Buried in a Book

by Lucy Arlington

  My stomach grumbled in complaint, so I headed in the direction of Lavender Lane in search of lunch.

  The smell of baking bread inside Catcher in the Rye assaulted my senses the same way it had the first time I visited the sandwich shop. I breathed it in deeply, my mouth watering. Scanning the delectable menu, I chose the Mowgli, a curried chicken salad with mangoes and walnuts wrapped in whole wheat naan. This time I virtuously asked for carrot sticks as the side. Glancing at the card the cashier handed me, I had to smile over being assigned the name of Miss Marple. It seemed fitting, considering my bumbling attempts at figuring out the mystery of Marlette’s murder. Waiting for my name to be called, I stared out the window. Just to the left of the fire department was Mountain Road, leading to the Red Fox Co-op. I wondered how Trey was doing up there.

  “MISS MARPLE!” Big Ed bellowed, disrupting my musings.

  I reached for the bag he handed me, and in my best British accent, said, “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  “Hey, you’re the intern at Novel Idea, right? You were Eliza Doolittle last time. I never did catch your real name.”

  “Lila Wilkins. Pleased to officially meet you, Big Ed.” I shook his hand.

  “I was thinking about you folks at the agency and that poor soul, Marlette. You were asking about him last time. Just last night I remembered something kind of unique about him and was hoping you’d stop in so I could share it with you.”

  I felt a tingle of excitement. Sometimes, answers come out of thin air. “I’m still trying to figure out what happened to him. What was it you remembered?” I leaned closer to the counter.

  Big Ed pointed outside. “See those birdhouses attached to the tops of the fence posts at the side of the grocery store?”

  I craned my neck to look. Sure enough, there was a fence along the side of How Green Was My Valley, painted with a mural of a farm scene. Rolling hills, patchwork fields, cows, corn stalks. And, equally spaced, atop each fence post was a birdhouse shaped like a little red barn. There were six of them in total.

  “Those are so cute.” I turned back to Big Ed. “What do they have to do with Marlette?” As soon as I asked the question, I remembered the purple martin houses in the park and the birdhouse to which Iris had brought me on Saturday.

  “He was always poking around in those birdhouses. I saw him stick stuff in them at times, too. Maybe he left something inside them. A clue.” Eyeing the cheesesteak meat on the grill, he quickly added, “It may be that I just watch too many detective shows on TV and there’s nothing to be found in those little houses, but you never know.”

  I couldn’t wait to find out. Hurriedly, I thanked him and, holding tightly to my lunch, ran across the street.

  The first three tiny barns held nothing except bits of twigs and grass. But when I reached my fingers into the hole of the fourth one, they brushed against something that felt like paper. Carefully, I pinched my fingers together until they caught the edge of the paper and eased it out of the hole.

  What I held in my hand was a ragged, yellowed newspaper clipping. Pieces were torn from it—chewed off, it looked like—and in a few spots the ink was smudged. But I could make out the year, 1985, and the byline, Jan Vance. I knew Jan! She’d been a reporter at the Dunston Herald and my mentor when I first began my career as a journalist.

  I smoothed out the shredded bit of paper as best I could and began reading. The account was disjointed because of all the holes and ink smears, but I could make out the gist of the story.

  Parents of Woodside Creative Camp are up in arms in response to allegations of sexual…Marlette Robbins is a tenured professor at Crabtree University…a fifteen-year-old and…a man in his position entrusted with young…Professor Robbins denied the accusations, saying the young woman…Woodside fired Robbins and the university is…Charges have not been filed.

  Wow. Marlette had been accused of demonstrating inappropriate conduct toward a fifteen-year-old girl at a summer camp? The idea shocked me. He’d seemed like such a gentle, unaggressive soul. Still, charges weren’t filed, so maybe there was more to the story. At least now I had a last name for him. And a former profession. But clearly, I didn’t have enough facts to understand everything about what had happened. I needed to talk to Jan Vance. As soon as I got back to the office, I planned to give her a call.

