I zoomed away, my mind filled with images from Marlette’s query letter. I barely remember driving to my mother’s house. I found her in the kitchen when I dragged myself inside.
“There you are,” she said with an affectionate smile. “No need to fret about makin’ your son dinner. I told him you’d had a hell of a day and gave him a rain check for another night. Everythin’ you need is waiting in your bathroom.”
I was about to argue that what I needed most was a glass of wine, when she shooed me up the stairs using the damp end of a dish towel.
“I’m going, I’m going!” I growled, leaning heavily against the banister for support.
An inviting aroma of rose water drifted out from the bathroom, and when I opened the closed door, I was met by the sight of a full bubble bath and a large glass of wine resting on one of the tub’s porcelain corners. As I squatted down to test the water, I noticed my pajamas hanging from a hook alongside an oversized towel. Not only was the bathwater hot, but my mother had also put my towel in the dryer. It still smelled of fabric softener and was warm to the touch.
“You really are amazing, Althea,” I whispered. I wasn’t even aware that tears were running down my face until I slipped off my shirt and the fabric became damp from moisture wetting my cheeks.
Sinking into the water’s embrace, I closed my eyes. I’d reached that state of overtiredness where the mind darts from one thought to another but can’t settle on a fixed image. So much had happened during the day that I couldn’t stop the tumble of flashbacks, but eventually, I came back to the thing I most wanted to think about, and that was Marlette’s query letter.
Lost in a brief fantasy in which I stood by Knox Singleton as he rolled out an ancient scroll in a dimly lit reading room, I drank my wine and exhaled as the smoky plum flavors of the merlot coaxed my shoulders to relax even lower into the tub.
“The question is,” I addressed my toes, which protruded through a layer of rose-scented bubbles, “was the idea so good that someone would kill to call it their own?”
I emptied my wineglass and then looked around for the bottle, but my mother knew what I needed, and it wasn’t alcohol. It was sleep. A long and restful night’s sleep.
Draining the tub, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and collapsed into bed. I wondered if I should call Trey and warn him of Iris’s possible involvement, but I decided that Sean would question the girl before the night was through. I also had a powerful feeling that the two deaths were tied to Marlette’s thriller and had nothing to do with Iris. Someone in the publishing world had wanted his book so badly that they’d been willing to kill for it.
“But where is it?” I murmured groggily into the pillow. “Where is Marlette’s book?”
THE RINGING OF my alarm woke me from a dreamless slumber, and I shut it off with a slow-moving hand and turned my face toward the window. The morning light made the thin, cream-colored curtains look like parchment paper, and I lay back against the pillow and pictured Makayla removing a tray of fresh-baked scones from the oven.
Despite all that had happened yesterday, I was incredibly hungry. I hadn’t eaten last night, and after ten hours of rest, I felt revitalized and ready to tackle whatever challenges awaited me. But not without a hearty breakfast first.
When I got downstairs, I saw that my mother’s wooden walking stick was not in its customary place by the kitchen door and knew that she had chosen to exercise early in order to avoid the oppressive heat Inspiration Valley expected today. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of my mother swiping at the tall grass with her stick, warning snoozing copperheads that she was about to invade their territory.
Like her, I wanted to begin my day with a dose of fresh air and sunlight, so I ventured out to the back porch, where I drank coffee and peeled a ripe banana, in no mood to rush off to work.
In The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins had written, “We had our breakfasts—whatever happens in a house, robbery or murder, it doesn’t matter, you must have your breakfast.” As I leaned against a post, chewing the soft fruit and inhaling the scents of wet grass and honeysuckle, I couldn’t agree more.
At that moment, I realized that my mother had been right when she said that I’d needed to stay with her for a spell. She had been a source of constancy over this tumultuous summer, and I’d yet to truly show my appreciation for all the little things she had done to keep me sane.
I felt a rush of shame pinken my cheeks. I had always believed that Althea was the crazy one in the family, and I had held her at arm’s length because of her profession, but I now had to admit that she possessed an uncanny ability when it came to predicting my needs. If she was just as accurate with her clients, then perhaps she did have a unique and wonderful gift that I would never understand.
“When my house sells, I’m going to do something special for her,” I vowed, sending the promise across the dew-covered fields.
Thirty minutes later I was buying my second cup of coffee, a plump apple, and a cranberry orange scone from Makayla. She was too busy to talk, but I assured her that I’d drop by later and fill her in.
Yesterday, I couldn’t imagine mounting the stairs leading to the literary agency feeling so calm and in control, but I was ready to face whatever awaited me there. In fact, I was looking forward to it. For too long I’d been stumbling around in search of clues, and now, to my great relief, the Dunston Police had taken over. Sean and his officers had undoubtedly questioned my colleagues and were merely waiting for a fingerprint match to come through. They’d wrap up the case, and we could all move on.
As I passed through the reception area into the main hallway, I could see that all the office doors were open with the exception of Bentley’s. Voices emitted from the staff kitchen, and I was drawn to the murmur of conversation. It was such a normal, regular sound in comparison to the unsettling sirens and radio crackles of the day before, and I realized that just like the first day I’d arrived at Novel Idea, I still wanted to belong to this group, to be one of them. An equal.
