Every Trick in the Book Read online

  I thought of the thousands of authors who would kill to have been in Coralee’s shoes. She had a contract, an advance, a great editor, and a reputable publishing house, and she threw it all away because she insisted on keeping scenes that hadn’t been in the original manuscript. “What an idiot,” I murmured.

  Logan’s expression had changed again. His eyes were brimming over with anger and he’d crushed the empty water bottle between his hands. “Do you think she had something to do with my wife’s death?”

  “If she did, you’ll know soon enough. The police had no idea who Coralee was, but they will in a few seconds. Now they can track her down and question her, thanks to you.” Rummaging in my purse, I located my cell phone and quickly called Sean.

  “The mystery woman with the green eyes and freckles?” I didn’t even bother with a hello. I knew Sean would understand as soon as he heard that I was with Melissa’s husband. “Her name is Coralee Silver.” As succinctly as possible, I explained the connection between the irate author and the murdered editor.

  “Please assure Mr. Delaney that we’ll act on this information immediately,” Sean stated, the excitement over a fresh lead evident in his voice. “And, Lila?”

  Fearing that I was about to receive a harsh reprimand for interfering in a police investigation, I winced a bit and said, “Yes?”

  “You’re amazing. I don’t know if you’ve been told that enough. If I’ve told you that enough. If you were here, I would show you just how grateful I am.”

  I could sense Sean’s desire coming right through my phone speaker. It was like a burst of hot air. I would have loved to return the sentiment, to tell him how much I wanted to see him, to touch him, and to feel his lips brush against mine, but Logan’s tortured face stopped the words in my throat. “I’ll tell Mr. Delaney that you’ll be in touch,” I replied as casually as I could. “As for the rest of your statement, I’d be glad to discuss that with you in person. Soon.”

  BACK AT NOVEL Idea, I addressed the onslaught of queries sitting in my email’s inbox. I was surprised to see the number of subject lines reading “requested material,” and wondered if word had spread among the writers present at the book festival that one could bypass Gatekeeper Vicky and reach any agent in our office simply by typing that magical phrase in the subject line.

  Still, I recalled being interested in several pitches during my Friday session, including a wonderful romantic suspense and two cozy mystery series, and I couldn’t wait to read those. However, I had over a dozen unsolicited queries to wade through first.

  I did my best to respond to queries within four weeks, but this group had been sitting there for nearly six now and I wanted to get back to the authors today if possible. With my door closed and Handel playing from the free music station on my computer, I pushed all thoughts of Melissa Plume’s death aside and devoted my full attention to the queries.

  Before I knew it, I’d sent fifteen rejection emails and two requests for the first fifty pages. I had made suggestions on eight of the rejection letters, recommending that the author increase or decrease the word count, clarify the project’s hook, or paint his or her protagonist in a more engaging light. The other rejections elicited no comments. The projects felt flat and unexciting to me, and there was no way to verbalize that sentiment kindly, so those authors would receive a form rejection letter without a personalized note. Who knows? Another agent might fall in love with those queries, but I didn’t feel a spark. So much of my job revolves around gut instincts—a sense of connection to the author’s story. The best queries leave me hungry for more. The worst leave me completely unmoved.

  I hit send on the last of the emails and then glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was half past three.

  “Coffee break!” I announced to the books on my shelves and headed downstairs.

  Espresso Yourself was buzzing with the murmur of satisfied customers along with a group of artists who were boisterously hanging a new collection of paintings on the walls. They were large canvases and were distinctly modern in style. One painting, which was nearly as tall as Makayla, had been covered with a cherry red wash. A black square adorned the bottom half of the panel, and the work was entitled, “Jazz.” I didn’t get it, but then again, my knowledge of abstract art could fit inside a thimble.

  “Not your cup of tea?” Makayla teased softly as I approached the counter. “I saw you tilting your head this way and that and frowning. Take a look at the one on the back wall. It’s called ‘Icarus.’ I like it.”

