“Ms. Wilkins, I’ve been waiting for you.” At her full height, she was taller than me, and very thin. Her hair was cropped close to her head. Pale blue jeans encased her long legs like skin and she wore a bright green batik-printed blouse. A silver wire with various stones and crystals hung around her neck, and a large red felted bag hung from her right shoulder.
“Do I know you?” I asked. She had called me by name so somehow she must be acquainted with me, but her face wasn’t familiar.
“We’ve never met, but I see you around town all the time. On your Vespa. In the shops. At the festival this weekend.” Her reply unsettled me. So did the fact that she was blocking my way. I frowned and was about to respond when she continued. “And you would certainly know me through my writing. I’m Zoe Bright. I sent you a query about my novel, The Crystal Color Wheel Witch.”
I wracked my brains, sifting through the titles mentioned in queries that I could recall. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember at the moment. I receive dozens of queries every day. Did you get a response?”
Her eyes darkened. “Just a form letter rejecting me. You didn’t even send it yourself! After I gave you a gift and all.” She fingered the stones around her neck. “I see that you don’t have the necklace on. That crystal pendant is meant to enhance your well-being and you should wear it all the time.”
My uneasiness increased as I recalled finding the gift bag hanging from the handlebars of my Vespa along with the query letter. Her approach seemed creepy then; amid this confrontation it was even more unsettling. Inadvertently, my hand went to my neck, where her necklace would be if I had been inclined to wear it. “It is inappropriate to send a gift with a query,” I said assertively. “The words should speak for themselves.” I tried to soften my tone. “And a rejection letter does not mean that there is no hope for your manuscript. Only that you need to go back and work on it. Improve it before you resubmit it.”
“But it’s already good!” Her eyebrows knit together in anger. “I’m sure if you’d worn the energizing amethyst when you read my synopsis, you wouldn’t have put it in the rejection pile for your secretary to reply to.” She reached into her bag.
I tried to pass her. “Excuse me, Zoe. I need to go upstairs. I’d be happy to read your next query if you send it in the appropriate way, through email or post.” Instead of stepping aside, she thrust a wad of papers at me.
“Please, take it now. Read my query again. And the manuscript. Give my novel a chance. It’s good.” Her eyes flashed hope. And desperation. “I didn’t mean to offend you before.”
I stared at her. “This is not the way we do things. You are making me uncomfortable. Go home and work on your query. Don’t bring your submission in person, but send it to me via the process outlined on our agency’s website. If you do that, I promise to consider your query.”
She pressed her lips together. “Fine.” Shoving the papers back into her bag, she stomped down the steps. I stared after her until she was gone, slamming the door behind her. This was not a great start to my workday.
• • •
THE DAY DID improve, however. I managed to catch up on the pile of queries in my inbox and I offered representation to an author whose joy burst through the phone. At the staff lunch meeting, Franklin reported with relief that the chefs remaining in Inspiration Valley had resigned themselves to staying in town for the time being. Both Bentley and Franklin had been contacted by several enterprising editors probing the idea of one of the chefs penning a tell-all about the weekend. Vicky indicated that she had been fielding calls about the murders all morning from the media, and that the number of email queries in her inbox was double the usual amount. I was thankful that Vicky was around to screen calls and queries; otherwise I would be the one having to cope with the increased interest in our agency. But it felt good to be back on track, doing the work that I loved. My morning encounter with Zoe Bright faded into memory.
I was in the midst of compiling a list of points to negotiate for a publishing contract when there was a knock on my door.
“Mom? Sorry to bother you.” Trey approached my desk, his face alight with excitement.
“You’re no bother, Trey. I like it when you drop by my office.” Noticing that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, I said, “You look as if you have something to tell me.”
He grinned. “I know who Makayla’s secret admirer is.” He held out a five-dollar bill. “This is what he left today.”
I barely glanced at Lincoln’s face before noticing the handwritten lines in small script around the edge. “‘Happiness held is the seed; happiness shared is the flower,’” I read aloud. I looked up at Trey. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize it.”
“The author is unknown, but often the quote’s attributed to John Harrigan.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Naw. I looked it up on Google. Read what’s on the other side.”
I turned the bill over. Written across the top of the Lincoln Memorial was, “Makayla, I wish to share my happiness with you.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s the most personal of all his messages. Do you think he’s ready to reveal himself?”
“He’s definitely getting closer. I saw him during the midmorning rush. Makayla was busy filling an order of two mocha hazelnut macchiatos so she wasn’t paying too much attention at the front. I was in the book corner rearranging the shelves, but keeping an eye on her tip jar. Her admirer had already gotten his coffee, had been to the fixing station, and kept staring at Makayla. When he thought no one was looking he stuck the bill in the jar and hurried out to the street. I rushed right over to the counter and fished it out and voilà!” He pointed at the bill in my hand.
“So who is it?”
He laughed, deliberately stretching out his story. “Guess.”
“I don’t know, Trey. Just tell me.”
“There’s a clue in the message, if you think hard.” He grabbed the bill from my hands and read, “‘I wish to share my happiness with you.’ Who recently received some awesome news?”