“Zach Attack is totally scratched off the suspect list!” Zach declared loudly as I entered the room. “Flora and I went to Catcher in the Rye for lunch, and a million people saw us.”
“More like heard you,” Franklin mumbled under his breath, and I had to cover my smile with my hand. “Hello, Lila,” he added, catching sight of me in the doorway.
Leaping up from the table, Zach offered me his chair with a flourish. “Please take my seat. You must be sorry you ever accepted this job! But don’t leave us. We need you!” His dark eyes were filled with concern. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened at Luella’s?”
“I’d prefer not to, but thank you,” I said, accepting his seat and putting my coffee and takeout bag on the table. “And I don’t regret my internship, though I’m really sorry about Luella. You all knew her much longer than I did, and I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. If I can do anything to help, just say the word.”
Flora, who was standing by the counter stirring spoonfuls of sugar into a teacup, gave me a sad smile. “That’s so sweet of you, dear.” Her large bosom rose as her lungs inflated with air and then lowered as she released a sorrowful sigh. “It’s too, too terrible. And for the police to think that one of us could have…” she trailed off with a sniffle.
Franklin left his seat at the table and offered her a tissue. “Flora, you were at Catcher in the Rye with Zach. No one’s pointing a finger at you.”
She gave him a grateful little smile. “I was Mata Hari yesterday. I’ve been waiting all year to be given that name, but when I think of what poor Luella must have been going through while I was all smiles and giggles because Big Ed called out some silly name…” She shook her head and stared at her teacup.
“You’re in the clear as well, Franklin,” Jude stated miserably. With his rumpled clothes and slouched posture, he looked like a different person. “A piano lesson with Maddox Ryan. The perfect alibi. The whole town loves Maddox, and it doesn�
��t hurt that he’s a retired judge.” Moaning, Jude sunk his head into his hands while Franklin turned his flushed face toward the window. I felt sorry for him. Was Maddox’s former profession the reason they kept their affair a secret?
“I’m the only one who can’t supply a decent alibi,” Jude continued. “And I’m the one who chased after Luella yesterday. When I couldn’t catch her, I didn’t feel like coming back to the office right away, so I wandered through the park. Then Bentley had me drive all the way to Dunston to buy Calliope’s favorite truffles. The chocolate shop is only five minutes from Luella’s house. Don’t you see how guilty I look?”
Zach shook his head. “Why did you take off after her? I didn’t think you guys were together anymore.” There was a sharp edge of envy in his tone.
“We haven’t been an item for nearly a year, but I still care about her,” Jude said defensively. I wondered whether his concern was genuine or if he was just a skilled actor. He did have a weak alibi, and he could easily be lying about his relationship with Luella. Perhaps she had been the one to end things and he was still nursing strong feelings for her. Unrequited love could turn people inside out, and there was something very intimate about Luella’s death. Whoever had struck her, then smothered her, and finally, arranged her body so carefully was no stranger.
I studied Jude out of the corner of my eye. Was he capable of murder? Of creating a storybook scene using his former lover’s corpse?
Flora put down her teacup and placed a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “The truth will out, honey. Don’t twist yourself up in knots. We know you’d never hurt her.”
Her remark was met with silence, but I noticed that the other agents nodded in agreement.
“How’s Bentley handling all of this?” I asked.
Franklin gave an embarrassed cough and said, “She seems rather preoccupied with an offer Jude received yesterday from some Hollywood studio.”
“Which Jude or I should be handling.” Zach sulked. “Carson is Jude’s client, and I’m not called Mr. Hollywood for nothing.”
I sipped my coffee and wondered if Bentley was really working on a deal or was deliberately seeking seclusion in her office while she grappled with the loss of her agent. Or worse, was she hiding because she was somehow involved in these crimes? “What’s the title of Carson’s book?” I asked, hoping to introduce a different topic. “I guess I should know it since it’s going to be all over the place next year.”
“The Alexandria Society,” Jude answered, perking up at once. “Carson is going to be bigger than Dan Brown or Stieg Larsson.”
As he proceeded to give me succinct summary of the plot, I was still reacting to the title. My coffee went down the wrong pipe, and I gagged and coughed, struggling to breathe.
“Are you okay, dear?” Flora inquired.
I nodded and bit into my scone, fearing that if I spoke now I’d blurt out the truth. The idea for Carson Knight’s thriller belonged to Marlette! As I chewed mechanically, I realized that Carson was a prime suspect for Marlette’s murder. Sending Jude a quick glance, I swallowed the bite of pastry and said, “I’d love to read it. Do you have a copy?”
“I have one on my computer and the original manuscript locked away in my file cabinet,” he replied. “You can look at that version, but you can’t take it out of the office. That manuscript is worth more than all of our salaries combined.”
It took a Herculean effort to muster a grateful smile. “I’ll stop by later, thanks. I have so much work to catch up on before then.” I looked around at the rest of the agents. “Are the police done with us, do you think?”
“You seem to have an in with Officer Griffiths,” Zach stated sourly. “Why don’t you tell us?”
