Buried in a Book Read online

  “What are you doing?” a small voice inquired.

  Startled, I lost my balance and only managed to land on my feet because of Makayla’s firm grip. The boy stood by the bench, a yellow Corvette in his hand.

  “Are you putting a note in there for the Flower Man?” he asked.

  Makayla and I exchanged excited glances.

  “Do you mean the man with the long gray beard and coat?” I pantomimed a beard growing from my own chin.

  The boy nodded. “He picks flowers even though my mom says that’s bad. And he hides notes in there.” He pointed to the purple martin house.

  “That’s what I’m looking for now,” I said. “Did you see him put one in there recently?”

  “Aiden! Come here!” The mother with the twins started walking toward us.

  “Aw, Mom, I’m just talking to the ladies.” He rolled his eyes. “She always thinks somebody’s gonna take me or try to give me candy.”

  Makayla smiled at him. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of chocolate-covered coffee beans at the moment.”

  Having reached us, his mother grabbed hold of her little boy’s arm. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

  I reached out my hand. “I’m Lila Wilkins, ma’am, and I didn’t mean any harm.” Makayla also introduced herself.

  “Hello,” the woman said, barely making eye contact. “Sorry to act overprotective, but we’ve seen our share of weirdos around here. Come with me, Aiden.” She pulled him toward the entrance. “We have to go home for supper. Dylan, Daniel, time to go!”

  “But Mom, I gotta get my cars!” Aiden yanked free and ran to his toys, hastily dumping them into a bucket. “Bye!” he shouted, waving at us.

  Disappointed that I couldn’t ask him, or his mother for that matter, more questions about Marlette, I climbed back on the bench and inspected the rest of the purple martin house. But there was nothing inside except for nesting materials. The twigs and fluff and grass that once kept helpless baby birds safe and warm now served no purpose and were merely debris.

  I climbed down dispiritedly, reflecting on how the emptiness of the birdhouse resembled that of Marlette’s little home in the woods.

  “Don’t worry,” Makayla said, seeing I was in need of a pep talk. “Tomorrow’s another day. Who knows what clues are just waiting to be found?”

  “I hope there’s at least one, because at this point I am striking out as a detective.”

  She took my arm in hers. “But you make a fabulous park bench acrobat.”

  This earned her a laugh, but as we left the park, I carried the image of the vacant birdhouse with me. More than ever, I was determined to find out what happened to Marlette and to deliver a measure of justice to the person known to the children as the Flower Man.

  Chapter 8

  AS THE WEEK PROGRESSED, MY DAYS AT A NOVEL IDEA began to take on a regular rhythm. I was grateful for this, since the past two weeks had contained more drama than I cared to replicate.

  On Friday morning my mother drove me to work, the way she’d done the previous few days.

  “This is a nice little routine we got goin’, isn’t it?” She said as she pulled up in front of Espresso Yourself. “Me takin’ you to work, then stoppin’ in town for what I need, and I get back home in time to get my banana bread in the oven and prepare for my first client.”

  “It works well for now. Thanks, Mom.” I watched her drive off and headed into Espresso Yourself. There was a line at the counter, but Makayla greeted me as I walked through the door.

  “I saw your mama’s darling turquoise truck outside,” she said, holding out a cup. “Here’s your latte.” She then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Much as I’d love to, I’m way too busy to look at any of Marlette’s journal today. Got a nice little catering order to fill and inventory to do.”

  Each morning, if Makayla had time, we’d examine an intriguing piece of writing or drawing from Marlette’s journal. I had taken the photocopies I’d made of the original and placed them in a three-ring binder. The cover featured a print of monarch butterflies and blue hummingbirds hovering over the uplifted face of a gold chrysanthemum. The nature theme reminded me of Marlette. Still, I missed the pine-scented pages and the texture of the dried flowers and scraps of paper he’d pasted into his diary.

  “No worries. Next time,” I said. “I have a pile of work to do, too.”

  I had just turned my computer on when a young police officer appeared at my door.

