Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4) Read online

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting … waiting …

  “A wedding expo!” she let drop.

  My eyes popped open. “A what?” Next to me, Sean let out a little groan.

  She dragged her hand across the air as if spelling it out. “The Novel Idea Wedding Expo. It’s perfect timing! Flora has two new releases this winter, The Billionaire’s Bride and”—she cleared her throat—“another release from that bestselling erotic series she represents, what’s it called? The Reluctant Brides of … of …”

  “Babylon,” I finished for her, casting a sheepish grin Sean’s way. He raised a brow and smirked.

  Bentley kept going, “Oh, and Franklin represents the author of Strong Women, Strong Marriages. Speaking of which, did you by chance sign the author of Murder and Marriage yet?”

  “Lynn Werner? Um … I sent the contract this week. She’s completely on board, though.”

  “Good. If her book is as good as you think, this will be the perfect little venue for her to gain some name recognition. You know how much editors love it when authors have an established platform.” She waggled a finger my way. “But you’d better brainstorm a better title. Murder and Marriage isn’t going to cut it.”

  I nodded.

  Bentley’s tone rose an octave as she continued brainstorming. “Anyway, it’ll be fabulous! We’ll host a bridal fashion show, cake design contest, maybe even a wine tasting.” She waved away the final suggestion. “Actually, we can work all the details out at Monday’s status meeting.” She glanced around. “Where’s Jude? I want to run a few of these ideas by him,” she said, turning to tromp off to find him before I could even offer an answer.

  “Reluctant Brides of Babylon?” Sean teased as soon as Bentley was gone. “I’m shocked, Ms. Wilkins.”

  I flushed and tried to explain. “Hey, reading books is part of my job description.” Although, truth was, I preferred to read the books that Flora represented over the sport-centered books Zach signed or even the thrillers written by Jude’s authors. But Sean didn’t need to know that. “You know how I like a good love story,” I added.

  He moved in, clamping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. “Do you now?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Like love stories. Especially those with happy endings.”

  I nodded.

  “How about our love story? Does it end happily?”

  The edges of my lips twitched with excitement. “I don’t know, Detective. Why don’t you tell me?”

  His eyes grew wide and I could feel his heart kick up a notch. “I know this probably isn’t as romantic as you wished. I’m not reading prepared notes in front of a throng and I don’t even have the ring yet … but, Lila, I love you and—”

  “Yes! Yes!” I collapsed against him, pressing my lips against his.

  For a long time, we simply stood there—contentedly holding each other under the twinkling party lights—watching the guests depart by torch-lit paths and listening to the distant chatter of our friends. After a while, I slipped off my shoes, letting the cool grass soothe my tired feet. Then, leaning back against Sean, I let my thoughts run their happy course. All I could think was how much my life had changed since moving to Inspiration Valley. Here I was with an amazing family and friends, the job of my dreams, and now the man I love to share the rest of my life with. “Our love story,” Sean had said. He was right. Life was like a story: each day a new scene and every event a new chapter, the many words and pages depicting a lifetime of memories. What would the rest of my life’s story bring? I wondered. New authors with fresh voices and captivating plots? An array of exciting literary events to plan? I nestled in closer to Sean. No matter the twists in the plot, I’d be satisfied just as long as the pages of my life story included an eternity of nights in the arms of the man I love.

  Turn the page for a preview of the first book in Susan Furlong’s new Georgia Peach Mysteries …

  PEACHES AND SCREAM

  Coming July 2015 from Berkley Prime Crime!

  All my life, no matter where I travel or what adventure I’m living, I hear my mama’s voice in my head, repeating over and over lessons she instilled in me during my youth. Lessons about what it means to be a proper Southern woman—feminine, sweet, charming … and most of all, strong. A handbook, of sorts. She calls these little gems of advice her Georgia Belle Facts—bits of Southern know-how passed down from mothers to their daughters for generations. (Of course, she’s put her own peculiar spin on a few of these tenets.) But overall, these facts are about living life to the fullest, with class, dignity, and a sense of responsibility to care for our neighbors. Most important, she’s taught me that the Georgia Belle attitude isn’t really about a particular region of the country. Nor is it about a person’s heritage or financial status. In fact, because of my mama’s tried-and-true advice, I’ve come to learn that the essence of Southern spirit is for everyone—no matter who they are or where they live.

