Buried in a Book

  Writer’s Block

  Back in Novel Idea’s reception area, I smelled Marlette before I saw him. Once again, that stale scent of unwashed flesh and clothing permeated the space, despite the aromas created by my tray of hot drinks. The espresso and steamed milk failed to mask the distasteful odor.

  “Mr. Marlette.” I put the beverages down on the coffee table and cast a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I was surprised to see that he was leaning against the sofa with his face resting against one of the back pillows. He had clearly fallen asleep. “Sir. You can’t rest here.”

  When he didn’t respond, I sighed in exasperation and decided to deliver Zach’s beverage before it grew tepid. I couldn’t just shoo Marlette away. Bentley had stated that he often came to the office twice a day. If he was going to be a regular fixture in my life, I wanted to lay down some ground rules with him. And truth be told, I was dying to read his query letter.

  I gave Zach his double espresso and then quickly returned to the front, hoping Marlette had awakened, but he hadn’t moved an inch since I’d left the room. His head was still resting against the cushion, and his shoulders were slumped forward as though he were in a deep slumber. Yet something was wrong about his posture. Then I realized exactly what was amiss.

  Marlette’s shoulders were not gently rising and falling with each breath. They weren’t moving at all.

  BURIED

  IN A BOOK

  Lucy Arlington

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  BURIED IN A BOOK

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Excerpt from Every Trick in the Book by Lucy Arlington copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Cover illustration by Julia Green.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  EISBN: 9781101571903

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  To aspiring writers of all ages.

  The world needs more stories.

  Don’t give up on yours.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  I THOUGHT I’D BE WRITING ARTICLES ABOUT CHURCH bazaars and Girl Scout cookie sales until I retired, so you can imagine my surprise when, at forty-five years of age, I was handed my very first pink slip.

  Okay, I’m exaggerating. I tend to embellish otherwise uninteresting stories. There was no pink slip. In fact, no one gave me anything until I started to cry, and then my editor, who’d been cantankerous and impossible to please since the day I submitted my first article for the Features section, unceremoniously tossed a box of tissues on my lap.

  “It’s nothing personal, Wilkins,” he said, squirming un-comfortably in the face of my tears. “Budget cuts across the board. I’ve gotta let a dozen people go today.”

  “But what will I do?” I asked. “I’ve given this newspaper twenty years of my life! The Dunston Herald owes me something!”

  My editor shrugged. “How about a glowing reference? But only if you leave without pilfering office supplies or lighting a fire in your trash can.”

  I rose from my seat. “I’m not that desperate for a box of paper clips, thank you.”

  I walked back to my cubicle with as much dignity as I could muster and began to take down the yellowed clippings of my best articles. When I pulled the thumbtacks from the corners of my son’s graduation photo, I was nearly paralyzed by fear. Trey would be a freshman at UNC Wilmington in the fall, and I’d only paid for his first semester. Without my job, how would I cover the cost of another three and a half years of college? And knowing Trey’s subpar work ethic, I’d need funds for five or six years of higher education.

  This was not the time to panic. I needed work, and I needed it right away. Surely there was a job out there for an experienced writer. I reached for today’s paper and rapidly flipped to the Classifieds section. It only took a few minutes to realize that unless I was a registered nurse or could drive an eighteen-wheeler, I was out of luck.

  Then, an ad I remembered seeing before caught my eye.

  Help Wanted: Intern for the Novel Idea Literary Agency. Help us sign the next bestselling author. Read and answer queries, attend conferences, edit manuscripts. Excellent communication skills required. Competitive salary. Suitable candidate must be available to travel. After a successful three-month internship, candidate will be promoted to junior agent.

  It sounded perfect. I called, and after a five-minute phone interview with the agency’s terse and commanding president, a Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, I was told to r
eport to her office tomorrow, nine o’clock sharp, prepared to put in a full day’s work.

  So I walked out of the squat concrete building that housed the Dunston Herald that Thursday afternoon for the last time, not in tears, but smiling like an inmate released from prison. Instead of indulging in a midlife crisis, I was embarking on a new adventure. Who knew what this change of direction could mean? My head was filled with glorious possibilities. Fame, fortune, and romance featured prominently.

