustard.”
“You betcha, Winnie. The zing in that sandwich will have you zipping all the way to your Curiosity Shop.” The portly sandwich maker winked at me. “And how are you today, Mizz Bennet?”
“I am well, good sir,” I said in a formal British accent. “Pondering romance, as usual. Speaking of which, did you get a chance to talk to Nell at the festival this weekend? Her bakery kiosk was right next to yours.”
Big Ed blushed, his plump cheeks flushing a dark shade of red. “No, we were too busy. Folks lined up all day long.” He busied himself with preparing my sandwich order. “I’ll ask her out on a proper date when I’m ready.”
Watching Big Ed, I wondered why he didn’t just let Nell know how he felt about her. If I’d learned anything over the past weekend it was that people don’t always know how much time they have together. Logan Delaney had no idea that when he’d said good-bye to his wife as she left for the book festival, he’d never see her again. What words might he have spoken if he’d known?
I grabbed Big Ed’s arm and, quoting Jane Austen, implored, “‘Why not seize the pleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!’”
He stared at me in astonishment as he handed me my lunch, and then, seeing that my line was delivered in all seriousness, he paused to consider my words.
“You’re right.” He nodded solemnly. “I’ve wasted enough time makin’ up excuses. It’s been easier to love her from a distance. There’s no risk in that, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to love her up close and personal. Like Ms. Austen suggests, I’m ready to seize me some pleasure.”
Chapter 8
I SAW LOGAN DELANEY BEFORE HE SAW ME. THEN AGAIN, I’m not sure he was seeing much of anything. Stella hadn’t been exaggerating when she said that the grieving husband hadn’t moved from the B and B’s front porch. Despite the chill in the air, he was seated in a rocking chair in the far corner, dressed in a wrinkled button-down shirt and jeans. Even as I passed through the gate at the end of the brick path leading up to the porch, Logan just rocked and stared, his gaze passing through me as if I were a ghost.
Walking softly, as though a loud footfall would spook him, I maneuvered around an enormous urn overflowing with mums, pansies, and trailing ivy and took the chair next to his. A small glass table separated the two rockers, and I set the bag from Catcher in the Rye on its surface and unpacked Logan’s lunch. I spread out a napkin to serve as a placemat, peeled back the paper from the grilled ham and cheese, and opened a bag of potato chips. I then twisted off the cap from a bottle of water and cleared my throat.
“Mr. Delaney, I’m Lila Wilkins.” I willed him to look at me, but he didn’t move a muscle. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I met Melissa this past weekend and I thought she was lovely. I liked her from the get-go.”
There was a twitch of Logan’s mouth, as if the mention of his wife’s name had the power to lift him from a near-catatonic state.
“I know there’s not much anyone can offer you by way of comfort, but I wanted to tell you that she seemed like a woman who was happy with her life. She was full of laughter and quick-witted remarks and she inspired all the writers who were lucky enough to hear her speak.”
Logan’s rocker fell silent. He turned and swallowed hard, finally letting his eyes drift over my face. “You could be her sister,” he whispered, his voice scratchy and raw.
I nodded. “Except that she was younger and more stylish than me. And I didn’t know her well, but I know she loved you and she loved Silas.”
Hearing his son’s name, Logan’s stiff posture collapsed. “How will I tell him?” he croaked. “What kind of life will he have without her? She was a wonderful mother. And my best friend. Silas and I…we adored her. I can’t go on without her.” He took a shaky breath. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will,” I assured him. “And you’ll start by eating this lunch. You and I are going to be part of a larger team working to find the person who did this to her. After that, you’ll head home and hold Silas in your arms for a really long time.”
Logan looked at the food blankly. “I’m not hungry.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re numb all over. You want to be beyond feeling hunger and cold because she is. But you can’t, Logan.” I spoke as gently as I could. “Silas needs you.” I reached over, drew one of Logan’s hands to the table, and placed half a sandwich on his palm. I slowly closed his fingers over the sandwich. “Take one bite. That’s all I ask. And in exchange I’ll tell you what it’s like to raise a child alone.”
Logan lifted the food to his mouth, but his lips refused to part.
“Think of your son and eat.”