  ~ NOLA MAE HARPER

  Georgia Belle Fact #027 ~ In the South, we greet one another with bits of juicy gossip, not some ol’ boring Yankee-like salutation.

  *

  I WAS IDLING on the corner of Blossom Street and Orchard when the words came sailing through my open car window. “My word! Is that Nola Mae Harper I see?”

  I snapped my head and squinted to the sidewalk, where I spied the Crawford sisters sauntering along. I hadn’t heard my full name, let alone that drawl I’d taken for granted in childhood, for a long time. I shot them a quick smile and waggled my fingers before moving on down the road. As I continued, I noticed more than just a few of the locals rubbernecked as I passed, the sight of me eliciting curious stares and sudden whispers. I could imagine the return of the Harper family black sheep was going to crank the village’s local rumor mill into full gear. Gee, it was good to be back.

  They may have dubbed Georgia the Peach State, but what they weren’t saying was my hometown of Cays Mill was the pit. I should know, I was born and raised in this two-stoplight town and had spent most of my adult life trying to shake its loamy soil from my boots. That’s why I surprised myself when home was the first place I thought of when my work situation took a turn for the worst. Then I really surprised myself when I agreed to spend my time at home watching over the family’s one hundred–plus acres of peach farm while Mama and Daddy took their dream trip. But I guess I did owe them. Or so I’d been told—or had it implied in Mama’s Southern sweet talk—often enough.

  Truth be known, they had been the world’s best parents; and I, well … I haven’t always been the best daughter. At least that’s what my older sister, Ida Jean, keeps telling me. Of course, maybe she has a point. She’d stuck around Cays Mill, married the banker’s son, and was busy adding little twigs to the Harper family tree, a set of twins so far and another baby on the way. I, on the other hand, headed north of the Piedmont the first chance I got, took a job with a humanitarian organization, and had been traipsing from one country to another for the last fifteen years or so, seeing the world or perhaps, more accurately, escaping from my own world. Heaven knows, if I hadn’t left Cays Mill when I did, hard telling what type of shame I’d have brought to the Harper family name.

  Anyhow, it’d been almost three years since I was home last and it looked like not much had changed in town. The city building, still the most formidable structure in the area, occupied most of the town green and acted as an unsurpassable anchor for Cays Mill’s business section. Not that there were many businesses around these days. Like many small towns, the recession had hit our village hard. As I drove about the square, I saw more than a few vacant buildings, their empty windows only partially obscured under the bright awnings that served to protect the storefronts from the scorching Georgia heat. Although, I was happy to see Red’s Diner was still going strong. A line was formed outside the door, probably the after-church crowd, heading in for Red’s famous breakfast hash, served with grits and a side of toast with—what else?—peach preserves.

  At the
next stoplight I stole a quick glance in the rearview mirror and swiped a short piece of cropped hair from my forehead before gripping the wheel and turning off the square. I traveled southeast, winding my way a mile or so out of town, heading for the family farm.

  If I had to describe Georgia, I’d say it was a like a handmade quilt, tossed out all lumpy-like over the bed. The northern part of the state would be the biggest bumps, where the Appalachian hills offered a beautiful blue hue and the winding rivers ran through like errant stitching. Then came the Piedmont, with big cities like Atlanta and Columbus acting as the nubby knots holding the fabric and the batting in place. Next, the fall line, where the rivers made a showy descent like colorful fabric bargellos, cascading over rocks and descending to the smooth coastal planes with scenic towns like Savannah providing a decorative binding, sealing the quilt’s overall beauty. My family’s little block of the fabric was located on the fall line, where the northern rivers dumped their sandy deposits, making soil conditions just right for growing peaches, which my family had done for as many generations as I could count.

