Her lips formed a tight red line of anger as she crumpled the pages between her hands. She glared at me, her green-eyed stare filled with loathing. If her eyes had the power to burn, she would have happily reduced me to a pile of ash. I realized two things at that moment: one, Luella wore colored contacts; and two, I had just made an enemy of Luella, a potential murderer.
I’d expected her to be shocked, to appear guilty or even hostile, but the raw hatred on her face was terrifying. I was the one person who could expose her, who could call the police and explain how Luella and Marlette were connected. She would become their chief suspect at once, and I’d shown her my hand without giving it a second thought.
But was she guilty of murdering Marlette? What would her motive have been? Her false accusation of so many years ago wouldn’t threaten her career as a literary agent, would it?
“Hel-lo?” Bentley gave an impatient wave of her hands. “Earth to Lila?”
“Sorry,” I said quickly, relieved to have a reason to escape the intensity of Luella’s stare. “Could you repeat the question?”
Bentley sighed in exasperation while Flora leaned toward me and whispered, “She wants to know if you’d like to be the moderator for a panel on writing fiction queries.”
“Yes, of course!” I declared as I saw movement from across the table out of the corner of my eye. Luella had risen to her feet, still glowering at me.
“We’re not done,” Bentley informed her briskly, but Luella’s expression instantly changed to one of agony.
Clutching her stomach, she murmured miserably, “Please excuse me! I’m going to be sick!” and rushed from the room. She’d barely reached the hall before Jude sprang from his chair and dashed after her.
“What the hell is going on?” Bentley tossed her pen down in disgust. “This is not how my meetings are run!” She examined her watch and folded her arms across her chest in irritation. “I need to call an editor soon anyway, so why don’t we adjourn until everyone is healthy enough and focused enough”—Bentley cast a steely glance in my direction—“to continue.”
The agents remained seated until Bentley breezed out, at which point they began twittering excitedly about the conference. I joined in long enough to prove my enthusiasm for the event and then went after Luella. Her perfumed office was empty, so I checked Jude’s next. It was also unoccupied. I hurriedly checked the bathroom, the kitchen, and the reception area, and it was then that I heard voices on the stairs.
“Luella, my beautiful flower, talk to me!” Jude’s tone was pleading.
“Just leave me alone!” she cried above the sharp refrain of her heels striking the tiled floor in the lobby below. Seconds later, I heard the heavier treads of Jude’s loafers echoing up the stairwell as he descended after her. Within seconds, both agents were gone.
I hesitated. Chasing after Luella without proof that she’d harmed Marlette might be a waste of time. It could also be dangerous. I needed to find a substantial piece of evidence and then hand it over to Sean. Heading back to my desk, I decided to go about business as usual, but when all the other agents left on their lunch breaks, I would stay behind in order to search Luella’s office.
It would have taken a stellar query letter to capture my attention that morning, and I have to admit that not a single one ended up in the possibilities folder. At noon, I wasted a precious fifteen minutes buying yogurt, strawberries, and a granola bar at the grocery store, but I was back at Novel Idea with plenty of time to spare.
I dumped the food on my desk and checked to be certain that the agency was truly empty. It was. Even Flora, who usually brought lunch from home, had gone out today. Bentley always left for nearly two hours to dine at a restaurant in Inspiration Valley or Dunston, but I poked my head in her office just to make sure.
The place was deserted, and Luella’s office was unlocked.
It was now or never.
I turned the knob and pushed open her door. The cloying scent of roses infused with jasmine that was Luella’s perfume assaulted my nostrils, and I warily ventured inside, feeling uneasy about entering the workspace of a possible murderer. But the suspicion that Luella had taken the life of another person for her own selfish reasons propelled me forward, and soon I stood behind her desk, looking around, trying to think of where to start.
Straight ahead, two ornately carved mahogany bookcases lined the wall. In the corner, atop a colorful Persian rug, a round Duncan Phyfe coffee table was encircled by two wing chairs upholstered in the same pink floral fabric as the drapes that graced the window. The file cabinet was crafted from wood and etched with intricate designs. Luella’s computer sat upon a magnificent antique mahogany desk with two drawers and an inlaid leather top. It reminded me of a photograph I’d seen in a magazine of Agatha Christie’s writing table that had been sold at an auction last year.
