Off the Books Read online

  He suddenly looked concerned. “Why? Do you know where she is?”

  I nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Thought you didn’t care.”

  He shuffled a bit, the corners of his lips tugging into a little grin. “It’s just that it’s hard telling what type of trouble she might get into. I’d hate for her to bother anyone else.”

  “In that case, you should probably know that she’s at the pub.”

  His eyes popped open. “At the pub? You mean outside the pub, right?”

  “Nope. Inside.”

  “Oh for cryin’ out loud!” He threw up his hands and headed straight for the door, pausing only to grab his jacket off the front counter. “I swear, this dog is going to be the death of me,” he mumbled.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing and followed, struggling to keep up with his long-legged pace as we made our way back to the pub. When we got there, the authors were out on the curb, loading into the large SUVs Bentley had rented for the week to shuttle them around town. A man on a mission, Matt elbowed his way through the crowd and into the pub with me on his heels.

  To my surprise, Bentley was still there, sitting in a chair with the dog on her lap. Franklin and Flora were there, too, both of them fawning over Olive. “There you are, Olive,” Matt said, reaching down for the dog.

  Bentley pulled Olive a little closer. “Aren’t you the man who owns the pet store?”

  I stepped forward. “Matt, this is Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, owner of Novel Idea Literary Agency. Bentley, Matt Reynolds.” I introduced Flora and Franklin, too, while I reached down and scratched between willing ears. “It seems Olive escaped from the store earlier. Matt’s been looking everywhere for her.”

  Matt shot me an appreciative look and reached again for the dog. “I can take her now. Thank you for keeping her safe, Ms. Duke.”

  “Bentley, please.” My boss smiled warmly at Matt but made no move to hand the dog over.

  Matt dropped his hands and shuffled awkwardly. Flora and I exchanged a surprised look. This was the calmest we’d seen Bentley in almost a month. Even though we’d brought in a professional service to facilitate the wedding portion of Booked for a Wedding, there was still a lot of ground to cover just preparing for and managing the authors and their tasks. Not to mention that Bentley and Ms. Lambert, the coordinator from Southern Belles Bridal Company … Well, let’s just say there were one too many lionesses in the den. All this, plus the unexpected snow, made for a lot of stress. But watching Bentley now, nestling the sweet little fluff ball of a dog, you’d think she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “You know,” Franklin, our nonfiction expert, said, “just last year, I signed on the most wonderful author. He wrote this book about how dogs improve our lives.” He adjusted the cashmere scarf tied around his neck. Franklin was the most senior agent at Novel Idea and a true southern gentleman at heart. I noticed that his normally fluffy gray hair was tamer than usual and his matching mustache neatly trimmed. He must have made a trip to the barber in preparation for this week’s events. “Just a marvelous book,” he continued. “And if I remember correctly, he’d cited many professionals who claim that owning a dog reduces stress. Even helps lower blood pressure.”

  “That’s right,” Bentley concurred. “I remember that book. What was its title again?”

  “Get a New Leash on Life,” Franklin said, tipping his chin up slightly. “A bestseller, of course.”

  “Of course,” Bentley resounded.

  “I completely agree with that theory,” Matt stated. “Except when it comes to Olive. You see, Olive is a handful, I’m afraid.”

  “A handful?” Bentley narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? She seems perfect to me.”

  “She usually does. It’s only after you get to know her that her true personality shines through. In fact, she’s been returned twice now.”

  “Returned?” Bentley clutched Olive little tighter. “Whatever for?”

  I eyed the pup, thinking about the chewed doorframe and the demolished fish tank. I knew why. Despite her sweet face and innocent brown eyes, this adorable little spaniel was a tornado of destruction.

  Then I heard Bentley saying, “I think I’ll volunteer to be her foster mommy this week. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and if what Franklin says is true, this little pup will be good for me.”

  Matt drew in a deep breath. “You might want to reconsider. Olive’s not at all the typical Cavalier King Charles spaniel. She’s needy, demands a lot of attention, and barks and whines when she doesn’t get her way.”

