Every Trick in the Book Read online

  Flora was right. It wasn’t at all cold on the patio. Four tall heaters glowing orange cast their warm rays on the diners, keeping the temperature very comfortable. Several people had even removed their coats, and if I used my imagination, I could pretend we were eating outdoors in late summer. We sat down at the one empty table beneath a large chestnut tree whose branches were bare except for the occasional golden yellow leaf. As I hung my jacket on the back of the chair, the waitress brought us glasses of water and menus.

  Flora moved the menu to the edge of the table. “Thanks, Kathleen, but I don’t need to see the menu. I’ll just have my usual.”

  The waitress grinned, her green eyes twinkling. “Irish stew and soda bread?” When Flora nodded, Kathleen turned to me. “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”

  “I understand you make a great burger here,” I said, holding the menu but not opening it.

  “Best in the Valley.”

  “I’m celebrating, so I’ll take a cheeseburger with the works.” I handed the menu back to her and told Flora more about my phone calls with Kate and Calliope.

  When the food arrived, the aromas were tantalizing. Flora’s stew was loaded with beef chunks, potatoes, and vegetables, all submerged in a thick gravy. The crust of the accompanying soda bread was a firm golden brown while the inside appeared dense and soft. “That looks and smells really good,” I said, eyeing her plate and wondering if I should have ordered the stew.

  “So does your cheeseburger,” she replied and proceeded to butter a slice of her bread. “You won’t regret your choice.”

  I didn’t. The burger was cooked just right and seasoned to perfection. It was topped with a slice of sharp cheddar and sautéed mushrooms and onions, and balanced with sweet slices of tomatoes and fresh leaves of lettuce. The fries on the side were thick, fresh cut, and crisp. I ate with gusto.

  I was dipping my last fry into the dollop of mayonnaise on my plate when Flora smiled at someone near the door and raised her hand in greeting. “Yoo-hoo!” she called and then turned back to me. “Here’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Following her glance, I saw a tall, slim woman coming toward us carrying a leather overnight bag. Her dark hair was casually pulled back with a clip, and she wore jeans and a gorgeous, intricately knit cardigan. As she approached the table, Flora stood.

  “Tilly! I didn’t know you were still in town.” She hugged the woman and then gestured in my direction. “This is Lila Wilkins, a wonderful agent in our firm. She’s just landed her first big deal. Lila, this is Tilly Smythe. She’s a client of mine and writes the most wonderful YA series about the adventures of an orphan boy trying to discover the identity of his parents. Her last two books hit the bestseller list, and we think the series could become as popular as Harry Potter.”

  “Fingers crossed,” the woman said as she shook my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Lila.” She glanced around the patio. “There aren’t any free tables anywhere in this restaurant. I thought I’d pop in for a quick lunch before catching the train back to Dunston, but—”

  “Oh, join us, Tilly. We were just about to order dessert.” Flora had already grabbed an empty chair from a four-top table occupied by three diners.

  After Tilly sat down, I asked, “Could you tell me a bit more about your series?”

  “Sure. The books feature a fourteen-year-old boy named Danny who was orphaned as a young child and doesn’t know what happened to his parents. So he travels around the country trying to find them and gets caught up in a host of adventures. It’s also a fantasy, because he meets odd characters along the way, like elves and people who fly and talking mountain lions. Each book is set in a different place. The one I’m working on now, the fourth book, takes place in South Dakota. Danny joins up with a wolf pack that communicates in a special language. And for some reason, which is yet to be revealed, Danny can understand them.”

  As Tilly spoke, her enthusiasm for the project was evident. However, she appeared somewhat distracted and was continuously looking over her shoulder throughout her narrative. There was something familiar about her, and I had the sense that I knew her from somewhere, but I couldn’t place her.

  “Have we met before?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I was at the book festival over the weekend, so you may have seen me there.”

  I didn’t recall encountering her at the town hall, but parts of the weekend were a blur, so it was possible. There was definitely something memorable about Tilly—I felt like I’d looked into her eyes before. And despite her friendliness, those dark eyes unsettled me.