  I turned to take in another oversize canvas made up of swirls of blue, black, white, and gold and recalled the story of the boy with wax wings who’d flown too close to the sun and had ended up drowning in the sea as a result. “I can picture wings and waves. Sunlight and water. A range of emotions, too. The gold is like the freedom he must have felt during flight and the black is the fear that must have engulfed him as he began to fall.” I shook my head in wonder. “There’s so much going on in a few paint strokes. I don’t like it as much as my lady at the fountain painting, but it’s still amazing.”

  While Makayla fixed my latte, I filled her in on my lunchtime visit with Logan Delaney. I figured she had a right to know the identity of the mysterious green-eyed woman since she’d witnessed the fight between Melissa and Coralee. I was in the middle of explaining how Coralee was in breach of contract when a young man around Trey’s age started shouting and pointing out the window.

  “There’s a giant banana across the street!” he shrieked and then burst into a peal of unsettling, high-pitched laughter. He was slight of build and dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and a knit ski hat whose flaps covered his ears. The blue and green flaps tapered into tails of braided yarn that dangled past the boy’s shoulders. He tugged on them, repeatedly drawing attention to the “banana” out the window.

  Scowling over having my narrative interrupted, I realized that he was gesturing at my scooter. Makayla and I exchanged perplexed looks, and she murmured, “Do you think he’s drunk?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. If so, he’s going to need a double shot of espresso or he’ll be seeing an entire fruit basket on the train ride back to Dunston.”

  “I wanna peel the big banana!” the boy declared, heading for the door.

  A young woman with a collection of star tattoos on her neck grabbed her friend by the arm. “Dude, that’s a Vespa.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Get a grip. I just want to grab a café au lait and then we’re out of here.”

  Makayla frowned. “I’ve never wanted to shoo off customers before, but these kids have been crowding my space for the last few weeks and they’ve all been raucous as magpies and messy as pigeons.”

  Studying the group of older teens, who appeared to be yet another wave of college students skipping classes, I remembered Trey telling me that Jasper had been charging coeds to meditate at the co-op. A couple of these kids were wearing caps embroidered with the Red Fox Mountain Co-op logo. Had they just come from there?

  “I think I’ll drop in on Trey tonight,” I told Makayla. “Bring him some supper and see exactly what’s changed up on Red Fox Mountain.”

  “Good,” Makayla answered, handing me a steaming hot pumpkin spice latte. “And if you could find a way to magically send these kids back to a college campus until they’re thirty-year-old yuppies in business suits that would be super. Because they are crappy tippers.”

  WITH THE LATE afternoon sun glaring in my eyes, I rode my scooter up the steep path toward the Red Fox Mountain Co-op. Scents of tree sap, pine, and fecund soil drifted past me, and I felt a tinge of remorse at disturbing the peaceful forest with my noisy little Vespa. It didn’t last long, however, for at the top, the road leveled and the engine, not having to work so hard, rumbled quieter. Ahead, the wooden sign affixed to the willow branch arch proclaimed, Welcome to The Red Fox Mountain Co-op. I passed under it, emerging into a wide, flat clearing.

  A red Honda Civic was parked near the chain-link fence surrounding
the goat paddock. I pulled my Vespa in behind it and removed my helmet. It had been a few months since I’d been on the property, and at first glance the co-op appeared to be relatively unchanged. The grass on the circular plateau was neatly mowed, and the cluster of cabins to the right and the large barn behind the goat paddock were still unpainted. On the other side of the chain-link fence a few white goats bleated, their brown faces and floppy ears as charming as ever.

  But as I continued to look around, I saw differences, too. No longer was there an old-fashioned push mower leaning against the fence. Instead, a shiny green riding mower stood by a shed. A new building had been erected behind the cabins with cream-colored aluminum siding and shiny glass windows. The most telling improvement, however, was the electrical poles and wires running up the mountain into the new structure. The co-op had prided itself on being solar-and human-powered, so this was an indication that something had changed in their basic philosophy.