Puzzled, I shrugged. The only person who came to mind was my excited joyous author to whom I’d offered representation this morning, and she was female and lived in Virginia. Then I remembered Jay Coleman, on the verge of a potential author’s career. “Jay Coleman?” I asked. “Was it Jay?”
“Mom! You are a detective.” He sat down. “Yes, it was Jay.”
“Really?” I was thrilled beyond measure. No other name could have made me happier. I loved the idea of Makayla being matched up with sweet, gentle Jay. “Does he know that you know?”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, but he will soon. I’m going to the bookstore to encourage him to reveal himself to Makayla.” He scratched his head. “I’m just not sure if I should tell her who her secret admirer is before or after I go see him. What do you think?”
I pondered. Although Makayla wanted to know the identity of her poet, she also enjoyed the game that Jay had set in motion. And Jay, while shy and insecure about approaching Makayla openly, seemed to have a plan. It would be a shame to spoil that. “Don’t say a word to anyone. Let Jay reveal himself in his own way.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” He stood. “But I’m going to strongly encourage him to do it sooner rather than later.”
“Just be gentle with him. People in love can be unpredictable!” I called as Trey headed out on his mission.
Unwittingly, my thoughts turned to Ryan and Klara Patrick. Their relationship had seemed so straightforward, but Klara had fallen in love with Bryce, and they’d been exposed here, in Inspiration Valley. Unexpectedly, all three of them were connected by a tangle of secrets and passion. “Yes,” I said to the stack of papers on my desk. “Love has a tendency to make people more than a little crazy.”
Chapter 14
IT WAS NEARLY QUITTING TIME WHEN VICKY’S VOICE came through my phone’s speaker.
“Your mother’s on line one. She
said you’d forgotten to charge your cell phone again. Should I put her through?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I could use a dose of my mother’s unique humor and wisdom. And she was right about my cell. It had gone dead an hour ago and the charger was sitting on my kitchen counter.
“Lila? I’ve had the most wonderful idea!” my mother declared after I said hello. “Since your policeman won’t let those chefs of yours leave town just yet, they must be feelin’ as cagey as racehorses in the startin’ gate. What they need is some stress relief. A bit of mountain air and good old-fashioned exercise is sure to loosen their tongues.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I thought I’d volunteer to take them on a hike up Red Fox Mountain. We could have a picnic at the top and I’d be pleased to do a readin’ for anyone who’s interested.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “So this offer isn’t purely altruistic?”
“Well, a gal has to make a livin’.”
My smile vanished. “You can’t go on a mountain trail with this group, Mama. There could be a murderer among them. Dennis Chapman was brought in for questioning but I guess he hasn’t officially been charged with a crime. If he had, or better yet, if he’d confessed, Sean would have told me by now.” My mother didn’t respond and during the lull in our conversation, I had an idea of my own. “Still, a hike might create the perfect scenario for a little sharing between our out-of-town guests. In such a remote location, they might feel more comfortable showing their true natures. And if your happy hikers were accompanied by a couple of park rangers—”
“Who are really cops in disguise,” my mother finished for me. “Just in case someone doesn’t behave or blurts out somethin’ real juicy.”
“You’re brilliant! I’ll call Sean right away. What time do you want to get started?”
“Drag ’em to my place early tomorrow. I’ll fix the folks some of my killer coffee and then we’ll set out. And Lila? You can’t come. I’ve got a strong feelin’ that you need to stay in town tomorrow. You’re meant to work on this puzzle from there, ya hear?”
I was about to argue, but something prevented me from speaking. I’d spent my entire life doubting my mother’s gift and had always hesitated to follow her advice, but this time I would heed her counsel. “Fine, but only if Sean assigns two of his best to guard you.”
“Oh, he will,” she said with her usual confidence and said good-bye.
My finger was hovering over the phone’s number pad when Franklin appeared in my doorway. His cheeks were flushed and he was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
“They’ve started again,” he said, collapsing into the chair facing my desk. “I got only a few hours of respite today from Bryce, Leslie, Charlene, and Maurice. Lord save me from having so many of my clients in town at the same time. For the last two days, they’ve been calling, emailing, and sending me texts, wanting me to do something about their forced sojourn in Inspiration Valley.” He brandished his cell phone and pointed at the screen. “I didn’t even realize I had a texting plan. I prefer to communicate with my clients in a more personal manner. And some of these messages?” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say that I’m not accustomed to such vulgar language. All I want to do is go home, sit in the garden, and enjoy a nice glass of chardonnay, but I’m worried that one of them will follow me to the house. I feel completely harassed. What can I do?”
Franklin’s anxiety was nearly palpable. He never discussed his personal life at work, so he’d undoubtedly view an agitated client showing up on his doorstep as a gross invasion of his privacy.
“I’ll talk with them,” I promised. “My mother’s offered to lead all of our guests on an invigorating hike up Red Fox Mountain tomorrow morning. That should keep them out of your hair for at least half a day.”
“That woman is a saint.” Franklin’s shoulders sagged in relief, but then his expression turned grim. “Oh, no, no, no. We can’t allow her to be alone with that group. One of those people could be a homicidal maniac.”
