Every Trick in the Book Read online

  Makayla was about to offer her opinion when the customer she’d just served returned to the counter. “Do you have any nutmeg?”

  She nodded. “Sure, hon. There’s a shaker on that little stand where the milk jug and sugar packets are.”

  “I couldn’t find it,” he answered. “Just cinnamon.”

  “I’m sorry,” she told him with genuine regret. “I think I’m fresh out. Can I get you anything else?”

  He grinned mischievously. “How about your phone number?”

  Makayla pretended to swat him with a dish towel. “Shame on you, George McAllister! Go buy a dozen roses for your sweet wife.”

  The man saluted her. “Already did. The love of my life made me a rib roast for supper, so the least I could do was bring her flowers.”

  Makayla and I exchanged smiles.

  “So has Sean shown up at your door with a bouquet lately?” she asked once George had left.

  “He hasn’t stepped foot in my new house yet,” I complained. “It’s not his fault. More night shifts. And I’m so wiped by the end of the day that I’d be terrible company. One glass of wine and I’m snoring on the sofa.”

  Coming out from behind the counter, Makayla began wiping off the tiny circular tables nestled in the narrow eatery. “Are you ready for the festival?”

  I shrugged. “On paper, sure, but I’m worried about having booked four hours’ worth of pitch appointments. I’ve never listened to a pitch in my life. I’m going to be more nervous than the writers.”

  “I seriously doubt that, my friend. Most of those poor souls will be shaking so hard you’ll think they had one of my triple espressos.” She came over to my table and mimed pulling on a baseball mitt and adopting a pitcher’s stance. “Do you want me to toss a pitch at you? I’ve got a wicked fastball.”

  It was hard to take my friend seriously as she raised her left leg, pivoted her body, and pretended to throw a speedball at my coffee cup.

  “You’re too confident,” I scolded her. “You’re supposed to be more jittery. You’re a writer who’d do anything to impress me and you know that I’m going to be listening to dozens of people before and after you. Your idea has to be dazzling and well presented or you’ll have blown your chance. See? Give me jittery.”

  “Okay.” Makayla sat down opposite me and laced her hands together. She glanced anxiously around the café and then drew in a deep breath. “My book is a paranormal romance set in a coffee shop. Mena Lewis is a shy, hardworking barista by day and a dangerous, untamed shape-shifter by night. She keeps to herself because she doesn’t want to hurt anyone. One day, she’s attacked in the forest surrounding her town by a strange, nightmarish creature and is rescued by a handsome but secretive park ranger. He heals her and, during a full moon, witnesses her change into a snarling cougar. He seems amazingly unfazed by her transformation, and Mena wonders if she might have finally made a human connection. But as she gives her heart to him, Mena doesn’t know if the hot ranger is a hero or a shifter even more dangerous than herself. The end!”

  I sat back, impressed. “You came up with that out of the blue?”

  Makayla shrugged. “I could tell you dozens of ideas. They’re swimming around in my head like a school of fish, but that’s all they’ll ever be. Ideas. I can’t turn them into a book. I just don’t have it in me.”

  “Too bad,” I said.

  “Listen, Lila. You’re going to be hearing from folks who’ve poured a piece of themselves into page after loving page.” She gestured at her little library in the corner. “I don’t know how anyone does it. To have that kind of devotion, to sit there day after day and lasso the things churning around in your mind into organized thoughts. Can you imagine how those people feel when they finish that last sentence? And so many of them won’t ever see their books for sale in a store.”

  “That’s what makes these pitch sessions so tough,” I said. “I know that these writers have devoted a huge part of themselves to their projects and yet I’ll have to turn down dozens of them.”

  “You’ll find the right words when the time comes. I just know you will.” Suddenly, she grabbed my arm and beamed. “I forgot to thank you for making sure I was picked to handle the beverage service for the festival. My piggy bank is about to get a whole lot fatter.”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “I simply put your name in the suggestion box, so to speak. Anyway, I can’t survive this weekend without you and your lattes.”

