Every Trick in the Book Page 2

  Trey had drilled a hole and secured a wall anchor right inside the cottage’s front door, and I was just about to lift the mirror onto the hook when my mother entered the hallway.

  “Everything’s comin’ together,” she said with a smile.

  I balanced the heavy mirror on the top of my foot and nodded. “Yes, it is. And not just the house. Everything. I love my job, I’m dating a great guy, and Trey and I haven’t gotten along this well since he was a little boy.”

  My mother raised her brows. “So you and the good-lookin’ man in blue are finally knockin’ boots?”

  Blushing, I turned away from her bemused gaze. “If you must know, we haven’t progressed beyond the kiss good night stage.”

  “Why the hell not? You’re a grown woman. More than grown.” She grunted. “Shoot, Lila. Don’t you know that havin’ gray hair means that you get to sleep with a man without anybody’s permission?”

  I frowned at her. I spent a pretty penny keeping my shoulder-length hair a gray-free, roasted chestnut hue. “I’m not looking for permission. Work just keeps getting in the way. Sean’s been assigned a string of night shifts, and with the festival coming up at the end of next week I—”

  “How about a little afternoon delight?” my mother suggested with perfect aplomb. “When your daddy was alive—”

  Thankfully, Trey called out for my mother before she could elucidate on the ecstasies of her marital bed. I’d heard them before, usually after she’d consumed a few fingers too many of her lifelong beau, Mister Jim Beam, but I really didn’t want to hear her conjugal anecdotes before dessert.

  Returning my attention to the mirror, I hefted it against the wall and slowly eased it onto the brass hook. The moment I drew back, the wire attached to the frame snapped. My fingers shot out to catch hold of the mirror, but I couldn’t move quickly enough. The vintage work of art tilted sideways and hit the hardwood floor. The sound of glass shattering echoed down the narrow corridor.

  I screamed in dismay and both Trey and Althea came running.

  “Did you cut yourself?” Trey asked, worry clouding his handsome face.

  “I’m fine, honey, but I doubt I can say the same about this.” I bent over the mirror. It had fallen facedown, concealing the extent of the damage. Gently, I flipped it onto its side, listening to the sickening crunch of broken glass coming loose from the frame and crashing onto the ground.

  I sighed in relief. The delicate birds and flowers were unscathed. There was a small scratch on the right-hand side that could be easily repaired with a dab of stain, and the glass could be replaced by the local art supply store. I’d seen their custom frame jobs and knew they’d have my mirror fixed in no time.

  Trey disappeared to fetch a broom and a dustpan, but my mother stayed rooted in place, her features pinched in concern.

  “Mama,” I said softly, touched that she was so upset over the thought of my being injured. “I’m okay. See?” I presented both of my pink, healthy palms as proof.

  She shook her head and did not meet my eyes. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the jagged shards of glass. “Oh, darlin’. It’s not fine. Not at all.”

  To my surprise, she knelt down on the floor, picked up a piece of glass shaped like a lightning bolt, and began muttering under her breath.

  “Mama?” I began to feel a stirring of alarm.

  She waved Trey away when he appeared with the broom, insisting that she needed to collect the pieces and take them far away from the house.

  “Whatever for?” I asked her, utterly perplexed. “All that nonsense about broken mirrors and seven years of bad luck is just that. Nonsense.”

  She took a deep breath and answered in a tremulous voice. “You should believe. I’m takin’ these to protect you, Lila. Trouble’s comin’. It’s comin’ hard and fast as a runaway train.”

  My uneasiness grew. Memories of my brush with violence during my first month in the Valley could still fill me with dread, although the sharp edges of the fear had dulled somewhat. “That was this summer. It’s all over now.”

  She pointed at the debris on the floor, and I was disturbed to note that her finger shook as she said, “You’re wrong, Lila. This is only the beginning.”