  When the waitress returned to our table, Tilly ordered a salad while Flora chose an apple cobbler for dessert. I decided to have a Baileys mousse pie with a coffee.

  “What are you still doing in town?” Flora asked Tilly. “I thought you were heading back right after the festival.”

  “I spent a few days with my friend, Ginny Callaway, the metal sculptor. I’ve known her since high school and we’ve been catching up. Plus, I’ve been exploring the town in depth, thinking I might set one of Danny’s adventures here. I’m finding inspiration in Inspiration Valley.” She chuckled and pulled out of her bag a spiral-bound notebook with a hot pink cover, fanning its pages. “See, I’ve been taking notes and have a loose outline for the book already.” She suddenly turned her head toward the door, her shoulders rigid.

  At that moment, the waitress brought our food. My Baileys mousse pie was sky-high, with a mound of cream on top. If I finished it, I’d probably have to undo the top button of my skirt, but I dug into the treat anyway. It was chocolaty smooth, with a hint of alcoholic creaminess. Well worth that top button!

  Tilly nibbled at her salad anxiously and then leaned forward. “Do you consider this town safe?” she asked.

  Flora looked puzzled. “Of course. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I think it’s the safest place in the world.”

  “But there was that murder at the festival,” Tilly countered. “And I get this feeling…” She shot a nervous look over her shoulder again.

  I touched her hand. “Tilly, the police are pretty certain that Melissa’s murder is related to either her personal or professional life back in New York. It probably had nothing to do with Inspiration Valley.”

  “But I get the sense that someone is watching me here.” She began to shred her napkin. “I know it sounds crazy, and I never actually see anyone, but it feels like I’m being followed.”

  I was suddenly struck by a thought. “Did you know Melissa Plume? Did you two ever meet?”

  She shook her head. “I’d never even heard of her before she was murdered.”

  Flora pulled out her credit card and waved it at the waitress. “You’re probably feeling spooked because of the murder. It spooked me, too. You’re safe in this town. And put away your wallets. This lunch is on me.”

  “Thank you, Flora. That’s kind of you. Oh, I’d better get going,” Tilly said, checking her watch. “Sorry to rush off, but the next train leaves in ten minutes, and if I cut out the back I’ll just catch it.” She picked up her valise and went through the gated exit bordering the grassy field that led to the station.

  “Is she usually that high-strung?” I asked Flora as I watched Tilly hurry toward the train station.

  Flora shook her head. “Not in my experience. She’s always been a calm, easygoing person.”

  “Well, something out of the ordinary is going on with her,” I commented, noticing she’d left her pink notebook on the table. Perhaps some of Althea was rubbing off on me, because I was filled with a sense of dread that Tilly’s anxiety was not unfounded.

  Chapter 10

  I FELT RATHER DEFLATED FOR THE REST OF THE DAY. MY big sale had allowed me an hour or two of elation, but by the time I left the agency that afternoon, oppressive thoughts sat on my shoulders like a sodden cloak. Melissa. Trey. Tilly. I was worrying about a woman I’d just met, for crying out loud, but her discomfort was almo
st palpable. And more than a little contagious.

  A month ago, I would have brushed aside her odd behavior and decided that she was just another eccentric writer, but not now. Too much had happened for me to ignore any instinctual warning flags, and since Flora had assured me that Tilly was normally very even-keeled, her trepidation had definitely set off my “something is amiss” radar.

  Even my yellow cottage, toasty warm and smelling of cinnamon candles, didn’t cheer me up. I cooked myself supper, listened to a voicemail from Sean saying that he was thinking of me but wouldn’t be able to stop by, and fell asleep leafing through Apples for Jam, one of my favorite cookbooks.

  Thankfully, I had so much work waiting for me at Novel Idea on Wednesday morning that there was no time to brood. I’d barely begun reading my emails when Zach burst into my office, a wide smile on his boyishly handsome face.