I pulled at the drawer on the left. It didn’t move and was obviously locked. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make it budge. The second drawer slid open easily, and I sneezed as a hodgepodge of scents wafted out. A disorganized assortment of makeup containers and bottles and potpourri sachets were mixed in with a jumble of pens, paper clips, and other stationery items. Nothing of significance there.
Cocking my head to make sure there was no sound in the hall, I left the desk and quickly scanned the bookshelves. The books lined up in neat rows were romance novels, their spines depicting bare-chested, muscular men and bodacious maidens swooning, or women falling out of their dresses in the arms of brawny buccaneers. Many of the authors were big-name romance writers, and I was awed at Luella’s stable of clients.
I riffled through the files, carefully opening each drawer and trying not to disturb anything. Contracts for authors, catalogues from publishers, brochures for various conferences, references for editors—nothing that pointed to any kind of involvement with Marlette.
Turning my gaze back to the desk, my eyes fell on Luella’s desktop computer. I hadn’t found anything among her things, but surely there would be a clue or connection to Marlette on her computer. I quickly stuck my head out the door to ensure that no one had returned from lunch, as I was beginning to feel a bit concerned over how much time had passed. The hall was silent.
Booting up the computer, I was dismayed to see that it was password protected. I sat back in frustration. Would my one chance to explore her hard drive be stymied from the start? I racked my brain to think of possibilities for her password, but I didn’t know her well enough to come up with any viable solutions.
I started with the first words that came to mind—Sue Ann Grey, Woodside, Marlette—but even as I typed them, I realized she wouldn’t want to remind herself of her past every time she logged onto her computer. I keyed in romance, money, men, and other words that made me think of her, but nothing would unlock the computer.
Idly, I wondered what Luella’s perfume was called and rummaged through the desk drawer, sneezing twice. A small glass bottle in the shape of a woman’s torso emitted Luella’s overpowering scent and had the name Goddess of the Hunt inscribed on it. I smiled ruefully, thinking of Luella’s perfume as a metaphor for how she saw herself.
Hurriedly I typed in goddess and was thrilled to find that it worked. I quickly scanned through the document files and her emails but found no reference to anything relating to Marlette’s murder.
Checking the history file on her Internet browser yielded better results. I found several links to web pages about bee sting allergies and anaphylactic shock. My pulse quickened as I typed and clicked. One page in particular contained a detailed article on how anaphylactic shock can cause death. Luella had also visited herbal medicine sites that sold bee venom capsules.
Apparently, bee venom used in a therapeutic manner can alleviate arthritic and joint pain. However, at the bottom of the page was a warning stating that bee venom should under no circumstances be ingested by individuals with any kind of bee allergy. My fingers trembled over the keys as I recalled Marlette’s bloated fingers
and puffed face when he lay dead on the couch.
Sitting back, I went over the sequence of that tragic morning—finding Marlette, Franklin administering CPR, Jude suggesting someone had committed murder, Carson Knight pointing out that Marlette’s death looked like an allergic reaction. Luella hadn’t arrived at the office until after the police, so how could she possibly have injected Marlette with bee venom?
Then I remembered that she was the one who pointed to the dead bee on the floor, making the suggestion it had come in with the flowers.
It was as if a jolt of espresso hit my brain. I didn’t know how or when, and wasn’t completely certain of the why, but with an Althea-like certainty, I knew that Luella had done the cruel deed and then dropped a bee on the floor in an attempt at misdirection.
I heard voices in the distance. They jarred me out of my ruminations, and I quickly turned off the computer. By the time footsteps sounded on the stairs, I had scurried to my office, where I opened the yogurt and stuck a spoonful into my mouth.