  On the porch of one of the cabins, two women sat in green Adirondack chairs with baskets of woven hemp at their feet. I waved at them, struck by another change—the weavers used to sit on crude stools. One raised her hand while the other sipped from a mug as she stared at me suspiciously.

  Cabin windows glowed with interior lights. In the waning sun, the air became chilly. People wearing jackets and sweaters appeared from various parts of the property and headed toward individual cabins. I noticed that no one was setting the outdoor picnic tables for supper and wondered if the new building had been erected so the co-op members could enjoy meals inside during the colder months.

  I looked for Trey among the residents but didn’t see him. When I glanced at the barn, thinking it might be milking time, he appeared at its door and began to shoo goats into the paddock. He saw me and waved, called out a hello, and continued to herd the goats outside.

  When I opened the rear carrier on my scooter, the aromas of tomatoes, garlic, and basil wafted out. My mouth watered in anticipation of the lasagna I had purchased from How Green Was My Valley. The store had hired a new cook who’d emigrated from Florence, and her renditions of classic Italian dishes were scrumptious.

  Trey appeared at the fence, his fingers curled around the wire. “What’ve you got there?” he asked, clearly pleased to see me even though we’d shared breakfast together at my house that morning.

  I held up the bag. “Interested in some lasagna for supper? I thought we could eat together again tonight.”

  He grinned. “Awesome! If you cooked it, you know I’ll definitely love it.” He climbed the chain links with the agility of a monkey and jumped to the ground at my feet.

  “You’re such a sweet-talker, but it’s takeout.” I closed the carrier. “Where should we eat?”

  “We can sit at one of the picnic tables.” He glanced at my quilted jacket. “If you’re not too cold.”

  I shook my head. “Nope, I’m good. But you should put on something warmer.” The mother in me always came out when I was with Trey, regardless of the fact that he was becoming a mature and independent young man.

  He tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt. “I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  We sat down and I pulled plastic cutlery out of the bag while Trey opened the containers with the lasagna and Caesar salad.

  I looked up at the sky. The blue hue of twilight created a stark contrast with the dying leaves and dark evergreens. It felt good to be sitting outside in the crisp November dusk. “They’ve made a lot of improvements,” I said as I unfolded a paper napkin and placed it on my lap. I pointed to the aluminum-sided structure. “What’s that new building?”

  “Part of it is our communal area where we can gather in bad weather, but most of it’s the”—he made quotation marks at the sides of his head with his fingers—“meditation center.” He was quiet as he cut into his lasagna. “I don’t know what they actually do in there, since I’m not allowed to go in.” He speared the fork into the pasta and shoved it into his mouth, looking longingly at the building.

  I placed my hand on his arm. “Aw, honey.”

  He chewed and shrugged. “I don’t care. But this”—he pointed his fork at the pasta—“is delicious.” He put another morsel into his mouth.

  After swallowing a crunchy piece of romaine lettuce covered in Caesar dressing and grated Parmesan, I asked, “And they now have electricity?”

  Trey nodded. “Only in the new building and some of the cabins. There are a couple of computers in the communal center, too. And a flat-screen TV.”

  “Wow.” I savored a bite of lasagna. There was just enough garlic and basil to harmonize with the tomato sauce and melted cheeses, and the homemade pasta was a perfect texture. “Whatever happened to simple living? To the co-op being entirely human-powered? And how are they paying for all this? Is the market for goat and hemp products that lucrative?”

  “Not that I know of. We’re still getting the same prices for our stuff that we did when I first came here. And our yield isn’t any greater.” He put his fork down. “I don’t know where the extra money is coming from, unless it’s the meditation sessions. But the only people who come for those are college kids, and they can’t pay that kind of money, can they?”

  He seemed sincerely baffled, and I didn’t know how to answer. The situation seemed at odds with everything I’d understood about the co-op. I had to admit, however, that observing the recent changes lit a spark of hope in my heart that Trey would become disillusioned enough by it that he’d decide to attend college after all. “I don’t know, honey. I—”

  “Hey, dude,” a voice interrupted. “That smells, like, totally awesome. Got enough for us?”