  If I became a full-fledged literary agent, I would get paid to read! Every day, I’d be the first to sample the work of scores of author hopefuls. I envisioned my name in the acknowledgments section of dozens of fabulous books. This image was quickly replaced by the dedication page in an international bestseller.

  To Lila Wilkins. I couldn’t have come this far without you!

  Delving deeper into fantasy, I created more interesting dedications, penned by the next John Grisham or Jodi Picoult. To Lila Wilkins, agent and friend. For Lila, with gratitude. Or this one by J.K. Rowling, whom I convinced to write a standalone about Harry Potter’s children: Lovely Lila, you are a treasure!

  I should have known that something was amiss. The Novel Idea Literary Agency ran an ad for an intern position every few months, but I was foolish enough to believe the job kept coming open because it had yet to be filled by the right person. I was also foolish enough to believe that person was me.

  I was so giddy by the time I got home to the little house I shared with Trey that I wasn’t even annoyed to find the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, potato chip crumbs scattered across the rug and sofa in the living room, and a pair of mud-encrusted socks at the top of the stairs. Trey had left a note saying he’d be out late. He was going to the movies and then to a party at his best friend’s house. He suggested I not wait up for him.

  I didn’t. I was starting a new life tomorrow, and I needed my beauty sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I decided to take the train into Inspiration Valley. The Inspiration Express was more expensive than driving my car from Dunston, but it was faster, and I wanted to read through the information I had Googled about the Novel Idea Literary Agency during the commute. Not only that, but riding the railroad is far more poetic than fighting traffic, especially since the gleaming silver train was transporting me to my new life.

  The last time I rode the Express was with ten-year-old Trey on a special birthday trip to visit my mother. The interior was the same as I remembered, with red plush seats, carved wooden armrests, and small crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. I was delighted to see that the train still maintained a white-gloved porter who pushed a pastry cart through the aisles, distributing chocolate croissants on china plates and pouring coffee from a silver carafe. It brought to mind the Orient Express, and for a moment, I imagined I was steaming toward Zurich or Istanbul as Hercule Poirot interviewed murder suspects over a cup of tea.

  Smiling, I stared out the window and tried to absorb the fact that I would soon be a literary agent. Trees whipped past in blurs of green interspersed with splotches of bright blooms, and I soaked in the kaleidoscope of colors. Hazy mountains ascended in the distance, and the gentle rocking of the train allowed my mind to wander. Finally, I pulled my attention away from the scenery, opened my folder containing information on Novel Idea, and began reading.

  I discovered that my new boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, was instrumental in revitalizing Inspiration Valley. Years ago, when my mother moved to the tiny hamlet, it was called Illumination Valley and was a tourist trap for New Agers. Althea, my mother, found it was the perfect place for a psychic to set up shop. But when both the Yoga and Meditation Center and the House of Holistic Healing went bankrupt during one of the country’s worst recessions, the rest of the town began to die.

  Therefore, it was no surprise that when Bentley bought up a prime piece of property in the middle of town to establish her agency, the locals welcomed her with open arms. She motivated other business owners and friends to relocate, and soon the town was reenergized and renamed. Despite her success as a Manhattan-based agent, Bentley was determined to return to her country roots and establish the finest literary agency south of the Mason-Dixon Line. According to my online research, Novel Idea had quickly become one of the nation’s top agencies and Bentley had lured away several top-notch New York agents who now proudly called North Carolina home.

  Before I had finished reading the agency’s dossier, the whistle blew and we pulled into Inspiration Valley Station. Stepping off the train, I inhaled deeply and looked around. I knew exactly where to go, having read that the Novel Idea Literary Agency took up the second floor of a prestigious office building on High Street.

  I loved High Street. It was a narrow cobblestone road that only allowed pedestrian traffic. Lined by cherry trees and ceramic urns overflowing with vibrant annuals, it called to mind a picturesque village in the English countryside. I knew Inspiration Valley well, as my mother lived on the outskirts of the isolated hamlet, but I’d never imagined I might be one of its inhabitants. It seemed like an enchanted place, set aside for those blessed with high levels of creativity. Having written nonfiction my entire life, I felt a bit like an imposter in a town filled with artists, writers, bakers, gardeners, and the merchants who catered to them.