  Bentley held the dog at arm’s length and stared into her deep brown eyes. “Well, I can see why she would. She knows she’s too adorable to be ignored or not get her way, don’t you think?”

  No one answered. Flora and I looked at each other, both of us no doubt thinking the same thing: It seemed that Olive and Bentley had a lot in common.

  Chapter 3

  As soon as I opened the truck’s door Monday morning, I was affronted by a blast of heat and about a hundred decibels of Patsy Cline’s soulful voice. “Loud enough, Mama?” I asked, shoving aside a couple of full grocery bags and climbing into the passenger side of her 1970s turquoise pickup truck.

  “What’s that, darlin’?” she shouted.

  I reached over, turned down the radio, and settled back into the seat with a sigh. “Nothing. Good morning, Mama.”

  “Good mornin’, sug. Beautiful outside, isn’t it? Looks like someone shook a white bedsheet over the world.”

  I smiled, thinking she’d just come up with the perfect analogy. “I don’t think I ever remember it snowing this much in the Valley.” The tires crunched over the packed road as we pulled away from the curb. I waved at my neighbor, Mrs. Bailey, who was outside sweeping snow off her front steps. “Thanks again for the ride, Mama. I wasn’t sure how the Vespa would handle on these roads.”

  “Don’t mention it. Needed a few things from the store anyhow.”

  I glanced into one of the paper bags from our local grocery store, How Green Was My Valley. “Looks like you’re cooking for a crowd. Are you having a party or something?”

  She chuckled tightly, her eyes darting my way for a second. “A party? Why, no, sugar.” Another chuckle. “I’m just workin’ on a few recipes, that’s all.” She chuckled a little more, which was one too many chuckles. I narrowed my eyes, wondering what was going on, but thought better than to ask. As busy as my schedule was this week, it might be better not to know.

  She tapped a container on the seat. “Made a little too much banana bread yesterday. Thought you and the other agents might need some extra fuel to start your busy week.”

  I snatched up the container and thanked her. Mama made the most amazing banana bread in the world. In fact, “amazing” was the word people used to describe everything about my mother, including her special gift. “Do you have a busy workday planned?” Mama, or the Amazing Althea as most people called her, earned her living as a psychic advisor, specializing in tarot cards and palm readings.

  “Reckon I will. That’s not my prediction, mind you. I’m just goin’ on what Flora told me.”

  “Flora?” What was she talking about?

  “That friend of yours from the agency.”

  I drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I know who Flora is. What does she have to do with your work today?”

  The back tire slid a little as Mama downshifted and made a turn onto one of the snow-packed side streets. “She didn’t tell you? I’m working at the expo all week.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’ll be helpin’ one of the authors, Pam somethin’ or another. Flora said her books have a fortune-teller in them. Said that’s why the books are so popular. Seems Pam’s readers are fascinated with people like me. People with the gift.” She lifted her head slightly. “Anyway, Flora thought it would be interestin’ if I sat at Pam’s table and offered readings to folks, kind of like I was the fortune-teller i
n the books.”

  “Have you ever read one of Pam Fox’s books?”

  Mama shook her head. “Can’t say that I have. But they must be good. She’s a bestseller, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” I pressed my lips together, trying not to crack a smile. Yes, Pam was a bestseller, but I wasn’t sure it was the fortune-teller that kept people turning the pages as much as the hot romance. Nonetheless, I had to admit, Flora was a genius. Bringing to life one of Pam’s characters? Well, that was simply brilliant. Readers were going to be drawn to Pam’s table like flies to honey. Although I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of my mother being put on display in such a manner. “You’re not going to be wearing a costume, are you?” Hopefully Flora hadn’t decided to dress her up like a snake charmer.

  “A costume? Why would I need a costume?”

  Thank goodness. “You don’t. You’re perfect just the way you are,” I said, glancing across the seat. Underneath her long parka and fur-lined boots, I knew she was more than likely wearing her normal attire: an ankle-length skirt well suited to her tall figure, paired with a flowing blouse in a rich hue of either purple or gold—majestic colors, according to Mama. Today she’d taken extra care to tie her long silver hair back in a braid and accent her wrists and fingers with turquoise jewelry.