  “Are you Lila Wilkins? I was told to pick up a book or journal from you.”

  “Oh, I thought Officer Griffiths was coming to get it.” I tried not to show my disappointment. From my desk drawer I removed the envelope containing the enigmatic book and handed it to the policeman. He dropped it into an evidence bag, his movements conducted without the slightest hint of care. I held back a complaint about his indelicate treatment of Marlette’s most precious possession.

  But then I remembered that not everyone understands what it means to reveal one’s most intimate thoughts through lines of writing or meticulously detailed sketches. Not everyone is aware of how many emotions can be tucked away in the cursive loops and curves of a proper name. They don’t know how a few scant lines of pen or pencil can represent a childhood memory, a strange and wondrous dream, or a desperate hope for the future. These feelings and so many more existed in Marlette’s journal, and though I studied it each night before bed, I’d made no further progress in extracting a tangible clue.

  Marlette was never far from my thoughts, but I have to admit that I quickly became too busy to devote as much time to his journal as I’d have liked. The queries and proposals kept pouring in. The moment I felt I’d made headway on electronic queries, the mailman would jog up the stairs, whistling to announce his presence, and I’d end up with a sack load of letters. They’d populate the corner of my desk, their colorful stamps and return address labels staring at me hopefully, then accusingly, then angrily as the hours passed.

  “This must be how the post office feels when the kids start mailing off their letters to the North Pole,” I murmured as I scrutinized the dozens of paper cuts on my thumb and forefinger and resolved to pick up a letter opener over the weekend. Thank goodness I didn’t have to lick the endless envelopes filled with rejection letters I mailed out each day. If it hadn’t been for self-stick envelopes, I would have had to use a sponge.

  At this point, it became clear that the final workday of the week would once again be the most memorable, as my first email of the morning read,

  I received your form rejection letter yesterday. You couldn’t take five minutes of your precious time to tell me why you were passing on such a unique idea? It took me five years to write this book, but you can’t be bothered to give even a single sentence of feedback? I will be sure to tell all of my many writer friends to forget about querying your agency because you clearly don’t recognize talent when you see it.

  That email was better than the one that came next, which was much more direct in its hostility:

  Dear Ms. Wilkins,

  Thanks for nothing, you stupid bitch.

  Instinctively, I reached out to delete the message and then paused. I needed to add these two writers to my Agents Beware file. Shaking my head over their lack of professionalism, I printed out copies of their emails and stuffed them into my red file folder. Zach caught me frowning as I dropped the folder onto the surface of my desk.

  “Zach Attack!” he shouted and leapt across the threshold, his arms outstretched as though he expected applause from a studio audience. “What gives, Pretty Woman? Writers be-having badly?”

  I nodded and gave the folder a dismissive wave. “I’m immune to these kinds of snarky comments. I have a teenage son.”

  Zach laughed. “Cool. I’ll have to take him to a hoops game this fall. Is he into sports?”

  “Definitely. He’s a huge Tar Heels fan.” I gave Zach a grateful smile, but the exchange reminded me that the ebullient agent
carried a strong grudge against Marlette for chasing off Taylor Boone. If she hadn’t been repulsed by Marlette’s appearance, Boone might just have become Zach’s star client. The young agent had undoubtedly looked forward to a long and lucrative relationship with the reality show star until Marlette had spoiled his plans.

  As I searched for a way to bring up the subject, Luella breezed down the hallway. She gave me the ghost of a grin and a wriggle of her fingers but turned a dazzling smile on Zach, trailing her pinkie seductively down his cheek. She then kissed the finger and placed the kiss on his lips before continuing to her office. Zach forgot all about me and drifted in Luella’s perfume-scented wake, a dreamy look on his face.

  Resolving to ask Zach to join me for lunch next week in order to grill him about Marlette, I got back to work. So far, I’d only found one interesting nonfiction query, and since I needed a break anyway, I walked it down to Franklin’s office. I rapped lightly on his door and, when he didn’t answer, opened it a crack. Franklin was seated at his desk, the back of his swivel chair to the door. He had a phone held to his ear and was murmuring softly to the person on the other end.