  Chapter 2

  MONDAY MORNING STARTED OFF CRISP AND BRIGHT. Despite the sun, my hands were cold as I rode my yellow Vespa the short distance to work, and I decided that I would need to pick up riding gloves for the cooler weather. Parking the scooter, I walked to the office with determination. My day would be full, starting with the interviewing of two hopefuls for the intern position. The job had been advertised in the Dunston Herald last week but had generated only two responses. I’d decided to interview the applicants back-to-back so I could compare the merits of each and hopefully hire one of them by the end of the day. There was so much to do to prepare for the Book and Author Festival that the agency desperately needed an extra pair of hands.

  I smiled as I remembered how Bentley had hired me based on a quick phone interview. She, too, had been desperate to recruit an intern at the time. Until I joined the agency, Novel Idea had had a difficult time holding on to their interns because of the demanding workload and the necessity that they be booklovers, which was often not the case. I was determined to find someone who was a motivated bibliophile.

  When I entered the agency’s reception area, I was surprised to see one of Trey’s co-op friends sitting on the leather couch. Doug looked very different from the last time I’d seen him, however. His dark hair was short and tidy, and he wore a pair of pressed khaki pants and a white collared shirt. If it wasn’t for his distinct bushy eyebrows and pale blue eyes, I might not have recognized him as the same young man who hefted bales of hemp, dressed in patched jeans, and tied his long hair in a ponytail with a thin piece of leather.

  As I approached, he stood and held out his hand. “Good morning, Ms. Wilkins. I’m a bit early for my interview, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  Interview? In my mind, I ran through the names on my appointment calendar. Doug Cooper at nine, Vicky Crump at nine thirty. I hadn’t realized that Doug Cooper was Doug from Red Fox Mountain and tried to cover up my surprise by shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Well, it’s good that you’re punctual. Give me a few minutes. I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”

  In my office, I hung up my jacket and pulled out the interview file. Doug’s résumé didn’t mention the co-op as an employer, but he did give Jasper Gyles, the co-op leader, as a reference. Doug had one year of college under his belt, had done odd jobs at fast-food stores in Dunston, and listed his most recent employment as farming. Uncertain how he would fit into the agency, much less have an eye for sifting through queries, I wondered why he hoped to work here and why he was leaving the co-op. Seeing him cleaned up, however, gave me hope that one day soon Trey might also choose to withdraw from Red Fox.

  Doug appeared bright-eyed and eager as he sat across the desk from me. I leaned back in my chair and studied him. “Why did you apply for this job, Doug?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he was not quite used to the shortness of it. “I decided it was time to make a change,” he replied. “I’m done with the hippie thing, and the direction that the co-op is taking just doesn’t mesh with me anymore. I want to go back to college, but since I was kicked out a few years ago I kind of have to prove myself to be accepted back. So I thought, since you’re Trey’s mom, you might give me a chance.”

  Dismayed at his expectation that our tenuous connection would land him a job, I hoped that he at least was an avid reader. “What kind of books do you like to read?” I asked.

  “Well, not much, really. Do I have to read books to work here? I thought the job would be like an assistant or something, a gofer, get your coffee and stuff.”

  I strived to make my tone kind. “Why would you think that? Did you read the job description in the advertisement?”

  He shrugged.

  “This is a litera
ry agency, Doug, and it’s our job to sell books to publishers, so yes, you have to read books to work here. You need to know what makes a book good, what will sell and what won’t. We represent writers, and the intern is most often the first person to decide whether a query ever reaches an agent’s desk.”

  “Oh.” He slouched in his chair. “I guess I’m not really a good fit for this job, then. I just thought…” Sighing, he stood up. “I’m sorry, Ms. Wilkins. I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

  “You’ll find something more suitable, I’m sure. And I’ll keep your résumé on hand in case we need extra help at the Book and Author Festival at the end of the week, okay?” As I showed him out the door, I touched his arm. “You certainly clean up well. You look very professional.”