  Heading down the road out of town plunged me into the orchard area, where the sullenness of the weathered town stood in sharp contrast to the peach trees, standing row on row, like sturdy soldiers, their green uniforms shining in the Georgia sun, holding guard over this community. Even the late August sun couldn’t extinguish the bristling green of the leaves, whispering their welcome to me in the light breeze.

  Even though I’d all but had my fill of peaches during my youth, I had to admit my heart kicked up a beat in anticipation as I neared home. It’d been so long since I’d been back, and I was craving a little time at home with my family. So much so, that by the time I passed under the gate that marked the entrance to Harper Peach Farm, I was practically giddy with excitement. Or sick with nerves. I wasn’t sure which. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to take over the family farm for three whole weeks. Even though the last of the peaches had been picked, packed, and transported out, taking care of the farm was a huge responsibility. Still, it was going to be good to be home for a while. At least until I figured out what to do about my job. I’d been beside myself ever since my boss told me they were downsizing and I’d been allocated to a desk job. A desk job! After all these years of fieldwork, they expected me to be satisfied twiddling my thumbs behind a desk. Not this girl. No way.

  “Nola Mae Harper!” I heard my daddy yell from the deep porch of our two-story farmhouse. Seconds later, the slamming of the screen storm door yielded a stream of ebullient Harpers.

  “Whoa! One at a time.” I laughed, embracing them warmly until I got to my sister, Ida Jean. Her hug felt stiff compared to the others. “Hello, Ida. You’re looking good.” I patted her expanding belly before turning to the oldest Harper child, my big brother, Raymond Junior—Ray to me, Bud to my parents, and Raymond Harper II to his colleagues at the law firm. “I’ve missed you, Ray!” I buried my head in his chest, coming up for air to greet my sister’s twin girls, who danced about our legs. In true Southern fashion, they were properly named Savannah and Charlotte. Although I could never tell which was which. In the three years since I’d seen them, with only occasional photos for reference, I was astounded by how big they’d grown.

  “Your hair sure is short,” one of them said, gripping my legs, her eyes wide. I ran a hand through my dark cropped hair and chuckled. Both the girls were towheads—a combination of my brother-in-law’s blond hair and my sister’s light blue eyes. Typical little belles, they sported long curls that suited their butter yellow sleeveless sundresses and white sandals. By contrast, my khaki-colored utility shorts and black tank top, walking boots, and knee-high socks—which all served me well in jungle situations—seemed apparently exotic to my nieces as their sparkling eyes took it all in. They possessed equal amounts of devilish energy that would be expected from any six-year-old, the problem being that with twins, the trouble was always times two.

  Managing to break away, I headed straight for my parents, embracing Mama first. “Good to have you home, honey,” she said against my shoulder. I swear, she’d shrunk another half inch. Although the whole county knew better than to let my mother’s petite stature fool them. Della Wilkes Harper may be tiny, but she was a force to reckon with.

  On the other hand, there was nothing small about my father. Daddy always loomed larger than life. Right then, he was hanging back, watching us with a grin spread wide over his face. I turned to him and held out my arms. He skipped forward, scooping me off my feet into a giant bear hug. “I can’t believe you’re finally home, darlin’. Now the party can get started!”

  I peered over the top of his wide shoulders, ignoring the look of disgust on Ida’s face, and let my eyes roam the orchard line where a white tent had been set up to accommodate at least two hundred guests. In my quick glance of the tent it almost appeared as if miniature peach trees held up each corner, but before I could figure it out, Daddy had released me from his hug for a close-up look at my tanned face and short hair. With a tousle of my hair, he gave a laugh, loving me in his own way, always accepting of me, no matter what. I felt tears start to well and knew coming home had been the right choice.