  I knocked again, louder this time, and waited on the threshold. I didn’t want to interrupt an intimate conversation, but Franklin swiveled around in his chair and slammed the phone into the cradle as though he’d been overheard saying something monstrous. His face was flushed, and his jaw clenched in what was either anger or embarrassment or both. I took an involuntary step into the hall, and Franklin tensed like a leopard preparing to spring.

  “Excuse me,” I said apologetically as I tried to suppress my trepidation at Franklin’s extreme reaction. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” I raised the sheaf of paper in my right hand. “This seems like a promising query on decorating with vintage items. The author has run an antique mall for twenty-five years and recently expanded her business to include interior design. She’s local,” I continued, despite the fact that Franklin hadn’t spoken a word. “I’ve been to her shop—a renovated tobacco warehouse that’s been divided into various rooms. Each room has a theme, like an art deco living room or a 1950s kitchen, for example.”

  Franklin blinked and allowed his shoulders to relax. The pink left his cheeks, and the look of animal wariness disappeared from his eyes. He made a show of tidying his already neat desk and said, “Won’t you sit down?”

  After handing him the letter, I complied, but I was unable to sink back into the chair’s soft leather. The tension that had left Franklin’s body seemed to have entered mine like a parasite in search of a host.

  Franklin Stafford was a man with a secret. I had seen it just now, that flash of guilt followed by a flicker of menace? Fear? I didn’t know exactly what I’d observed, but I’d have to drum up enough courage to find out, since it could have something to do with Marlette.

  As Franklin read the query, I considered how the days had passed without my managing to confront any of my coworkers other than Flora about their feelings toward Marlette, but the agents weren’t readily accessible. Between their staff and client meetings and my succession of long phone conversations and various errands, there wasn’t as much socializing as I’d imagined. The agents popped into one another’s offices throughout the day—only Bentley remained closeted at the end of the hall for the entire week purportedly finessing Carson Knight’s contract—and I exchanged small talk with all of them in the break room. But for the most part, we worked independently of one another.

  I was used to this atmosphere from my years at the Dunston Herald, but we reporters operated in a large room divided by cubicles. The setup of Novel Idea created more privacy and yet did not prevent genuine camaraderie between the agents. I certainly saw what a close-knit group they were during Wednesday’s staff meeting.

  It started off with Bentley walking into the room with a tray of coffee and a bag of lemon ginger scones from Espresso Yourself.

  “I thought you’d appreciate a little pick-me-up,” she announced, placing them on the table. “For all your hard work this week.”

  “Woo hoo!” Zach exclaimed. “Did you get me a triple espresso?”

  “Yes, Zach. I had Makayla make all of your favorites.”

  During the meeting, the agents shared which of their clients’ manuscripts had received offers by editors or had been passed on and were now with another publishing house awaiting review.

  When it was Luella’s turn to speak, she announced smugly, “Do you recall Gillian Lea’s new romantic suspense series? The one featuring shape-shifters?” She waited as those around the table nodded their heads. I recognized Gillian Lea as a successful romance writer but had not read any of her books. “The manuscript is in the midst of a major bidding war,” Luella continued. “I aim for the winning publisher to end up paying the author an advance of seventy-five thousand dollars per book.”

  My jaw nearly came unhinged, but I tried not to show my surprise, as none of the other agents seemed awed by this number.

  “Congratulations, Luella,” Jude said, raising his coffee cup. The other agents followed suit.

  At the end of the meeting, Bentley stood. “I’d like to note that Lila, our newest intern, has had a very promising beginning. Thank you, Lila.”

  “Yes, I concur,” Flora said. “Lila is a wonderful addition to our little group.”

  And then we adjourned.

  No one mentioned Marlette or the investigation. No one whispered the word “murder.” It was as if the unusual man had never climbed the stairs with his wilted flowers and hopeful face.

  I hadn’t mentioned Marlette, either, and though I kept looking at the newspaper for an article on his death, the crime pages were still focused on the arson case in Dunston. More than once over the course of the week, I flirted with the idea of calling Sean, but something held me back.