  I deliberately headed for the middle of High Street where it intersected with Dogwood Lane, because I wanted to cut through the charming little park that stood in the heart of town. Well-tended garden beds surrounded a gurgling fountain rimmed with cobalt tiles. Sculptures of nine beautiful women in classical Greek dress stood inside the fountain, their lithe bodies frozen in graceful poses. Some of Inspiration Valley’s residents perched on the fountain’s edge with their coffees and newspapers, relishing the company of the famous muses who permanently bathed beneath arcs of soft rainbows and the water’s gentle spray.

  I didn’t have time to toss a lucky penny in the fountain today. Hustling into the spacious lobby of the building where the Novel Idea Literary Agency was housed, I was greeted by the delightful smell of brewing coffee and chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. I realized that I’d discovered a side entrance to Espresso Yourself, Inspiration Valley’s sole coffee shop. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows in the lobby and I couldn’t help but smile.

  Talk about a job perk. I pictured myself beginning each morning with a caramel latte and a croissant.

  “Let’s actually make it through a day of work first,” I chided myself. Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my skirt and hurried up a set of wide, sweeping stairs that led to a well-lit reception area. A leather sofa, two plump club chairs, and a polished mahogany coffee table dominated the empty room.

  On its slick surface, books had been arranged in a perfect circle around a slim vase of calla lilies. I took a moment to examine the titles. If the Novel Idea Literary Agency represented all the authors on that table, then I had stepped into a workplace representing a remarkably diverse group of writers. From Idiot’s Guides to erotic romance to graphic horror novels, no genre seemed to be off-limits. Excitement surged within me. I felt as though I already belonged.

  There was no receptionist’s desk, only a small table stacked with manila folders, unsorted mail, and a telephone. A sign said, “Dial 1 to announce your presence.” Ignoring the instruction, because Ms. Burlington-Duke had told me to come straight to her office, I hesitantly made my way down the main corridor, noting the agent names on brass placards on every closed door. Suddenly, a door to my right opened and a very short, very round woman in a floral dress ran right into me. She bounced backward with a high giggle.

  “Oops! Silly me!” Her round cheeks flushed pink. “Can I help you, dear?”

  The woman reminded me of the librarian at Trey’s elementary school. With a big, soft body and a generous heart, she, too, had favored flowered dresses and orthopedic footwear. The entire student body adored her.

  “I’m the new intern,” I answered and then added, doubtfully, “Are
you Ms. Burlington-Duke?”

  The woman guffawed, her bosom jiggling in mirth. “No, dear. I’m Flora Meriweather. I handle the children’s and young adult acquisitions. See?” She gestured inside her office.

  Leaning over the threshold, I took in a whitewashed wooden desk covered by disheveled stacks of paper, a Tiffany-style lamp, and a computer. There was a butter yellow file cabinet in the corner and a set of forest green bookshelves lining the longest wall. As for the walls themselves, they had been hand painted to resemble the art of a famous children’s book illustrator. I waited for the name to surface in my brain. “Tasha Tudor?”

  Flora was delighted. “You’re the first intern to recognize her work!” She clapped her pudgy hands. “Oh, I think this means you’re meant to be here.”

  I could have hugged her, but I restrained myself and settled for a grateful smile. “I hope so. My name’s Lila.”

  “Oh, that sounds just like a storybook character! Maybe a fairy or a flower princess.” Her merry face dimpled with pleasure. “Do you read children’s books?”

  I thought back to the days when I used to read aloud to Trey. “When my son was little, he was crazy about the Hardy Boys and anything by Roald Dahl, but the books we read over and over were Judy Blume’s Superfudge and Beverly Cleary’s Ramona the Brave.” I traveled down memory lane even further. “Personally, I loved the Little House on the Prairie books.”

  Flora clapped her hands with glee. “I recently sold a series of chapter books called Laura Ingalls, Prairie Detective. Anyone who ever liked Laura Ingalls or Nancy Drew will just yum these books up!”

  “They do sound wonderful,” I agreed.

  “Come this way, my dear. Bentley’s in her office, neck-deep in contract negotiations.” She lowered her voice. “She’s working on a major deal for a thriller writer. The man’s desperately been trying to get published for years, and it seems he’s finally penned a winner! Bentley says he’ll be even bigger than Patterson. His name is Carson Knight. Wait until you meet him. He’s so charming he’d cause a catfight among the Disney Princesses.”