  “There’ll be good food, too. Big Ed is going to set up a Catcher in the Rye kiosk, and the Sixpence Bakery booth will be there to handle all the sugar cravings.” Makayla lowered her voice to a whisper. “I snuck over to the bakery before I opened to get myself one of Nell’s cherry cheese Danishes. Lord have mercy, but that is no ordinary pastry. It’s a tiny glimpse of heaven, I swear.”

  “I’ll pick some up tomorrow to celebrate Vicky’s first day on the job. But for now, I’ve got to tackle the six proposals stacked on my desk. See you later.”

  Wishing me luck, Makayla returned to her position behind the counter and began taking orders from the group of college-aged students who’d entered Espresso Yourself in a wave of laughter, raised voices, and tinny music emitting from the earbuds of more than one iPod. They were all dressed in collegiate sweatshirts, jeans, and boat shoes.

  I’d noticed an unusual number of college students hanging around Inspiration Valley over the last few months. It hadn’t seemed odd for so many of the older teens to be present in the summer, because many of them held food service jobs and worked as camp counselors, but today was a weekday at the end of October. Why weren’t these kids in class?

  Berating myself for having become suspicious of anything out of the ordinary, I decided that the students were probably on a midsemester break or had just finished a series of grueling midterm exams and had come to our idyllic town to shop in the hip boutiques, eat delicious food, or hike the beautiful mountain trails.

  Back in my office, I picked up the first proposal in the tidy stack on the center of my desk and began to read. Within a few sentences, I was transported to an old house in New England. In a cobwebbed attic, a young woman knelt in front of an antique steamer trunk and was on the verge of setting free an evil that had lain dormant since the witch trials of Salem. Unfortunately, the suspense that grabbed me in the opening scene gave way to forty pages of dull backstory.

  I reread the author’s original query letter and wasn’t convinced that the idea was marketable. The writing certainly wasn’t.

  This didn’t mean that I would respond to the author with a firm rejection. Instead, I emailed her a short note saying that while I loved the beginning of her book, she would need to completely rewrite the remainder before submitting it to me again.

  This done, I reached for the next proposal. It was so riddled with spelling and grammatical errors that it took me forever to read the first chapter. When the font size shrank and the spacing went from double to single, beginning with chapter two, I gave up.

  “This was your big chance and you couldn’t be bothered to send me your best work.” I reprimanded the author as though he were sitting in my office. “With computers able to spell and grammar check, there is no excuse for such a sloppy submission.”

  The email I sent out to this author was short and direct. I wouldn’t be offering him a second chance. I explained that his project was not for me, recommended that he revise his work before querying another agency, and wished him luck finding representation.

  Shaking my head in puzzlement over the behavior of some aspiring writers, I pulled the third proposal in front of me and began to read:

  The pine floorboards of the four-room house were stained with blood.

  The stain was mahogany brown and had been there for decades. People had tried to cover it with straw, rag rugs, and at one point an avocado-colored shag carpet, but it remained—a persistent oval stain. It would forever mark the room with its gruesome presence.

  Men had died in this house,
in this room. Hundreds of them. Soldiers clad in frayed gray uniforms had lost their lives here, drop by crimson drop. Others had lost legs or arms or feet. Limbs chewed up by cannonball fire, appendages shredded by musket shot, flesh turned black by infection.

  I could almost hear the men screaming. The smell of their fear hung in the house-turned-museum like smoke. It hovered over the daguerreotypes and weapons locked in glass cases, clung to the archaic surgical equipment and tattered flags.

  Why did I keep coming to this place?

  Did I feel empathy for the soldiers? Because they had sacrificed in vain? I had sacrificed, too, and there had been no victory for me, either. We were connected by loss, these men and me. We had wasted our future because others ordered us to do so.

  My eyes kept returning to the stain on the worn pine floor.