  By the time I’d finished my daily allotment of queries, proposal critiques, and mailings that Friday afternoon, I was ready for the weekend. My mother picked me up and drove me the short distance to Inspiration Valley’s organic food store, How Green Was My Valley. It was my intention to whip up a tasty meal for Althea and Trey. My mother had generously offered to make supper every evening, but last night’s lasagna had been so undercooked that I nearly chipped a tooth on a noodle. On Tuesday night, she’d grilled hamburgers until they resembled miniature manhole covers. Althea’s talents in the kitchen were truly restricted to banana bread, coffee, and comfort.

  In addition to bagfuls of fresh local produce, I picked up a copy of Charlaine Harris’s latest Sookie Stackhouse novel. After a week’s worth of query letters, I wanted to read something fun over the weekend.

  “Have you heard from Trey?” my mother asked me after I’d loaded the groceries into a box in the truck bed.

  “No.” I shot her a confused glance. “I thought he was going to borrow the truck and continue his job hunt today.”

  My mother shook her head. “I never laid eyes on the boy this mornin’. His bed is as wrinkled as one of those Shar-Pei puppies, and it looks like a tornado blew in his window, lifted up all his clothes, and sent ’em flyin’ to every corner of the room. Doesn’t he know what folks use hangers for?”

  “Sorry, Mama. He’s always been untidy.”

  My mother snorted. “Kindergartners are untidy. That son of yours is a flat-out slob. But his room won’t put me off my supper. I just don’t like not knowin’ where he is, and the cards say he’s bein’ drawn away from the familiar. Somethin’ powerful has a hold on the boy, and I can’t tell if it’s a positive or negative influence. Things go all cloudy when I close my eyes and try to search him out.”

  Ignoring the psychic mumbo jumbo, I said, “He’s probably hanging out at the Red Fox Co-op. You saw how he looked at Iris. Totally thunderstruck.”

  “Yeah, I saw. I just wonder how far he’ll go to turn that girl’s head,” my mother murmured enigmatically.

  With the exception of Makayla’s remark about the co-op folks growing marijuana as one of their
crops, I wasn’t too concerned about Trey being up the mountain. The people there seemed charitable and kind, if not a little spellbound by Jasper. Trey would be home by nightfall. He didn’t enjoy roughing it much.

  Back at my mother’s, I put the groceries away and then popped the cap off a bottle of beer. After my long week, the cool liquid slid down my throat like cold honey, and I sighed in contentment. Althea turned on a Johnny Cash CD, and the two of us belted out “Daddy Sang Bass” as I breaded chicken cutlets and fried them up in peanut oil. In true Paula Deen style, my fried chicken was seasoned with a splash of hot sauce, and I served it with slaw and buttered corn on the cob. I made enough for three, but Trey didn’t show up for dinner. I hoped he was consuming more than beer with his new Red Fox friends.

  The sky had turned a bruised blue and gray by the time my mother and I finished supper and began to clear the table.

  “It’s gonna rain,” she said, raising her nose into the air like a dog catching a scent.

  Leaving the dishes to soak, we went out to the back porch and settled into a pair of rockers. My mother was having Jim Beam over ice for dessert, and I was going to digest a bit before attacking the quart of mocha chip I’d stashed behind a large bag of peas in the freezer. We’d barely set the wooden rockers in motion when my cell phone rang. The number wasn’t familiar, but I answered anyway.

  “Lila?” Ginny Burroughs, my Dunston real estate agent, sounded agitated. Her strained voice immediately put me on alert.

  “Good evening, Ginny. How are you?”

  A pause. “Well, I was just coming over to your house to put the lockbox on—two agents are planning on showing it tomorrow—when I saw something…strange on your front door.”

  I waited for her to continue, but she clearly wanted me to ask what she meant, so I played along. “Strange?”

  She hesitated, drawing in a deep, fortifying breath. “Lila, someone’s spray-painted a red skull and crossbones on your white paint!”