Every Trick in the Book

by Lucy Arlington

  Thanking her for the coffee and the understanding, I examined a few phone messages. Most were from members of the media. I balled them up and tossed them in the garbage. “I plan to read an entire manuscript by lunchtime,” I said to Vicky. “It was rewarding to help the police, but I belong here.” I booted up my computer and was pleased to find T. J. West’s manuscript waiting in my email inbox. I opened the file and hit the print button. Pointing at the document pages that quickly began to pile up in my printer tray, I said, “This is what fulfills me. And I’ve been distracted from my work for too long.”

  Vicky, who’d probably never been diverted from a task her entire life, nodded in approval. “I’ll see to it that no one disturbs you. We have a staff meeting at one, and Bentley was very clear that no one was to eat lunch before that time.”

  A little perplexed by my boss’s order, I grinned at Vicky and promised not to sneak to Catcher in the Rye for a sandwich or have a large pepperoni pizza delivered on the sly. Then I settled down at my desk, read through a dozen emails, and picked up T. J. West’s manuscript. Seven chapters later I sighed with contentment. Not only did I love the book, but West’s charming characters and bucolic setting had also allowed me to put aside all thoughts of Justyn or Jasper. I sipped my latte, read, and welcomed the feeling that I had made it through a dark and ugly time and could look forward to a calm, peaceful winter.

  West’s book concluded with a festive Thanksgiving scene, and I realized that I’d soon be celebrating the same holiday in my new home. While pulling up West’s contact information on my computer, I imagined the people I hoped to see at my table. Trey, my mother, Sean, Makayla, and Iris, too. Just picturing their faces as I entered the dining room carrying a behemoth turkey made my heart flood with warmth. I dialed West’s number to offer him representation and knew that I had much to be thankful for.

  “LILA!” ZACH BURST into my office seconds after I’d finished talking to an ecstatic T. J. West aka Thomas Jefferson Wipple.

  “Do you have a low-key setting, Zach?” I teased. “You’re always so revved up.”

  Zach looked confused by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be? I have the coolest job ever, I’m single, I’m good-looking, and women find me irresistible!”

  “Must be that incredible modesty that draws them to you.” I laughed. “Are you here to make sure I’m not late for the meeting?”

  He flopped into the chair on the other side of my desk. “Guess again! Actually, don’t guess. We don’t have time for that. I wanted to tell you that not one, not two, but three studios are bidding on the rights to the first book in Calliope’s new series. I fielded the calls this morning. I hope that’s okay, seeing as she’s your client.”

  My mouth hung open. I’d only been a literary agent for a couple of months and I’d never dreamed that someone I represented might have their work turned into a movie or television show.

  “I’m glad you did. After all, aren’t you Mr. Hollywood?”

  Zach puffed out his chest importantly. “I sure am. We’ll split the commission on any sales to film studios. Lady, you might be trading in that scooter for a sweeter ride. I could see you tearing down the road in a convertible Vette. A yellow one.”

  I shook my head. “That’s your style, Mr. Hollywood. I love my scooter and I’ll borrow my mother’s truck when I want to go on a long-distance drive.”

  My comment piqued Zach’s interest. “And who will you be visiting? Someone special?” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Yes,” I said, gathering a pen and notebook in preparation for the staff meeting. “My son. Come January, he’ll be a college freshman.”

  Zach leapt out of his seat and waited for me to leave the room before following. “Hey! Trey could write a book about his experiences on Red Fox Mountain. I could totally sell it to a TV studio. Impressionable kid corrupted by drug-dealing hippie, et cetera, et cetera. If I had a screenplay of those events, I’d be fighting off producers with a stick. Especially since the leader escaped.”

  I halted just outside the conference room. “Not a chance, Zach. Trey needs to look ahead. Maybe Jasper would like to pen an autobiography. You could stop by the jail and ask him. Franklin could be his agent and you could sell the film rights. It’s a win-win.”