  “Come get your sugar on!” he shouted, disrupting the tranquil atmosphere. “We celebrate with coffee and carbs around here. One of Novel Idea’s agency mottos is that if you haven’t gone up a clothing size by the end of the year, then you’re not making enough deals.” He patted his flat stomach and winked. “Except for me, of course. I’ve got to stay fit if I’m going to rope in the top athletes. If any of them saw how fast I’m going to devour one of Nell’s bear claws, they’d make me do suicide drills on the sidewalk before signing a contract. Let’s go before Franklin picks all the best stuff.” He gallantly offered me his arm and I walked around from behind my desk and took it.

  I found the rest of my coworkers in the kitchen. They’d ordered a pastry platter from Sixpence Bakery and a tray of lattes from Espresso Yourself. Outside the window over the sink, the sky began to darken, threatening a bone-chilling thunderstorm, but I paid it no mind. It’s amazing how a cup of strong coffee, a pumpkin muffin top drizzled with icing, and the kindheartedness of friends can make any day feel like summer.

  My coworkers entertained me with stories of their first major deals and our laughter filled the office. Even Vicky joined in and let her self-discipline slide enough to enjoy half an apple Danish. I looked around the room and smiled. For the hundredth time, I thought how lucky I’d been to land this job. No matter what happened, I loved what I did and was truly fortunate to work alongside such delightful people.

  Thus invigorated, I returned to my laptop and stuffed inbox.

  The first email that caught my eye contained the subject line “requested material,” and I immediately recognized the sender’s name. It was from Ashley Buckland, the writer who’d pitched the cozy mystery series featuring stay-at-home dads turned amateur sleuths.

  I began with the query letter and was immediately hooked. Not only was the letter organized and polished, but the writer’s witty, humorous voice also shone through each and every line.

  “If the manuscript is anything like the query, this is going to be a fun book to read,” I mused aloud and opened the document.

  The first fifty pages were an entertaining romp through the domestic trials and tribulations of a winsome stay-at-home dad. Ashley began his story with his protagonist, Will MacGillicuddy, accidentally pouring bleach over a load of his family’s colored clothes, nearly losing a finger to the food processor, and walking in circles in a superstore in search of his child’s favorite cereal. Will collides into the shopping cart of another overwhelmed father, and after transporting their screaming children to the park, the two dads form the Men at Home support group.

  I laughed many times over the course of those fifty pages and found Ashley to be a skilled writer. He treated real-life parenting experiences with humor, but also with sensitivity and a genuine depth of feeling. By the point at which one of the stay-at-home group’s six members is murdered, I had become so fond of the characters that I wanted to shout, “No, not him! I liked him!”

  There were plenty of potential suspects, the murder was handled with tasteful compassion, and as I read Ashley’s synopsis of how the rest of the book would unfold, I knew it was a winner. The title, Deadly Diapers, needed work, but I was ready to request the full manuscript, and I sent Ashley an email telling him that I’d like to see the rest of the book.

  I’d been so engrossed with Buckland’s writing that my coffee had gotten cold, so I returned to the kitchen to warm it up in the microwave. Jude was doing the same thing and we exchanged a laugh over the coincidence.

  “It’s amazing how quickly an hour can pass when someone sends you an intriguing proposal,” Jude said. “I hope my guy responds quickly to my request for the full manuscript, because if I don’t act fast, someone else is going to snap him up. This author’s got a really gritty, edgy voice and his material is dark and gripping and a little warped. I love it.” Jude removed his coffee cup from the microwave and gestured for me to hand him mine. “Please, allow me,” he added, his seductive mouth curving up in a smile.

  As I passed him the cup he intentionally covered my fingers with his. For a moment, I was transported to the summer evening in which Jude’s mouth had found mine. We’d kissed once, with what I’d foolishly believed was genuine passion, until we were interrupted. Now Sean was my man and Jude knew it, but neither of us could deny that a physical attraction still lingered between us. It had been months since my body had reacted to his presence, but the air crackled around our fingertips and I nearly sighed in relief when he finally let go.

  Vicky came into the kitchen for a second cup of tea, and as soon as my coffee was reheated, I scurried out of the room like a teenage girl caught making out with her boyfriend in the backseat of the family car.