  Besides, this trip was extra special. My parents were celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary and this “dream trip” of theirs was really a second honeymoon, or first honeymoon, since they never got to go on a trip after their wedding. Anyway, this evening’s party was sure to be wingdinger. The trip had actually been a prize Mama had won for her peach chutney recipe in the National Condiments Competition, with the timing for the cruise set by the competition. No way would they have left at this time of year otherwise—the Peach Harvest Festival was only a couple of weeks away. Since our parents had never, ever missed a festival, Ida had decided to give their anniversary celebration a peach festival flair, so they were technically not missing this year’s festivities, either. I was anxious to see what she’d come up with. Knowing Ida, it’d be perfect.

  Speaking of whom, as soon as Daddy swung me around to head for the porch, Ida started in, “It’s just like you to show up for the fun. Never mind all the work it took to get ready for this party.”

  Aw … so that was it. “Sorry, Ida. I got tied up in traffic outside Atlanta. But I’ll do double the work cleaning up after the party. I promise.”

  She harrumphed and stormed ahead, heading straight for the house. Mama waved away the bad air left in her wake. “Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s just exhausted. Hollis has been working long hours and the kids are wearing her out.” My mother had been making excuses for Ida’s behavior since we were children. I knew, on the other hand, that my behavior was always open for discussion. As if to prove that point, she looped her arm in mine and said, “Come sit awhile. I’ve made some tea. We’ll get caught up on all your latest adventures.” Which translated to: Come in and sit with me so I can pick apart your life and remind you that you should be settled down, married, and having children by now.

  I sent a pleading look Daddy’s way, hoping he’d rescue me from the pending lecture. Instead, he patted my back and shot me a half-apologetic look. “Go on ahead. Bud and I have a few details to tend to. We’ll have time to get caught up tonight.”

  “Yes, come on, dear,” Mama insisted. “And don’t worry about your bags. Your brother will put them in your room. Won’t you, Bud?” She continued walking, not waiting for a response from Ray. Mama’s questions were never really questions, but orders laid out with the type of charm that only a true Southern lady could pull off. “We’ve kept your room the same,” she continued. “Even though you hardly ever come home anymore. Oh, and Hattie called. She’s so excited you’re back. Said she might stop by early to visit before the party.”

  The thought of seeing Hattie again thrilled me. Her family used to live just down the road and she’d been my best friend all through school. There was a time when she, Cade—her older brother—and I had been inseparable. A smile tugged at my lips as I remem
bered the trouble we’d get into and how much fun we had annoying Ida and her friends. Of course, thinking back to the scowl Ida greeted me with, I figured I still annoyed her.

  I opened the screen door for Mama and followed her in. “Are you excited for the party tonight, Mama?” I asked, glancing around with a happy feeling. Our house was exactly the same as when I left, right down to a lingering smell of fried chicken mixed with the faint scent of Daddy’s cigars. Today there was also a little fruity smell mixed in. Ida must’ve been cooking up something peachy in the kitchen.

  Mama nodded, motioning for me to sit at the dining room table as she headed for the kitchen. “Yes, I can hardly wait,” she said over her shoulder. After a few seconds, she came back through the swinging kitchen door with a couple of glasses of sweet tea. “Your sister has really put herself out getting everything ready.” She took a sip of tea and swiped a napkin under her sweating glass before placing it back on the table. “I hope she’s not working too hard, with the baby so close and all.”

  I looked away, feeling guiltier than ever for not coming home earlier and helping more with the party. I’d begged off on coming home a week earlier, claiming, correctly, that I had things to tie up at the Helping Hands International headquarters before I could leave. What I had to tie up was every string I could find to keep me out of a desk job—but to no avail in the end anyway. In retrospect it might have been more pleasant blowing up balloons with Ida. “I’m sure she’s happy to do it. Fifty years, Mama.” I patted her hand. “That’s something to celebrate.”

  “Yes it is!” she said, although I noticed her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes.

  “Are you worried about the farm? Because I’m sure I can handle—”

  “Oh heavens no! I know you’ll take good care of things around here.”

  I studied her for a moment. Something was off. “Are you sad to miss the harvest festival? I know it means so much to you.” She and Daddy first met at the peach festival and they’d never missed a single one in the fifty years they’d been married.