  Completely missing the note of sarcasm in my voice, Zach’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “You are so brilliant.” And with that, he bounded down the corridor and into Franklin’s office. Without knocking, of course.

  In the conference room, everyone was already seated around the table, except Zach, who darted in behind me and plunked himself into a chair. As soon as they noticed me, the chatter in the room stopped, and as if by mutual arrangement, Franklin, Flora, and Jude jumped up and threw their arms around me.

  Bentley peered over her diamond-studded glasses and smiled. “Lila, I appreciate that you’re here today, considering.”

  “We are so glad you’re okay,” Flora exclaimed, enfolding me in an embrace. “We heard all about what happened over the weekend.”

  “Yes, we understand you’re quite the hero,” Franklin said. “Tracking down the murderer of Melissa Plume and Tilly Smythe.”

  Jude pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, milady. I believe you sustained an injury during your adventure.”

  “Thanks.” Grateful to get the weight off my leg, I sat down. “But how did you find out?”

  “I heard a news report on the radio when I drove in this morning,” Zach replied, “but we got the important details from our own Miss Vicky.”

  “I thought they should know,” Vicky said, sitting perpendicular to Bentley, ramrod straight with her hands clasped on the table. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  I shook my head. “No, not at all.”

  As Franklin returned to his chair, he asked, “Lila, do you know what prompted that young man to murder those two women? I can’t imagine.”

  As succinctly as possible, I summarized the connections between Tilly, Melissa, and Justyn.

  “Well,” Vicky said, “his actions are quite a commentary on the societal issues of drugs and unwed mothers and the foster care system.”

  “Some young people make mistakes that can end up having a dramatic impact on others. They don’t mean to be hurtful; they’re just immature and foolish.” Flora lowered herself to her seat. “I can’t help but think that Justyn Kershaw might not have turned into such a rotten apple if he hadn’t had such a rough start to his life. Such a sad and lonely childhood.”

  “He was a boy who grew into a man who made bad choices,” Jude noted. “One can choose to have their past dictate their future or leave it behind to set a new course for their life. Justyn used his past as an excuse to do wrong.”

  “He’s not the only bad guy Lila helped bring down.” Zach clicked his pen several times. “She got that dope-dealing hippie tossed into the slammer, too. Our Lila’s a force to be reckoned with.”

  Bentley cleared her throat. “We are all grateful that Lila’s involvement contributed to making our small part of the world safer, but perhaps we could get the meeting started?”

  We shuffled our chairs to get comfortable and directed our attention to Bentley, who removed her glasses and began. “I called this meeting because I wanted to commend you all on a very favorable few weeks. First on the agenda, I would like to applaud Vicky, who, although she has only been with us a short time, has been running this office with extreme efficiency and flawless professionalism. I can’t imagine how we managed without her.”

  Vicky’s cheeks turned a dark shade of pink, and she blinked behind her glasses as we all clapped our agreement. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m only doing my job, and this is a lovely place to work.” She cast me a sidelong glance. “There’s never a dull moment.”

  Bentley held up her hand. “And we cannot underestimate the success of our first book festival. Not only did our agency benefit from the exposure; I believe we signed three new authors as a direct result of the event. To show my apprec
iation for your hard—”

  A knock on the open door interrupted Bentley. Big Ed walked in carrying a tray containing a mound of sandwiches. “Where should I put this, Ms. Burlington-Duke?” he asked, glancing around the room, obviously eager to divest himself of his burden. He must have struggled to bring it up the stairs.

  Bentley waved her arm in the direction of the credenza against the wall. “Put it there, thank you.”

  I was so busy watching Ed that I had failed to notice Nell enter the room. She was right behind him, encumbered by a large cake box on which was stacked packages of plates, napkins, and cutlery. Ed put the tray down and turned to remove the items from the top of the cake box. Shoulder to shoulder they arranged the lunch buffet and unveiled the cake, a beautifully decorated confection in the shape of a large open book. When they were satisfied with the presentation, their eyes met. It was more than a look of congratulations at a job well done. I could almost see a spark travel between them, and in that moment I knew for certain that Big Ed had finally found the courage to ask Nell out.