  The aroma of curry teased my nostrils, and I suddenly remembered my lunch. Leaning against the fence, I bit into the naan wrap. It was scrumptious. The spicy curry, blending with the tartness of the mango and crunchiness of the nuts, was heavenly.

  After swallowing my last bite, I tossed the trash into the bin, and then, just to be sure, I checked the last two birdhouses. They contained nothing, so I rushed back to the office.

  Dialing Jan’s number, I composed questions in my mind. My eyes traveled to the pile of queries on my desk. I had to admit that at the moment I felt more like an investigative reporter than a literary agent. Guilt at not focusing on my work started worming its way into my conscience, but before it gripped too tightly, my old mentor answered the phone.

  “Jan Vance.” Her voice barked through the receiver, conjuring up her no-nonsense personality as if she were in the room beside me.

  “Hi, Jan. It’s Lila Wilkins.”

  “Lila! Good to hear from you, girl.” She laughed, her hoarse voice a result of years of chain-smoking.

  “How’s retirement? Finished your book yet?” When Jan retired a few years ago, she’d announced she was going to write a novel based on her experiences as a reporter. I hoped I’d get to read it one day.

  “The book’s coming along, slowly but surely. What are you up to these days? I heard the Herald is making do without your talents.”

  “That’s true, but I found a new job pretty quickly at the Novel Idea Literary Agency.”

  “No kidding! Are you cold-calling for clients?”

  I didn’t know whether she was teasing or not. “Actually, no. Did you hear about the homeless man who was found murdered in our office? Marlette Robbins?”

  “That was Marlette Robbins? I did a piece on him years ago, you know.”

  Pleased that she remembered him, I continued. “That’s what I’m calling about. I’m trying to find out what happened back in eighty-five. Could you fill me in?”

  “Sure. Let me think a minute.” Through the receiver, I could hear her blow out and guessed she was smoking her umpteenth cigarette of the day. “Robbins was accused of molesting a fifteen-year-old girl in his counselor’s cabin at some arts camp. The name escapes me. The girl had gone to him for help with her creative writing project, and apparently Robbins pushed her on the bed and tore off her shirt and bra. The girl ran out before he got any further. Had a ripped bra to prove it.”

  I shook my head, unable to visualize Marlette as a man who preyed on innocent teenagers. I felt queasy all of a sudden and could only manage to whisper, “What happened next?”

  “Just so you know, I don’t think he did it. From all reports, that girl got her kicks by manipulating people. I never interviewed her. I wasn’t even told her name, seeing how she was still a minor and her parents wanted to protect her identity. But by all accounts, Marlette Robbins was as straitlaced as they come, an impeccable Southern gentleman. Nobody could believe he was capable of such an act.”

  I felt anger on Marlette’s behalf. “And yet he was fired!”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what that girl’s motivation was, but she sure ruined his reputation, even though he was never officially charged.”

  The story chilled me, but I chitchatted a bit longer with Jan and then thanked her and hung up.

  I sat back in my chair and wondered if the accusations against Marlette were true. Had I completely misjudged him? If he was capable of violence against women, perhaps he’d done something unforgivable to another woman, and in return, she’d made him pay the ultimate price.

  But if Jan was right and he hadn’t harmed that girl, then why had she accused him? What did she have against him
?

  A shiver shot up my spine. If the girl had told the truth, she’d never received justice. Maybe she had meted it out herself, twenty-five years later.

  Chapter 10

  I DIDN’T HAVE TIME THAT AFTERNOON TO PHONE Crabtree University’s English Department to find out if any of the faculty remembered Marlette. Bentley called me into her office and, after telling me that she was pleased to see that I’d been fulfilling my daily quotas, informed me that she was increasing my workload.

  “You’re the first intern I actually expect to make it through the three month trial period,” she said, looking at me over the rim of her reading glasses. This pair was coral-colored and matched her blouse and handbag perfectly. Her white slacks had a knife-sharp crease, and I marveled over the height of her silver heels. My boss was the most coiffed woman I’d ever known. I felt downright dowdy in her presence and vowed to make my wardrobe more chic when I became a full-fledged agent.