I nodded. “Exactly. If Dennis Chapman isn’t responsible, then the real murderer is still enjoying his freedom.” My voice had gone quiet with anger. “This person has stolen two lives, done his best to ruin Books and Cooks, and has spread distrust, dread, and unhappiness through Inspiration Valley. I’m tired of this state of limbo, aren’t you?”
Franklin looked confused. “Certainly, but how could you put your mother in harm’s way? It’s simply unconscionable, Lila.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll have protection,” I said and outlined the plan.
Mollified, Franklin waited while I phoned Sean.
“I don’t know, Lila.” Sean was less than enthused about the outing. “What if they don’t want to go?”
I hadn’t considered this. “Then I’ll take those who pass on the hike to a leisurely lunch. Someone’s got to crack sooner or later, Sean. Besides,” I plodded on. “What could happen to me over a sandwich and a side of chips?”
“Do I need to remind you how and where Ms. Patrick was murdered?” Sean growled.
“No,” I replied feebly and quickly changed the subject. “How are things going with Dennis?”
Sean let loose an exasperated sigh. “He claims to have an alibi for Mr. Lang’s murder. According to his statement, after the group tour of the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts, he had dinner at the Piggy Bank in Dunston. We’re checking that out. He can’t really account for his time afterward, but neither can most of the chefs since they were all in their rooms getting ready for the dinner. Anyone could have planted those cans in the oven during those hours. Meanwhile, Mr. Chapman earned himself some extra time with us by clocking an officer in the jaw. Fortunately for Officer O’Brien, the young man has a weak left hook.”
“So he hasn’t calmed down at all?”
“No. If anything he’s more volatile. And yet, I don’t think he’s our man. This is just my gut talking, but despite Mr. Chapman’s explosive combination of hatred and pent-up rage, he doesn’t act like someone who has exacted revenge on his enemy. He’s still angry. He’s still directing that anger at Klara Patrick even though she’s dead. If he’d killed her, the strength of this emotion should have ebbed to some degree.”
As much as I wished otherwise, Sean’s hypothesis made sense. Dennis was a young man whose dreams had been ripped to shreds. The deaths of Joel and Klara had done nothing to improve his fate and, to him, the future must look pretty bleak. I bet he was just as angry as he’d been before the two chefs were murdered. “Are you going to interview everyone else all over again?”
Sean hesitated. “I was until I talked to you. Now I’m actually considering your mother’s wild idea. We’ve tried it my way and that hasn’t led to an arrest. This time around, I think I’ll let Amazing Althea do her thing.”
“And what about me?”
“You can have lunch with the remaining suspects as long as I can watch over you. If you sit at one of the outdoor tables at Catcher in the Rye, then I’ll keep an eye on you from inside.”
“That sounds reasonable. Will you be coming over tonight?” I knew he had important work to do, so I tried to keep my tone casual. In truth, I really wanted to spend the evening with him. Franklin’s fantasy of sitting in the garden with a glass of wine sounded lovely to me. I longed to watch the sunset paint the flowers a burnished gold while talking with Sean about pleasant, positive things. Books and food and friends. Movies and vacations and weekend plans. Anything but murder.
Despite my attempt to conceal my desire for us to be together, Sean picked up on my feelings. “I’d love nothing more, Lila, but I can’t. I’ll see you at noon tomorrow and remember, don’t leave your food unattended.”
I groaned. “If I dwell on the fact that one of my dining companions might have a pocketful of arsenic, I won’t eat a thing. Guess that’s one way to start a diet.”
After we said good-bye, I asked Vicky for a list of cell phone numbers so I could contact the che
fs and the rest of our out-of-town guests without going through their hotel operators. All of them leapt at the chance to go on the Red Fox Mountain excursion except for Ryan and Annie, so I invited them to join me for lunch. The moment the other agents heard what Franklin and I had plotted, most of them asked to be included. Flora volunteered to come with me to Catcher in the Rye and Jude insisted on accompanying my mother, for which I was grateful. Even Vicky wanted to help but I told her Novel Idea needed her right where she was.
“Well, the Zachmeister is staying here!” Zach folded his arms across his chest. “Someone has to keep this agency going and I’ve got big fish to hook. Big fish!”
Franklin gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Of course you do, son. I’m drowning in phone calls and proposals as well. It seems like every chef in the northern hemisphere wants me to represent their cookbook. A lady even overnighted her seven-layer coconut cake for me to try. When she emailed to ask whether I’d received it, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the delivery man had neglected to notice the This Side Up sticker.”
We all laughed heartily. It felt so good to be among my coworkers, sharing this moment of levity following the weekend’s unexpected horrors. Like me, my colleagues were obviously eager to focus on their jobs once again. And when I fondly gazed at their faces, my determination to help the police discover the murderer’s identity became stronger than ever.
“Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if our town was itself again by the end of the week?” Flora asked dreamily. “We could all meander around the farmers’ market or browse the paintings and handmade pottery sold by the sidewalk vendors. The reporters would be gone. The chefs, too. We could have a frozen yogurt on a park bench while reading a steamy erotica novel.”
Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery) Page 20