  She adjusted the knob for the defroster and said, “Startin’ a new life with someone can be unsettlin’ for a lot of people. Maybe something I tell one of the brides might bring a little comfort for them or keep them from makin’ a terrible mistake.”

  I sat a little straighter. “A mistake? What do you mean?” But I knew what she meant. I thought back to my own wedding, when Mama came rushing in at the last moment, a tarot card in hand and a dire warning on her lips. “Don’t marry him, sugar,” she’d warned. “He’s going to break your heart. It’s right here in the cards.”

  “You can’t do that, Mama. Even if you get a bad reading off someone, you can’t tell them not to get married. That’s not what this week’s all about. It’s supposed to be a positive experience for the attendees.”

  “Well, I can’t very well let them go off and make the mistake of a lifetime, now, can I? It’s my duty, after all—the burden that I carry for havin’ the gift.” She sighed dramatically. “Anyway, I’m just the messenger. It’s really the cards that hold the answers.”

  I rolled my eyes and wondered if Flora knew what she’d signed up for when she asked Mama to act the part of a fortune-teller. She probably thought that was all there was to my mother’s gift: acting. Not that I blamed Flora. As much as I hated to admit it, I often found myself torn between being skeptical of my mama’s gift and in awe of her uncannily accurate predictions.

  I rubbed at the knot forming on the back of my neck. Fortunately, we were pulling onto High Street and the agency was just ahead. “Just drop me at the door,” I told her. “And thanks for the ride.”

  Mama carefully maneuvered through the back lot and alongside the stairs that led up to the agency. She put the truck in gear and turned my way. “Say, darlin’, do you have a few minutes?”

  I glanced at my watch and then longingly toward the back door of Espresso Yourself, the local coffee shop located just below our agency. I’d hoped to have enough time to pop in, say hello to the owner and my best friend, Makayla, and grab a caramel latte to start my busy day. I sighed. “Sure, Mama. What is it?”

  She hesitated. “Oh, nothin’ that can’t wait, I suppose. You go along now. I’ll be seein’ you this afternoon at the Arts Center.”

  I leaned across the seat, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and grabbed my banana bread, which was going to go great with my coffee. “Love you, Mama,” I said, sliding out the door.

  *

  ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES later, I settled behind my desk with a caramel latte and a slice of Mama’s banana bread. I only had a couple of hours to get some real work done before our normal Monday morning status meeting.

  I flipped on my computer. While it warmed up, I eyed with mixed emotions a pile of queries Vicky had placed on my desk. While it appeared to be nothing more than a stack of papers, I knew each query held the hopes and dreams of its creator. Authors poured their hearts into their stories, hoping to one day see their work published. I’d love to be able to make that dream come true for every author; unfortunately only the best-written queries would make it to the next level.

  The first few were rejections, one so badly written I had to wonder why it made the cut in the first place. I set it aside, meaning to ask Vicky about it later. Usually she was more thorough when vetting queries, but maybe there was something she saw in this one that I’d missed. The next few were well written, just not what the market was calling for at the moment. I kept sorting, making piles on my desk, until I came to a query that caught my eye.

  Dear Ms. Wilkins,

  Prominent flapper and unrestrained party girl Zelda Gray is a regular at the Forty-Sixth Street Speakeasy. After all, the raucous club secreted away above Luigi’s Ristorante is simply the bee’s knees. The jazz is lively, the illicit booze flows freely, and the patrons party like there’s no tomorrow. Which there isn’t for vaudeville singer Doris Shaw, who’s found in the back room bludgeoned to death with a bottle of bootlegged whiskey. Unfortunately, witnesses claim they saw Zelda and Doris arguing just moments before Doris is discovered murdered. Zelda soon finds that being the main suspect in a murder case is a sobering situation. Will she be able to ditch her glad rags and get down to business in time to prove her own innocence? Or will her next party be in the pokey?