  I smiled at her. “I’m determined to have my own clients one day.”

  “Good for you. We need a fresh dose of ambition around here. Therefore, you’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve decided to award you more responsibility.” She handed me several file folders. “A Novel Idea is going green. That means we’ll no longer be mailing paper copies of royalty statements. Instead, each author will receive an electronic version sent via email. I’d like you to design a template for each of these publishers and then fill in the royalty information for the authors in those folders.” Bentley tented her hands on the desk and stared at me intently. “Authors don’t like us to be tardy when sending out their royalty statements. For some of our clients, royalty checks cover their everyday expenses. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I nodded. “Trust me, I know all about the stress of unpaid bills.” Picking up the folders, I stood up. “Do these take precedence over the queries and proposals?”

  Bentley waved at me absently, her attention now focused on her computer screen. “I’m sure you’ll be able to manage both. You seem like an extremely capable individual, Lila.”

  Recognizing this as a dismissal, I headed back to my office feeling a surge of pride. I had proved myself. I was going to be more than an intern by the end of the summer; I could feel it in my bones.

  Between the queries, critiques, mailings, and creating the royalty statement templates, the rest of the workday flew by. I managed to leave a message for the current English Department Chair of Crabtree University, but no one returned my call that day or the following morning. I wondered if the professors kept regular office hours during the summer, but I didn’t have the time to review the online course listings or figure out who would be on campus. I had to focus on the pile of royalty statements if Novel Idea’s clients were to be paid before the end of the week.

  Finally, late on Tuesday morning, I decided I could spare two minutes at the tail end of a coffee break to call the university’s switchboard. Luckily, the operator transferred me to a helpful receptionist who informed me that the only member of the English Department who had taught at Crabtree during Marlette’s tenure was giving a lecture called “Shakespeare’s Soothsayers” that very evening. I was delighted to learn that nonstudents were welcome to attend and planned to ask my mother if she’d like to accompany me.

  Feeling as though I’d made excellent headway at work and was on the cusp of learning something significant about Marlette’s past, I decided to devote part of my lunch hour to continuing the investigation. Taking the drawing of Sue Ann that Iris had helped me find, I struck out for the Secret Garden, thinking that with all the walking I now did, I’d soon be in the best shape of my life.

  As I left my office and headed for the stairs, my cell phone rang.

  “Guess what?” exclaimed my real estate agent. “Someone’s asked to see your house for the third time! I think they plan to make an offer.”

  “That would really be great,” I said, stepping out the front door into the powerful midday sun. “I don’t know how much longer I can ask my mother to drive me to work and back. I feel like a little kid. If this goes on, she’s going to be packing my lunches and slipping notes into the brown bag like she did when I was a girl.”

  Ginny made a cooing noise. “Your mama sounds so sweet. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you some good news, considering the last time I called you it was to report that awful vandalism.” She paused. “Did the police ever find out who did that?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Water under the bridge,” Ginny declared brightly. “Gotta run, but I’ll be in touch.”

  During our brief conversation, my feet had automatically carried me to the fountain in the center of town. I sat down on the damp cement and fished a penny out of my purse.

  “This wish is for my house to sell quickly,” I told the closest muse. She ignored me, her marble gaze studiously fixed on the scroll in her hands. Examining the plaque at her feet, I said, “Clio, Muse of History, let me look back on this summer as a time filled with positive changes.” Closing my eyes, I sent the offering into the shallow water and watched the coin wobble to the bottom. Impulsively, I reached out and touched Clio’s wet cheek before heading off to the Secret Garden.

  When I arrived at the nursery, I was met by the clamor of a large group of children. According to a sour-faced employee who had escaped outdoors to organize a shipment of petunias, a group of campers from the community center’s nature camp was spending part of the day learning how to grow a vegetable garden. Each child had been given a small terra-cotta pot to paint and plastic bags containing seeds and potting soil. It made me smile to see the eager campers decorating their pots with jolly round tomato men and stick-figure bean ladies. Addison was busy showing the children how to bury their seeds in the dirt. It was clearly not the best time to ask her to identify another plant for me.