  “I’m only responding to Jude because I miss Sean,” I mumbled once I’d reached the sanctuary of my office. My hot cheeks and clammy palms belied the truth of this statement. Jude was gorgeous. He was smart. He was sweet. And he was a womanizer. He was never going to be good for me. I didn’t want to expend another ounce of energy thinking about him.

  Sitting primly in my chair, I focused on another email containing requested material. These were the first three chapters of T. J. West’s cozy mystery. His was set in a charming lakeside town, and I remembered the vivid setting as well as the plucky heroine—a widow who ran the town’s bed and breakfast. West called himself a medical professional, but he had attended culinary school and was a self-professed handyman. As a result, his cozy was replete with do-it-yourself home repair tips and included a tantalizing recipe section. He’d emailed a few recipes for me to peruse, and my stomach gurgled in appreciation as I scanned over the directions for preparing vegetable barley soup, bacon-wrapped maple pork loin, and gingerbread cake.

  I spent the remainder of the morning reading West’s first three chapters. I had my doubts that a male writer could successfully pull off the voice of a feisty young widow, but West did it in spades. Not only did he create a rich, interesting heroine, but there were also sprinkles of romance and a splash of humor in those first three chapters. The only mistake he made resided within his synopsis. At the pitch session he’d mentioned that a child’s toy would play a role in the murderer’s capture. I’d responded by advising him to alter that clue, but he hadn’t made the change. Cozy readers don’t like children to be closely associated to a murder case, and while Ashley Buckland’s Men at Home series included kids, they were never present when violence occurred. Buckland’s kids remained in the background, which was where they belonged.

  I was just explaining this in an email to T. J. West when my fingers froze over the keyboard. Turning back to his synopsis, I reread the brief description of the child’s toy. “A beloved yellow teddy bear,” were the exact words.

  Instantly, the photograph of the plush Winnie the Pooh clasped in Melissa’s dead hand flashed in front of my eyes.

  “No,” I whispered to my computer screen, my eyes locked on T. J. West’s email address. “You’re a harmless mystery writer. You have nothing to do with that picture of Silas’s bear. It’s just a crazy coincidence and proof that I need a lunch break.”

  I sent of
f the email, shouldered my purse, and was trying to decide whether to grab a sandwich at Catcher in the Rye or head to the hot food bar at How Green Was My Valley when Vicky’s voice came over my phone’s speaker.

  “Ms. Wilkins, Ms. Burlington-Duke would like a word with you,” she said succinctly.

  “Right now?”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “Ms. Burlington-Duke did not specify a time, but I was under the impression she meant for you to appear in her office within the next five minutes.”

  “Then I’m on my way. Thanks.”

  Vicky didn’t reply, and I decided to bring my purse into my boss’s office. Maybe Bentley would realize that I was on my way out and would keep our impromptu meeting short and sweet.

  No such luck.

  Bentley was on the phone when I poked my head into her office, but she raised a regal finger, silently ordering me to wait until she was done. She then wiggled the same finger in a downward motion, indicating that I should take a seat. She obviously didn’t care if I overheard her conversation.

  Twirling the tip of a resplendent mustard-hued Hermès scarf, Bentley frowned as she listened to the person on the other end of the line. Finally, she sighed in impatience and stated, “While I am happy to do my part in reporting my findings, I don’t expect to be inconvenienced in this manner. Please inform Officer Griffiths that I am willing to discuss this matter via telephone or email, but should he wish to speak to someone in person, he should contact Lila Wilkins, one of my agents here at Novel Idea. Good day.”

  A man spluttered indignantly at the other end of the line before Bentley severed the connection.

  “With buffoons such as that on the force it’s no wonder the crime rate has escalated.” Bentley flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her black suit and replaced the opal and diamond earring she’d removed during her call. “I was merely trying to pass on information regarding Ruben Felden, but that Neanderthal didn’t seem to know the first thing about the Melissa Plume case or which of his fellow officers did.”