Feigning interest in the queries on my desk as I ate, I kept track of the agents returning to the office. I waved to Franklin, called hello to Flora, smiled at Jude, and raised a strawberry to Zach. I wasn’t sure what I would do when Luella walked past my door, and I realized I should phone Sean and tell him what I knew, but I was too keyed up at the moment and needed to calm down in order to speak to him rationally.
My attention was drawn to a disturbance in the reception area, and I went to investigate, thankful for the distraction. A very short, stout woman with a cloud of wild dark curls and round tortoiseshell glasses stood with hands on hips, looking vexed. In her magenta pantsuit, she seemed the antithesis of Bentley, who towered over her and was gesticulating with one hand, her diamond bracelets glittering in the light.
“I’m sure she’s just running a bit late. We’ll track her down, Calliope. Never fear. I’ll get someone to bring you a coffee while you wait.”
“I don’t want a coffee!” the woman named Calliope replied in an angry voice, gesticulating dramatically. “I had an appointment with Luella that should have started fifteen minutes ago. I am wasting precious writing time.”
As she turned toward the stairs, Bentley touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Please, don’t do anything rash, Calliope. Think of the years you’ve been with us. Luella ran an errand to the pharmacy and is likely on her way back as we speak. Just wait a little longer while we get ahold of her.”
A man’s figure dashing up the stairs caused both women, and me, to stop and stare in that direction. Jude burst onto the landing, his smile searing away the tension in the room. My heart did a little skip.
“Calliope, Lady of the Midas Pen,” he said, bowing slightly and holding out a small gold box. “I believe your favorite truffles are raspberry and champagne.” He gave her a beautiful smile. “When I heard you were coming to the office, I rushed out to get some just for you.”
Calliope blushed and twittered. “Oh, thank you, Jude. I’m so flattered you remembered.” Taking the box, she turned to Bentley. “All right, I’ll give Luella the benefit of the doubt. This is the first time she hasn’t been prompt. I’ll wait a little longer.” She sat primly on the sofa, the very one upon which Marlette had expired. I was thankful it had been cleaned. Calliope glanced up at Jude, blushing again, before focusing on her chocolates.
Jude winked at Bentley, and she grinned deviously in response. I couldn’t believe she’d used Jude’s sex appeal to pacify Calliope. And if he was already back in the office, where was Luella?
Clearing my throat, I approached her. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh, Lila, thank goodness you’re here.” Bentley grabbed my elbow and steered me toward the hallway, where she said in a low voice, “I need you to drive over to Luella’s house and see if she’s there. She’s not answering her home phone or her cell.” Quickly looking back at the woman sitting on the couch, she whispered, “Calliope is a very important client, and she’s here to discuss the details of a contract for three more books in her bestselling Passionate Plantation series. She’s been threatening to change to a New York agency whose name I will not mention because they apparently know how to wine and dine their clients to Calliope’s high standards. But we cannot lose her! She is one of our most lucrative clients. You must find Luella.”
“Where does she live?” I stammered, my thoughts darting about as I considered having to face Luella on her own turf after making her my enemy. “I don’t have a car.”
“Take mine.” Bentley thrust a set of keys in my face. “She lives in Dunston, on Persimmon Avenue, number eighteen. Hurry!”
Caught up in Bentley’s urgency, I scampered down the stairs and to the parking lot before I realized I didn’t know what car Bentley drove. One of the keys had the BMW logo on it, so I scanned the cars and found the lone Beemer on the lot—a silver Z4. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I wondered what Trey would think of his mother sitting behind the wheel of this sleek machine.
My mind didn’t stay on Trey for long. As I drove to Dunston, I kept going over the reasons I believed Luella might be guilty of murdering Marlette. I wondered why she hadn’t returned to work, knowing she wasn’t really sick when she rushed out of the office this morning. I was both afraid and determined to meet her face-to-face.
Driving on Dunston’s main street felt so familiar, yet it seemed so long since I’d been there. Life had changed for me, and this town had become a part of my past, not my future.