  He beamed at that and descended the stairs with a light tread. I was disappointed, however. Now all my hopes for hiring an intern rested on Vicky Crump.

  Her résumé looked promising. Ten years as a court clerk and a librarian for twelve before that. At precisely nine twenty-five, I heard her footsteps on the stairs and went to the reception area to greet her.

  A petite woman entered the agency. Barely five feet tall, she wore a navy pleated skirt with the hem just above her knees, a white blouse, and a navy cardigan. Her silky white hair was parted at the side and held back with a bobby pin.

  When she saw me, her eyes lit up behind her blue-rimmed glasses. “Hello. I’m Vicky Crump,” she announced with a strong, confident voice that made me want to stand a little taller. “I’m here for a job interview.”

  “Hi, Vicky. I’m Lila Wilkins.” I waved my arm in the direction of my office. “Please come in.”

  She lowered herself into the visitor’s chair and placed her purse on her lap, waiting expectantly. She sat with ramrod straightness and met my gaze directly. Feeling as though I was back in a grade school classroom, I hastily perused her résumé to refresh my memory, but before I could say anything, she spoke.

  “You’ll probably ask me why I haven’t worked for the last four years.”

  I nodded. “As a matter of fact, that was going to be my first question.”

  “I retired four years ago, same time as my husband, and we thought we’d have years of travel ahead of us. But my husband died last year and my days have become…quiet.” She seemed to find the word distasteful. “While I can bide my time with gardening and bridge club—Franklin, who I believe is one of the agents here, plays bridge there, too—it just isn’t fulfilling enough. There’s still a lot of life left in me.” She smiled, revealing a row of perfectly shaped white teeth. “I’ve lived in Inspiration Valley for the better part of my adult life, and I’ve been watching this agency since it was established. I’ve also read most of the authors represented by Novel Idea, and I think I can be of some use to you.”

  “Really? You’re that familiar with our clients?” If this were true, then she certainly had the background for the position.

  “Oh yes!” Her enthusiasm sounded like a bark. “One of my favorites is Calliope Sinclair. Her romances are just divine. And I love Meteor Granger’s spy thrillers. I can’t put them down and have lost many a night’s sleep devouring his books.”

  “Well, your reading interests are certainly an advantage.” I reached for the file containing sample query letters. “You are aware that this job is for an intern position?”

  She pushed her glasses up. “Yes, I am. But I’m wondering if you’d entertain a proposal. I know this seems forward of me…”

  Uncertain what to expect, I put the query file down and nodded. “What kind of proposal?”

  She folded her hands and placed them on the desk, and I suddenly wondered who was in charge of this interview. “I’m sixty-nine years young and have no aspirations to be a literary agent. But I love books. And I love the idea of being a part of bringing them to life. I’ve seen the newspaper ads looking for an intern pop up again and again, and I believe you haven’t found the right person for the job. And when I called here, there was only a general voicemail. No one answers the phones? No one greets guests?”

  “Well…” I said, feeling like I was failing some kind of test. “That’s the intern’s job and that’s why we placed an ad—”

  Vicky plowed on. “I think what this place needs is consistency in the clerical tasks. You need a receptionist and someone to manage all the paperwork. I’d still do the intern’s job of vetting the queries and mailing out rejection letters and such, but I could do so much more than that.” She cleared her throat. “For a slightly higher salary, of course.”

  I gawked at the tiny older woman who possessed all the authority and charisma of Napoleon. “I think your idea has merit, but I can’t really make that decision. Let me run it by Ms. Burlington-Duke and we’ll see what develops.” I opened the folder and passed her a sheet of paper. “I received this on Friday. Our guidelines stipulate that one should only submit a query letter and no manuscript unless requested to do so. How would you respond to this?”