  The young man I’d seen in Espresso Yourself who’d been wearing the blue and green ski hat and who had shouted about a giant banana stood at the end of our table, the braided tails of his hat’s ear flaps dangling over our supper. His friend, the girl with the star tattoos on her neck, had her arm in the crook of his elbow. Behind them stood another older teen, spiked hair dyed a fluorescent blue.

  I smiled apologetically at them. “Sorry, I only brought enough for the two of us.” I waved my hand in the direction of my Vespa. “But I rode in on my big banana over there.”

  “Huh?” The teen with the ski hat looked at the scooter and then at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you in the coffee shop earlier, and you called my scooter a banana.”

  “I did not. I have no idea what you’re talking about, lady.”

  The girl pulled on his arm. “Come on, Dex, let’s go.”

  Dex freed his arm and looked at Trey. “You’re, like, the goat dude, aren’t you? Your name’s Trey?”

  Trey nodded and pointed to the meditation center. “What exactly do you guys do in there? Were you meditating just now?”

  He grinned. “Naw, not this time. We were just getting our groove on with a little—”

  “Okay, guests, time to go. You know the agreement. Once it’s suppertime at the co-op you’ve got to be out of here.” Jasper Gyles, the leader of the Red Fox Co-op, approached our table with his sister, Iris, who looked as beautiful and ethereal as always.

  In the manner of a shepherd herding his flock, Jasper directed the three teens toward the red Honda. I watched them, pondering the change in Jasper. Upon first meeting Jasper at the beginning of the summer, Trey had remarked that the co-op leader, who had bright blue eyes, a brown beard, and long wavy hair, bore a close resemblance to Jesus. But Jasper was beardless, wore his hair short, and was dressed in tidy jeans and an expensive leather jacket.

  I turned back to the table. Iris was sitting beside Trey, nudged in close. Noticing me observing, Trey blushed and offered her the remainder of his salad. She shook her head, briefly touching his arm, then said to me, “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wilkins.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Iris. Would you like a biscotti?” I opened the container of crunchy, sweet almond biscuits. Trey reached out and took one. Iris shook her head.

 
“No, thank you.”

  “I see some changes here at the co-op,” I said, taking a cookie and wishing I had a coffee to dip it in. “Are you pleased with the new direction?”

  Before Iris could respond, Jasper appeared behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. I noticed his fingers press into her flesh and she stiffened in response. “Ms. Wilkins,” he said with a generous smile. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you, Jasper.” I looked into his lake blue eyes. “I see that you are doing very well. Business must be brisk.”

  “Yes, we’ve diversified and it’s been very lucrative. One can’t stand still in the way of progress.”

  “But what about the simplistic approach you embraced when Trey first arrived?” I looked at Trey, who was giving me a wide-eyed signal to stop. Iris squirmed beside him. “Where you wanted to live a self-sustaining life, free of society’s encumbrances? Now you have electricity, computers, TV, and a riding lawn tractor.”

  “Ah, well, people change. Philosophies change.” He shrugged and walked to the end of the table, folding his arms across his chest. “It was getting a little tedious to work this place primarily on people power. We’re all much happier now, aren’t we?” He directed his gaze to Trey and Iris, who both nodded but said nothing.

  “But how have you diversified to generate so much more income?” I realized that this question was on the verge of being impolite, but my son was living here and I wanted to know what was going on.

  Jasper frowned. “Oh, increasing our crop variety and expanding the market.”

  “And don’t forget the meditation sessions,” Trey blurted out. “You charge a lot for them, too, right?”

  Iris nervously twisted a lock of her pale hair. Jasper turned in the direction of the new building. “Ah yes, the meditation sessions. They’ve proved to be very profitable.” He reached his arm toward Iris and Trey. “Come, you two. The movie will be starting soon.”

  Iris stood. Putting her hand on Trey’s shoulder, she said, “Let’s go. The Hunger Games DVD arrived today.” Turning to me, she said, “You don’t mind if he goes, do you? We’ve been waiting for ages to watch this movie.”