  Glancing at my watch, I knew that my lunch hour was nearly half over. After all, I had to hoof it back to the office and grab something to eat from Espresso Yourself if I was going to survive the rest of the day, but it was difficult not to linger. The laughter and high-pitched voices of the kids carried me back to a time over ten years ago. Suddenly, I was transported to my kitchen in Dunston. There I was, an old apron tied around my waist, busy painting homemade wooden toolboxes with Trey’s Cub Scout pack. I wondered what he was doing right now. Bathing a goat? Picking berries?

  A voice interrupted my musing. “Can I help you?”

  I surfaced from my reverie and noticed that a middle-aged man wearing a green apron was giving me an amused stare.

  “Sorry, I zoned out for a minute there.”

  He grinned. “Happens to the best of us. You might want to pick up a ginger plant. Or maybe a potted rosemary or Siberian ginseng. All three are proven memory boosters.”

  “I just might.” Removing Marlette’s drawing from my purse, I unfolded it, surreptitiously reading the garden center employee’s nametag at the same time. “Do you recognize this flower, Martin?”

  He handled the sheaf of paper with care and scrutinized the dried plant for a long moment. “It’s a peony. We don’t have many bushes left in stock, as most folks planted theirs back in April. We’ll get a bunch more in September, but let’s see if we can find a match.”

  Following Martin to the flowering vines and shrubbery section, we examined several bushes. The tags wrapped around the stalks showed fuchsia blooms called Beautiful Señorita, a bright red variety called Barrington Belle, or Candy Heart, a delicate and pale pink.

  “It looks like there’s yellow paint on the inside petals of your pressed flower,” Martin remarked, eyeing the page once again. “None of our plants have a corn yellow middle with white petals, but we sell a wonderful book on the flowering bushes of North Carolina. It has full-color plates.”

  Thanking the helpful gentleman, I spent twenty dollars on the book, even though I probably could have researched peony varieties on the Internet for free. Still, I didn’t fee
l like I could keep visiting the garden center without buying something, and I didn’t want to carry a Siberian ginseng plant all the way back to Novel Idea, so I purchased the reference book.

  On the way out, I noticed a lemon yellow Vespa scooter parked by the front door. It had a black leather seat, chrome embellishments, and a small For Sale sign taped to the top case.

  I forgot all about my mystery flower. I forgot all about work. Hesitating only for a moment, I ran my fingers along the seat, letting them trail upward, caressing the handlebars and coming to a rest on one of the side mirrors. I caught my reflection in the glass and had to laugh. I looked like a woman in love. If not love, it was certainly a serious crush.

  Rushing back inside, I found Martin watering a display of cheerful marigolds. Their golden hue made my heart beat faster. I had to have that scooter!

  “Could you tell me who owns the Vespa parked out front?”

  “That’s Addison’s,” Martin replied. “We call it Big Bird, she calls it Banana Split, and her folks call it risky. Lucky for our gal, her big brother just bought her a beautiful, brand-new Volvo and asked her to sell the scooter.”

  I’d name it Sunshine, I thought, envisioning myself driving the Vespa down the road leading to my mother’s. In my fantasy, the rain-parched flowers growing in the grassy meadows along the street burst into bloom as I whipped past, a scarf trailing out behind me, the wind curving around my shiny black helmet. My arms and legs were bronzed by the sun, and I was wearing tight capri pants and a pair of high-heeled boots. Drivers didn’t mind my reduced speed limit. In fact, they were simply happy to be able to catch a glimpse of the woman on the scooter who looked as though she should be motoring through the narrow lanes of Paris or Rome. Perhaps they’d think I was a movie star, hiding out in Inspiration Valley to recover from the stress of shooting my latest blockbuster.