I knew how to find Persimmon Avenue because Trey had attended a playgroup in the area when he was a toddler. I found number eighteen without any problem and sat in the car staring at the cream-colored clapboard Victorian house. Its wide front porch had wild rose vines climbing over the railings all the way up to the gingerbread trim. A flagstone walkway led to the porch steps, and at one end of the spacious porch, a large oak cast a cool shadow on the house.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car.
My knock echoed inside the house, and I tried to still my nerves. No one else involved in the investigation knew Luella’s true identity, and if something happened to me…I backed down the stairs and took my cell phone out of my bag. Sean’s voicemail answered after four interminable rings, and I whispered a harried message, indicating where I was and for him to please call me. Hoping I didn’t sound too hysterical, I added, “I might be in a dangerous situation here.” I then snapped the phone shut and climbed back up the stairs.
Knocking a second time generated no response. Steeling myself, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked.
“Luella?” I stuck my head inside and called out, louder this time, “Luella? Are you home?”
The house was silent. I stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me, just in case I should need to make a hasty retreat. In the closed hallway, I was glad for the daylight streaming inside.
My first impression was that of polished wood. Yellow pine with a rich patina formed the floor, trimmed the doorways, and made up the wainscoting in the hall. The living room was furnished just like Luella’s office at Novel Idea, with beautiful antique furniture, a Persian carpet, and flowery upholstered chairs and sofa.
The kitchen featured bright red appliances, yellow cabinets, and a blue granite countertop, splashing the room with color. Everything sparkled, and nothing seemed out of place.
I continued along the hall. The first door revealed a study with a desk and book-filled shelves. The second room, a bathroom, was decorated in retro colors, with black-and-white tiles and green fixtures. A guest room was calming in sedate blues and grays. All the rooms were clean and tidy, as if they had recently been cleaned. I found it difficult to reconcile the woman who owned this neat, comfortable home with the monster Luella had become in my mind.
At the last door I paused, for no reason that I could fathom; I just knew that I would find something amiss. I opened the door and looked inside.
A scream escaped from my throat, soun
ding too loud and strangely foreign as it reverberated down the empty hall. I leaned against the doorframe and struggled to breathe. My mind did not want to accept what my eyes were seeing.
There was Luella, laid out on the bed like Sleeping Beauty, her dress tidily arranged, her hands crossed over her breast. Her abundant hair was fanned out almost lovingly, draping across the plump pillow. And on the pillow was a large red bloodstain.
Slowly, I approached and picked up her cold hand. I could find no pulse at her wrist.
Luella was dead.
As I struggled to take the phone out of my purse with shaking hands, a movement outside the window caught my eye. I turned and looked. There, on a branch of the large oak tree, sat a crow. He cocked his head and cast his beady eyes at me as I stood there, frozen in shock.
I stared back at him, reluctant to return my gaze to Luella’s waxen face. As if to mock my helplessness, he spread his wings and took flight, leaving me alone with the dead.
Chapter 12
I DON’T REMEMBER CALLING THE POLICE.
I vaguely recall the sound of sirens, but they seemed to remain at a distance, never coming close enough to break through the fog enveloping my senses.
I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there when the first officers on the scene found me huddled on the front porch steps, my arms crossed protectively over my chest.
A policewoman touched me gently on the back of my hand and, keeping constant physical contact with me, knelt down and spoke to me in a calm, even voice. “Ma’am? Did you place the 911 call? Are you Lila Wilkins?”
Her eyes were beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, like honey melting in a cup of hot tea. I saw kindness in the young woman’s face, but I also noticed the slight twitch of her fingers. She was on edge, and I guessed she was experiencing the same surge of adrenaline I’d felt tiptoeing through Luella’s house.
I wondered if this woman in blue, this girl with the honey-hued eyes, would catch her breath when she entered the back bedroom. Would she pause on the threshold and think of Sleeping Beauty? Would she wonder why the red-haired beauty lying lifeless on the bed would never wake from her slumber? Would this officer burn with anger on Luella’s behalf or become steel cold with a determination to solve the mystery behind the crime? Would she be haunted by the sight, as I was sure to be?
Buried in a Book Page 17