I folded the rest of the scone in a napkin and stood up. “I don’t know any more than the rest of you. I only got involved because no one else seemed to care that an innocent man dropped dead in this office!” The anger had come out of nowhere, surprising both my coworkers and me with its vehemence.
“But—” Flora spluttered.
“No, Lila’s right,” Franklin said solemnly. “If we hadn’t turned our backs on that poor man, he might be alive today. Maybe Luella, too. I don’t know if there’s a connection between the two of them, and I pray the police will sort this mess out, but at least Lila had enough gumption and enough heart to take action on Marlette’s behalf.” He touched my arm. “I, for one, am ashamed of my callousness.”
It wasn’t for me to offer forgiveness as, one by one, each of the agents voiced regret. I could only listen and sympathize, and eventually there was nothing else to say, so we dispersed and headed for our individual offices.
At my desk, I eyed the overwhelming stacks of queries, knowing that when I turned on my computer, there’d be an endless stream of emails to tackle as well. I knew I must put aside the emotions and thoughts that were swirling around in my head like a whirlpool and focus on the work I needed to do.
But first I had to call Sean to tell him about Carson’s book. Getting that off my mind, and giving the police that valuable information, would clear the way for concentrating on my job.
I reached for the phone. It rang just as I was about to pick it up to dial, and as a result, my hello was somewhat breathless.
“Good morning, Lila,” Sean said with a glint of humor in his voice. “You sound as if you’ve been running.”
“Me? Run? Only when the oven timer beeps,” I quipped back. “I was about to call you, actually.” The idea that Sean and I had both thought of each other at the same time made me smile.
“Oh, what about?”
“I think Marlette’s story was stolen, and while I still have to follow up on a few things, I’m fairly certain it’s the key to his murder. I believe I might even know who’s responsible.” The names of my three suspects flashed across my mind. Jude. Bentley. Carson.
“Hold on there, Lila. Don’t start making accusations until you have all the facts. Yesterday you thought Iris was a murderer, and your suspicions were completely unfounded. She has an airtight alibi. While Trey was at the grocery store, Iris was visiting an elderly, wheelchair-bound aunt.”
“Oh.” Feeling properly chastised for suggesting that Iris was a murderer, I toned down my fervor. “Then I’ll hold off on sharing my theories for now. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I wanted to tell you that I’ve sent Marlette’s query to forensics to see if there are fingerprints on it. If so, we’ll find out if they match any of the prints we took from Ms. Ardor’s house.”
I gripped the phone receiver tightly. “A match for the killer’s fingerprints?”
“No jumping to conclusions until we have all the facts, remember? I’ll talk to you later, Lila.”
I reluctantly said good-bye, thankful that at least he thought there would be a “later” for us.
Hanging up the phone, I pulled a stack of queries toward me and opened the first envelope. The letter carried the faintest whiff of a woody scent, reminding me of Marlette. I closed my eyes for a moment and willed him to disappear so I could focus on the task at hand. Mind cleared, I began to read.
By the end of the letter, the author had drawn me into Valetta’s world in much the same way that I’d been pulled into Marlette’s Alexandria League. Pondering how a writer was able to accomplish this, I thought about Carson’s novel. Surely it was more than a coincidence that the title and the plot were nearly identical to the novel in Marlette’s query. And Carson, not Marlette, would be raking in the big bucks for an idea that wasn’t his own. Had Carson stolen Marlette’s novel? Had the two men known each other? Or was Carson in collusion with Jude or Bentley? Had one of my coworkers stolen from a gentle, befuddled recluse for profit?
The answer popped into my mind like a thought bubble in a comic. It had to be Jude! Since he was Carson’s agent, he would also make a ton of money from The Alexandria Society. And he’d had regular opportunities to come in contact with Marlette, to read his query and, later, his
entire manuscript.
Then again, Bentley was also profiting from Marlette’s novel. Was she a part of it, too, or just an innocent bystander? And how had Luella become involved? Had she murdered Marlette? Or had the bee venom evidence been planted in her house and computer? If so, who was her murderer?
As each question raised another, I felt more on edge. I was so close to figuring the puzzle out, but I just didn’t have enough information. I needed to see Carson’s manuscript.
I worked through the rest of the day, but part of me was merely waiting for time to pass and for the rest of the agents to head home. Finally, at half past five, I stepped out of my office and glanced down the hall. It appeared as though all of my coworkers had left for the day. The agency was ominously silent, and except for the break room, all the doors were closed. Checking each one to be sure, I found everyone’s door locked, and nobody called out to me when I knocked. Confident that I was the only one at Novel Idea, I felt an uncanny déjà vu from yesterday, when, alone at the agency, I’d searched Luella’s office. I felt chilled, as though the air conditioner had been set ten degrees lower.
In the break room, I took down the coffee can that hid the master keys and pulled out the one to Jude’s office. Looking up and down the hall once more, I crept to his door and let myself in.
Once inside, it struck me how cold and austere Jude’s office was. Compared to the other agents’ homey spaces, Jude had chosen a desk and accoutrements that appeared to have come straight out of Office Depot. His unadorned, impersonal office could easily reflect the personality of a cold-blooded killer.
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