  She leaned forward and read aloud:

  Dear Agent,

  Attached is my 150,000-word manuscript for my mystery novel called Murder in Montana. I know you didn’t request this manuscript, but it’s so well written and so exciting that I’m sure you’ll be grateful that I sent it to you first. I look forward to hearing from you by the end of the week.

  Vicky adjusted her glasses and sat back. “I would reply by saying, ‘I recommend you reread our agency guidelines and send us a properly crafted query letter.’” She grinned as if I’d asked her a ridiculously easy question.

  I chuckled. “Perfect response, Vicky.” Turning to the bookshelves, I pulled out three large tomes and placed them on the desk. “These are reference books containing guidelines as to what makes a good query. I hope you will read them because I think you’d be perfect for the intern position. Will you accept the job whether it becomes a permanent office manager position or not?”

  Her eyes sparkled and she nodded. “Yes, I shall!” She reached for the first volume. “Don’t worry, Ms. Wilkins, not a single line of subpar material will get past me.”

  “And if a pushy aspiring author shows up here and demands to see one of our agents without an appointment?” I asked teasingly. “What will you do then?”

  Vicky rose from her chair, tugged on the hem of her cardigan, and answered without a trace of humor. “They will have their knuckles rapped.”

  I DON’T KNOW how Vicky did it, but two days after she had a single phone conversation with my boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, the reception area at the top of the stairs was rearranged to accommodate a new desk, a file cabinet, and a leather swivel chair with adjustable back and seat cushions. Seconds after the furniture deliverymen left on Wednesday morning, a man from Dunston’s largest office supply store arrived and installed a complicated telephone system with a headset attachment, a PC with an enormous screen, and a fax machine at Vicky’s new station.

  Delighted by the prospect of turning over the query letter screening to Vicky, I headed down to Espresso Yourself to tell my friend Makayla about the new reception area in Novel Idea.

  “She may be small of stature, but she’s capable of wiping out an entire drug cartel with a stern look,” I told Makayla before taking a sip of my caramel latte.

  Makayla laughed, a sound that reminded me of wind chimes, and her jade green eyes glimmered. “I’d better not screw up her order, then.” She slid the latest Tana French novel across the counter to me. “You can read this before I put it out in my lending library. I finished it three days ago and scenes are still echoing in my mind. Lord, but that woman can write!”

  “That’s high praise coming from you,” I said, glancing at the pair of bookshelves in the corner of the coffee shop where Makayla and her customers traded gently used novels.

  The beautiful barista had a shaved head, and her silken, chocolate-colored skin made her appear ageless. She could have been gracing the catwalks of Paris or Milan, but she loved her little c
offee shop and glowed with contentment from the moment she brewed the first pot until she locked the doors at the end of the day. A bibliophile and art lover, Makayla supported local artists by inviting them to display their wares in her shop. I had my eye on a watercolor of an old woman perched on the edge of the town’s Fountain of the Nine Muses, her bare feet submerged in the water and her wrinkled face glowing with childish delight, and I planned to buy it as soon as I made another deal.

  Makayla caught me staring at the painting. “I know how much you want to bring that home, girl. You can get it on layaway. The artist is a friend of mine.”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. Seeing it every day inspires me to work harder. I’ve got to convince Calliope to cut the out-of-body experience from the end of her latest novel or it won’t sell. The entire chapter is just wrong, but she doesn’t want to hear that. She wants me to tell her the book is perfect and send it out to the publishing houses.”

  Makayla handed a cappuccino to an attractive man in a seersucker suit, thanked him, and then turned back to me. “Sounds like she’s itching to delve into the supernatural, but isn’t this book historical romance?”

  “Yes, it’s Elizabethan. And it’s wonderful until the main character suddenly dies and begins to narrate the last chapter in first person as she’s looking down at her own corpse. Calliope insists she’ll return to her body in the beginning of the next book and that her heroine can only realize that she’s in love with her sworn enemy by temporarily dying, but I disagree. There’s got to be another way for her character to have an epiphany without an out-of-body experience.”