  My 78,000-word completed novel, Death of the Dame, will provide a roaring good read for mystery fans. I earned a BA in history from Northwestern University and worked as a staff writer for …

  This one really made me sit up and take notice. First of all, while it was short and succinct, it still gave me a good feel for the author’s voice. It also had a great hook. Thanks to a resurging interest in The Great Gatsby, everything 1920s was big right now, so this theme might really pique readers’ interest. I set it aside, planning to contact the author and ask for the first couple of chapters. Hopefully, the manuscript would live up to this promising query.

  After finishing the rest of the queries, I started in on a stack of royalty statements, reviewing each and double-checking the statements against the checks being paid out to authors. Since my client list had grown, this task was becoming more time consuming. Not that I minded. More clients meant more money for the agency. And I was glad to pull my weight.

  I’d just turned back to my computer when Eliot, our feline office mascot, wandered into my office and jumped onto my desk. “Why, hello there, handsome,” I said, scratching the cream-colored tuft of hair under his chin until he purred. “Have you come to help me read my emails?” Then I laughed as he answered by rubbing his face against the edge of my computer monitor before plopping on top of a pile of papers.

  The first email to catch my attention was from an editor for a series I’d signed last summer. The initial submission, a cozy mystery about a woman who designed doggie apparel, had a great plot but lacked direction. I did, however, like the author’s writing so I’d offered to represent her. Then we’d worked together the rest of the summer, rewriting the book to emphasize more of the pet angle and brainstorm synopses for two more possible books in the series. The end result was dubbed the Trendy Tails Mysteries and was snatched in the first round of submission for a three-book deal.

  Now it looked like the cover art was done for the first book. Excitedly, I clicked on the email and opened the attachment. “Yes!” I said, delighted with the image that filled my screen. I was glad to see that the artist chose to feature both the poodle and the corgi on the front cover, each in a cute doggie sweater. Certainly readers would be drawn in by such a wonderful depiction. I sent the editor a quick note telling her how much I liked the artwork and then forwarded the cover to the author. I knew she’d love it, too.

  After clicking send, I stood, stretched a little,
and then walked over to my office window and rubbed a circle on the pane. While quaint-looking, the older six-over-six window frosted over at the first sign of cold weather, blocking my view of High Street and all the goings-on outside the office. But today I pressed my nose against the clear spot and let my eyes feast on the bucolic scene before me. Snow had gathered in the crevices of the brick-front buildings and on the boughs of the evergreens, making the entire town look like a white-frosted gingerbread village. Against the all-white backdrop, brightly clad townspeople moved about, adding a dash of color to an otherwise monochromatic scene.

  As my eye wandered up the walk, I spied my client Lynn in front of the Constant Reader. She was staring at the store’s front window, which I knew contained many of our clients’ books. The owner, Jay, who also happened to be one of our very own authors, was always supportive of the agency’s efforts and had created a special display to showcase the authors participating in this week’s expo. I wondered if Lynn was dreaming of the day she’d see her own book in a bookstore window. The thought made me smile. A talented author like Lynn deserved the opportunity to have her work in readers’ hands.

  I was about to turn back to my own work when suddenly Lynn spun away from the window and started walking quickly down the sidewalk. Surprised by her sudden change in demeanor, I pressed against the window and stared after her. Halfway down the walk, Chuck Richards, the handyman I’d met yesterday at the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast, caught up to her. Almost immediately something exchanged between the two of them. A sort of heated anger bordering on abhorrence that could only exist between two people on intimate terms.

  The emotion between them was so strong it was almost palpable even from where I was standing. Chuck was towering over her, his face twisted into an angry scowl as his arms gestured wildly. Who was this man? Her brother? An ex-boyfriend, perhaps? Then something changed. Lynn transformed right in front of my eyes, morphing from angry to defensive to withdrawn. She seemed to shrink into herself until her arms were wrapped around her midsection and her head hung down. Still Chuck hovered over her, his mouth forming angry, maybe hurtful, words, before he let go with one more wild gesture that caused Lynn to noticeably flinch.