  “Will there be anything else?” Ed asked when he pulled his gaze away from Nell.

  “No, thank you,” Bentley said. “It looks wonderful. Now,” she continued once Big Ed and Nell had departed, “as I was saying, to show my appreciation for all your hard work, I am treating you to lunch today.”

  “Woo hoo!” Zach blurted out. “I’m starving.” He pushed himself out of his seat.

  “Before we dig into the food let’s get through the agenda.” Bentley directed a steely look at Zach that caused him to sit back down. She continued by confirming recent signings and sales. Each of us shared our client news, and Vicky explained her new system of tracking statistics for the agency.

  “That about covers all the business items,” Bentley concluded. “Any other concerns or announcements?” She regarded us. We all shook our heads. “Jude and Lila, don’t forget about finding a ghostwriter for Marlette Robbins’s sequel. I know you’ve been busy, but the publisher is getting impatient, so I’d like you to get on that right away.”

  Jude glanced in my direction and nodded. “I think we can find some time to put our heads together,” he said, winking at me.

  “Definitely,” I concurred. This project excited me, and I was eager to focus my attention on book-related tasks, having had my fill of crime fighting.

  “I have one final announcement to make before we indulge in our repast,” said Bentley, perching her glasses on her nose and peering at a sheet of paper. “I am thrilled to announce that the construction of the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts is on schedule and it will open in the spring with a huge celebratory event featuring books and food.” She looked up with a smile. “Two things none of us can live without. Famous chefs will prepare items from their cookbooks in front of an audience, and any big-name authors who feature food in their works will be invited. That’s where we come in. Would anyone be willing to volunteer in coordinating this extraordinary event with the Arts Center staff?”

  I pictured myself standing beside Rachael Ray, helping her prepare Moroccan spiced lamb with a pistachio and mint couscous, and before I realized what I was doing, I had raised my hand.

  “Lila? You have time for this?” At my nod, Bentley quipped, “As long as you’ve given up your unpaid position with the Dunston Police Department, you’ve got the job.”

  The rest of the agents burst out laughing and made their way over to the platter of sandwiches. I held back and watched, savoring this moment. These were my coworkers, my friends. I had my dream job, my son was on a good path, and our world was safe once again. Life was good.

  I helped myself to a Moriarty panini, smiling a little as I took a bite of tender roast beef and potent horseradish. This was as close as I wanted to come to a shady character ever again.

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  AFTER A LONG DAY OF CONTRACT NEGOTIATIONS, PHONE calls to authors and editors, and a meeting with my fellow literary agents, the last thing I expected was to come home to find my kitchen on fire.

  I knew something was wrong the moment I opened the front door. The acrid smell of burning meat assaulted my nostrils and clouds of gray smoke plumed from the kitchen into the hall. I heard a man bark out a string of colorful expletives seconds before the downstairs smoke alarm blared.

  Dropping my purse and briefcase on the floor, I rushed into the kitchen and took in the chaotic scene.

  High flames were rising from a frying pan on the stove top, police officer Sean Griffiths was holding a burning dish towel, and a shower of sparks was spreading over the apron he wore. I quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the pantry, and though I’d never used one of the devices before, I let my instincts guide my hands. Yanking out the metal pin, I aimed the funnel-shaped nozzle and covered my boyfriend, countertops, and stove with a layer of white foam.

  “Are you okay?” I shouted to Sean over the shriek of the alarm.

  He looked down at the smoldering towel in his hands and nodded. “I think so!”

  Now that the flames had been doused I had a chance to really look around my kitchen.

  The table had been set for a romantic dinner for two. I glanced from the lit candles, folded linen napkins, and the vase stuffed with bright pink roses, to the handsome man wearing my apron. It was embroidered with the text All Great Chefs Drink While They Cook. Apparently, he had taken the motto to heart. Not only was there an open bottle of red wine on the table, but a cognac bottle had capsized on the counter next to the stove and had emptied its contents onto the cabinets and floor.