  Did I long to witness death? To see the blood running from another’s veins drop by crimson drop? Is this where my anger will lead me one day?

  Only you will see that I am capable of taking what is mine.

  Only you will know when I will choose the next victim.

  I let the paper fall from my hands, unwilling to read more. This story was not for me. It was too dark and I had a hunch that the narrative would eventually become too graphic for my tastes. I also wasn’t sure what I’d been reading. It wasn’t a proper proposal. There wasn’t a single line explaining what the book was about, nor was there a letter accompanying the document. The author had sent an entire chapter without preamble and without following any of the guidelines listed so clearly on the agency’s website. The only note in the personal voice of the author was one line at the beginning that read:

  I plan to pitch this project at the book festival.

  The whole thing was bizarre.

  Despite my lack of interest in the work, this author, Kirk Mason, illustrated a measure of talent. I decided to hand the packet over to Jude Hudson. He represented thrillers and was always on the lookout for a fresh voice. This voice was unique enough to give me chills.

  Unfortunately, when I flipped through my file to see if I could locate the original query letter from Kirk Mason, all I found was the large brown envelope the chapter had arrived in, stamped and addressed to the agency, but not to a specific agent. No letter. Curious, I turned to my laptop and searched through my list of sent messages, looking for the email in which I’d requested more material from Mr. Mason. My email didn’t contain a single correspondence from someone by the name of Kirk Mason.

  Setting the packet aside, I read through the rest of the proposals and liked the last one well enough to request the entire manuscript. It was a cozy mystery set in an isolated mountain town and featured a women’s sewing circle. All five of the book’s heroines were married to members of the local police force. When their husbands failed to solve crimes in a timely fashion, the women secretly took over, only to give credit to the men in the end. I loved the humor and pluck of these women and couldn’t wait to read more about their exploits.

  After tidying up my desk and sending a few confirmation emails to festival guest speakers and volunteers, I picked up the writing sample by Kirk Mason and headed down the hall to Jude’s office. Perhaps the author had meant to query Jude all along and somehow part of his first chapter had ended up on my desk. Things had been rather disorganized as of late. Without an intern, we were all trying to divvy up the incoming queries, and they hadn’t always ended up where they belonged.

  Jude had his feet propped on top of his desk and was studying an image on his computer screen with such concentration that he didn’t hear me enter. Even though I’d been working with him for months, I couldn’t help but pause on his threshold and stare. He had the appearance of a classic film star—a rugged jaw, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and waves of dark hair. His lean, muscular body looked good in the tailored suits and cashmere sweaters he favored, and his full lips begged to be kissed.

  I’d kissed him over the summer, and though we’d generated enough heat to cause a five-alarm fire, it had been a mistake. Jude loved women. He loved to flirt with women, chase women, and woo women, but I wanted a man who only had eyes for me. If my heart interpreted the signals correctly, that man was police officer Sean Griffiths.

  Jude turned his head and smiled. My pulse raced a little faster, but I called forth the memory of my last dinner date with Sean, and my coworker’s allure instantly dimmed.

  “Hi,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I was just admiring the festival page on our website. Good job.”

  I shrugged at his praise. “That’s the handiwork of our web designer. I can’t take the credit.” I lowered myself into his guest chair. “It does look sharp, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t be so modest. It was your concept, your design. Mandy just did the technical stuff to get it on the Internet.”

  “Thanks.” I grinned. “We’ve processed over two hundred registrations through the website and more by mail. I think the convention is going to be a great success. Based on the emails I’ve received, both the young adult fantasy panel and the one featuring members of area law enforcement are going to be standing room only.”

  Jude’s eyes twinkled. “Isn’t your boyfriend participating in that session? You’ll have to make sure not to schedule any of your pitch interviews then.”

  “Very funny.” I had, in fact, cleared my calendar for that hour, because I really wanted to see Sean in action. The other participants would include the DA’s assistant, a coroner, and a private investigator. The session promised to provide a plethora of information for mystery writers.