I could see that Logan was on the brink of something. If he relented and took a bite, he’d be sacrificing the cocoon of denial he’d wrapped around himself. The agony would wash over him in wave after wave and he’d have no defense against the searing grief.
A tear rolled down his cheek as he opened his mouth, tore off a hunk of sandwich, and began to chew.
It was all I could do not to break down and cry, but I steeled myself and began to talk. “Trey was about Silas’s age when my husband walked out. He’d had an affair, I’d caught him in the act, and he decided that his best course of action was to clean out our bank accounts and disappear.”
Logan had already eaten half of the sandwich. His right hand grasped the water bottle and he drank deeply.
“We never saw him again, and not only did I have to explain to Trey that he suddenly had no father, but I had to hold myself together in order for my son to feel safe and secure.” I sighed. It was still unpleasant to think back on those first six months of single parenthood. “Trey had nightmares for a whole year after that. He acted out. He broke things and tested limits and cried when he thought no one was looking.”
Starting in on the second half of his sandwich, Logan met my eyes and nodded. He was taking in every word.
“It won’t be easy,” I told him honestly. “You’ll want to hide in your room and sob, but you can’t. Not until Silas is in bed asleep. You’ll want to drink too much and eat too little. Stay inside on the most beautiful, sunny days. But you can’t. You need to take Silas to the park and out for ice cream and to a grief counselor. And you’ll discover that by living for your son, by getting up every morning and making him pancakes or eggs, by pouring him orange juice, and by packing his lunch for school, that you want to live.” I smiled. “All along you’ll think that you’re saving your son, but in truth, your son will be saving you.”
Logan had polished off his entire lunch. His cheeks weren’t quite as drawn and his eyes were much more focused and alert. “Could I contact you for help? It sounds like you know what’s around the corner for Silas and me.”
“Call or email anytime.” I handed him my business card. “And I didn’t come just to bring you a sandwich. I want to help the authorities track down the monster who did this to Melissa.” I paused, wondering if Logan was ready to field questions. “I heard that you also work in the publishing industry. Were you and Melissa with the same company?”
“No. I work for a much smaller house. We put out textbooks and books printed specifically for libraries.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Of the two of us, Melissa definitely had the more exciting job.”
He’d given me the perfect segue. “Did she talk to you about her authors?”
“Sure. Melissa and I always tucked Silas into bed and then we’d go back to the kitchen and have a glass of wine and talk.” His fingers trembled and he laced them tightly together. “It was my favorite time of the day.”
It might seem callous, but I ignored his anguish and continued. “There was a woman at the book fes
tival, an author, who was seen arguing with Melissa. She may have even threatened your wife. This woman had green eyes and was heavily freckled and rather busty. She was very angry and it seemed as though she and your wife knew each other.”
“What a piece of work,” Logan said with disapproval. “Her name’s Coralee Silver and she’s one of Melissa’s paranormal authors. Melissa’s focus has always been on books about family. Whether the family was insanely dysfunctional, living on a remote island, comprised of same-sex parents, or made up of vampires, it didn’t matter to my wife. She was always on the lookout for a well-written story about what makes a family and what holds one together through life’s peaks and valleys.”
“And Coralee wrote such a tale?”
He nodded. “Yes. The manuscript Melissa purchased was about two Wiccans raising an abandoned werewolf cub. I know that sounds crazy, but it was a cool story. Melissa used to read me chapters from some of her authors’ books while we drank wine after dinner.” A shadow crossed his face, but he mustered up the courage to continue. “During the last round of revisions, Coralee added a bunch of really violent scenes to the novel. They were way too graphic for the target audience and Melissa insisted she remove them. Coralee wouldn’t budge. She claimed that the blood and gore was an important part of the Wiccan/werewolf family bonding process and that Melissa was trying to stifle her creativity.”
“That’s it?” I was shocked. “Melissa merely asked Coralee to remove a few scenes to ensure the book was saleable and Coralee wouldn’t do it? Wow. I guess the situation had escalated by the time the two met here at the festival.”
“I imagine so, because Melissa repeatedly warned Coralee that she was in breach of contract. The deadline had come and gone and Coralee refused to alter the manuscript, so right before Melissa left New York for here, she told Coralee the deal was off. The contract was canceled and my wife put the project out of her mind.”
Every Trick in the Book Page 11