  I set the extinguisher gently on the table and picked up the bottle of wine positioned next to the roses. Eschewing a glass, I raised the bottle to my lips and took several long swallows. In light of the mayhem in my kitchen, I figured that my less-than-impeccable table manners could be excused just this once.

  “I’m so sorry, Lila!” Sean yelled over the alarm and moved to the sink. He dropped the dish towel in the basin, turned the water on, and began to scrub his hands.

  I took another swallow, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and opened the back door. Smoke immediately rushed outside. I darted around the first floor of my little cottage, cracking windows and turning on ceiling fans.

  Mercifully, the alarm ceased its deafening ringing as I made my way back into the kitchen.

  Sean had dumped the dish towel into the garbage can and was now stuffing my ruined apron in there as well.

  I got a bucket and mop from the pantry and then paused for a moment, leaning on the mop handle and surveying the mess. “What happened?”

  With a remorseful expression, Sean gestured at the table. “Today’s our nine-month anniversary, so I thought I’d surprise you with a delicious meal. I even bought a new cookbook from the Constant Reader. It’s supposed to help beginner cooks make gourmet meals that come out looking and tasting like they were made by a professional chef.” He shot a rueful glance at the book propped open near the stove. Its pages were charred and unreadable.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “What was on tonight’s menu?”

  “Chicken flambé,” Sean said. “But I was behind schedule and so I didn’t bother to measure the cognac. As it turned out, pouring liquor directly into the pan was a serious mistake. Cognac dribbled everywhere.” He pointed at the offending bottle. “I had the gas flame set too high and once the alcohol hit…” he trailed off and gave me a sheepish shrug.

  He looked so forlorn that I couldn’t possibly be angry. After all, the only real damage was to the dish towel, apron, and cookbook. The rest of the room could be returned to order in no time. Slipping on a pair of yellow latex cleaning gloves, I joined Sean by the sink.

  “Why don’t you order us takeout from Wild Ginger? Maybe some sesame chicken or beef and brocco
li?” I moved closer, doing my best to avoid the fire extinguisher foam still clinging to his pants, and kissed him on the cheek. “After all, we still have a lovely bottle of wine and I don’t want to waste the candlelight.”

  Sean’s smile of relief was blinding. He cupped my chin in his damp hand and turned my face so that my lips would meet his. “I am a lucky, lucky man,” he murmured and kissed me tenderly.

  A moment later, I wriggled out of his arms to fill the mop bucket with soapy water. “And take your pants off, Officer Griffiths,” I scolded lightly. “I don’t want fire extinguisher foam to get on the hall rug.”

  “You want me to take off my clothes? Now that’s an order I could get used to.” He grinned and reached for the takeout menus I kept in the drawer below the phone.

  By the time the Wild Ginger deliveryman rang the doorbell, the kitchen was clean, the windows were closed, and Sean was clad in the sweatpants and sneakers he kept in his gym bag. He insisted on plating the Chinese food at the counter while I enjoyed some wine. After placing our supper on the table, he dimmed the lights, and raised his glass in a toast.

  “To not setting the house on fire when we celebrate our first year together!”

  “Hear, hear!” I cried happily, clinking the rim of his glass with my own.

  We dug into our meals, quite hungry by now. Both of us preferred to eat around six thirty and it was nearly eight o’clock by the time I speared my first piece of beef with the point of my wooden chopstick.

  “Learning to cook is harder than I thought it would be,” Sean said after his initial hunger had been sated. “I’ve been getting by with frozen dinners and fast food. Maybe I should watch that TV show you love so much.”

  “The one with Chef Klara?” I attempted to shovel rice into my mouth using the chopsticks, but I couldn’t grasp more than a grain at a time. Surrendering, I grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer and polished off the rest of my meal. “Tales from the Table is the best cooking show on television. It’s not just about food, but about the memories certain foods invoke.”