  Jude leaned forward and clicked his computer mouse. “I’m excited about the festival, too.” He turned his monitor toward me. “I just wish the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts could have been ready in time. It would be a much better venue than the old town hall. Look at the layout of the building. This entire wing”—he indicated to the right of the screen and then again to the left—“and this one are both closed to the public. They branch out from the central area where we’re holding our sessions, and I’m hoping that the wooden barriers we erected will deter attendees from poking around in those spaces. They’re littered with construction debris. A total lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “We’ll just have to strategically place our message boards and information signs to keep people away from those areas.”

  He nodded. “Good thinking. But we have to make sure people can’t get into those sections of the building. They have minimal lighting and they’re not safe. We must consider our liability.”

  I gazed at the computer screen. The parts of the town hall we were using for the festival were labeled and coded in various colors according to their usage. The restricted wings appeared as ominous blocks of black. “It’ll be fine, Jude. And the Marlette Robbins Center will be ready for next year’s festival.” Inspiration Valley had been bequeathed the funds to build the Arts Center in honor of the late Marlette Robbins, a former homeless man and posthumously published author.

  I handed over the packet from Kirk Mason. “I wanted you to look at this. It’s definitely not for me and is more your kind of thing. It was unsolicited, but it might be marketable.”

  As he scanned the first page his eyes darkened. “This is a bit twisted, but you’re right. It is up my alley. I might be able to sell it. What do you know about this Kirk Mason?” He flipped through the pages in befuddlement, clearly searching for an actual synopsis.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t locate a proposal or a query about this novel, or any emails or correspondence of any kind from a Kirk Mason.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “I know. If you wanted to consider the manuscript, how are we supposed to contact the author if we don’t know how?”

  Jude shrugged and placed the proposal in his in-tray. “Well, Kirk Mason says he’ll be at the festival.”

  I sat back and tried to imagine what a writer of such dark material would look like. I envisio
ned a tall, slim man with a hooked nose, dark, deep-set eyes, and pencil-thin lips. He’d be dressed all in black and have a dagger tattooed on his neck. At the pitch session, I’d have to sit across from him, listening to his scabrous voice as he described his novel in chilling, graphic detail, his cold, piercing stare making me want to look anywhere but at him. Involuntarily, I shuddered. “Then I hope this author is scheduled for one of your pitch sessions and not mine!”

  Chapter 3

  THE INSPIRATION VALLEY BOOK AND AUTHOR FESTIVAL got under way Friday morning beneath a bank of low clouds, dark and heavy with rain. The attendees didn’t seem to notice, and the buzz of excitement that traveled among them reverberated through the lobby of the old town hall. In fact, the organized bustling of the crowd combined with the hum of many voices reminded me of an energetic beehive.

  I was stationed at one of the checkin tables, issuing badges and schedules to panel speakers and other special guests. Vicky was seated at another table with Flora Meriweather, the agent representing children’s and young adult books at Novel Idea, and I couldn’t help but grin over their contrary appearance.

  Flora, a plump, jovial middle-aged woman who favored bright colors and cheerful patterns, was wearing a floral blouse and a mango-colored skirt. Her lipstick was the same tropical hue, and she’d secured her hair beneath a lime green headband. Her Peter Pan charm bracelet jingled merrily each time she handed one of the writers a welcome packet. It took Flora twice as long as Vicky to complete the checkin task, as she engaged each of the attendees in conversation, making fast friends with every person in her line.

  Vicky, on the other hand, kept her face as blank as a world-class poker player. She ticked off names on a spreadsheet she’d created during her first hour of work at the agency, answered questions in a clear-cut monotone that could have rivaled the loudspeaker announcements heard at an airport, and sent people on their way. And even though her attire resembled that of a Catholic school nun, from her shapeless black sweater down to her square-toed orthopedic footwear, I was delighted to have her onboard.