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

  I swallowed hard. Not because I couldn’t tolerate a little inconvenience or because I was worried about my garden. It was the thought that there might be more remains in my yard. One skeleton was enough. In fact, no one deserved that type of treatment. To simply be discarded after death, their remains destined to spend eternity lying in anonymity, with not even a simple stone to mark their death or an epitaph to commemorate the life they lived. It was almost too much to grasp. I rubbed at my temples some more. Then another thought snuck up on me. The garden walk! There was no way I’d be able to participate now. I swallowed hard again. How was I going to break the news to Bentley? She’d be fit to be tied once she found out that her plans were going to be waylaid by a police investigation. I decided to wait until Monday morning to tell her.

  I glanced back down at my mother, who was gathering her cards and preparing to leave. “Believe me, hon, this is only the beginnin’ of your troubles,” she warned.

  Great. Like I didn’t already have enough troubles.

  “If you knew what was good for you, Lila,” she continued, “you’d pack up a few things and come on over to my place to ride out this wave of trouble comin’ your way. I’d be happy to take you and Trey in for a while. It would be like old times.”

  She was referring to the time last summer when Trey and I lived with her while I paid off some debt and saved for the down payment on my cottage. It had been a wonderful time for all of us and I was still grateful that she’d been there for me. But I wasn’t going to let my current troubles send me scurrying from my home. Besides, Trey and I had such busy schedules, we’d drive her crazy with all our comings and goings. “Thanks, Mama, but I’ll be fine.”

  She nodded, her eyes moving between Sean and me with a wistful look. “Well, okay then. I’d best be gettin’ on home and leave all you young people to your fun.” She chuckled, but I could detect a pinch of sorrow in her tone. I wondered if there was more to her request than just offering us a safe haven. Perhaps she was feeling lonely and wanted the company. I guess I had been neglectful of our relationship lately. I made a note to make more time for my mother.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much fun to be had amongst us young people. Right after mother left, Sean begged off, saying that he needed to check in with the anthropologist again and then needed to return to Dunston to interview a suspect in a drug case he was working. He did, however, ask me to dinner the following evening at Voltaire’s, the Valley’s best French restaurant. Since Sean was more of a James Joyce Pub type of guy, my heart fluttered at the mention of Voltaire’s. Was he planning to finally pop the question?

  Despite a headache and the constant noise emitting from the family room full of boys, the possibility of Sean’s long-awaited proposal carried me through the rest of my evening. It wasn’t until later that night when I was lying in bed that my thoughts returned to the skull in my garden and my mother’s predictions. There was only one thing to do: Find out more about my home’s previous owners. And I knew just where to start. I planned to stop by Ruthie Watson’s office at Sherlock Holmes Realty first thing in the morning.

  Chapter 4

  Walking into Sherlock Holmes Realty was a bit like walking into the real Holmes residence, or at least what my mind’s eye conjured Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous 221B Baker Street residence to look like. Ruthie, whom I knew to be a devoted Holmesian, had painstakingly converted what was once a run-of-the-mill reception area into a nearly perfect reproduction of the famous sleuth’s sitting room. She’d nailed the look, too. Right down to the deep red, embossed Victorian-era wallpaper and a dark-walnut-paneled fireplace flanked by high-back wing chairs. She’d even managed to find a replica of Holmes’s famous wicker chair, which she’d offset with a small, round coffee table. Only, instead of a calabash pipe and magnifying glass, the table’s top sported several full-color pamphlets of property listings.

  “Ms. Watson is with a client, but she should be available in a couple of minutes,” the fresh-faced receptionist told me before pointing to a side table set with coffee and rolls.

  I meandered toward the refreshments, taking special notice of a few framed Strand Magazine covers that dotted the wall above the wainscot. They featured illustrations of Sherlock Holmes by the famed Sidney Paget. I was impressed. Not only with the extent of Ruthie’s collection, but with the fact that she’d assembled a goody tray full of treats for her customers. I recognized one of my favorites: raspberry cream croissants from Sixpence Bakery.

  I was just about to pop a piece of the buttery roll into my mouth when a ruckus arose from down the hallway.

  “That woman doesn’t have any right to my father’s land!” an angry male voice bellowed, followed by the low murmur of Ruthie’s voice. I couldn’t discern her words, but could tell she was trying to smooth things over. “This is ridiculous,” the man continued. “I’ll not have her messing up this deal!” This final statement was punctuated with a door slam and heavy stomping. A young man with dark, disheveled hair burst into the waiting area, stopped short, and regarded me with a wild look in his eyes before hightailing it out the front door. Through the window, I saw him straddle a motorcycle, kick-start it, and peel out of the lot, fumes flying from his exhaust.

  The receptionist and I exchanged a look. “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Grant Walker,” she replied, fanning herself with a pamphlet. “Isn’t he something?”

  “Something?” I echoed. Then it dawned on me what she meant. Of course, this twenty-something gal noticed a guy like Grant Walker. Even I, who was old enough to be his … well, his older sister at least, noticed his brooding good looks in the few fleeting seconds I’d seen him. However, it was the snap of anger still glittering in his eyes that had me concerned more than his high cheekbones and those delicious telltale bits of whiskers that bespoke any male’s manliness.

  “He’s about as hot as they get,” she went on, still fanning and sporting a wicked little grin.

  I nodded, thinking Grant Walker was hot, all right. Hotheaded. I was secretly glad I had a son and not a daughter. I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting mixed up with a guy like him.

  “Tina, why didn’t you tell me Lila was here?” We both looked up to see Ruthie approaching. She looked professional in her A-line skirt and button-down blouse, her trademark gold magnifying glass pin displayed on her lapel.

  “I just arrived,” I said, falling in step behind Ruthie as she led me back to her office.

  “What brings you here?” she asked, indicating one of the visitors’ chairs. She scooted behind her desk and plopped into her own chair.

  I studied her over a stack of papers. Her usually bright face appeared drawn and sallow. “Everything okay, Ruthie?” I couldn’t help but ask, especially after hearing her previous client’s outburst.

  She sighed. “Just tired. Seems it’s one thing after another these days.” She shrugged and changed directions before I could ask her what she meant. “Are you here about Damian York’s property search? I thought he was Franklin’s client.”

  “Oh, he is. No, I’m here about something else. Something personal.”

  She pursed her lips. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of listing that cute little cottage I sold you?”

  I shook my head. “Oh no. I love the place. I just came in to ask you a couple questions about its history.”

  “Its history? Why? Is there a problem?” She started fidgeting with a pen, tapping it a few times before sticking it behind her ear. I noticed a hint of gray along the edges of her normally twice-a-month salon shade of auburn.

  “No, no problem really,” I replied. Unless she’d consider a skeleton in the yard a problem. “It’s just that we were doing some landscaping yesterday and we may have unearthed a gravesite.”

  “A gravesite!”

  “Not really a gravesite, but a skull. Just one, though.” So far. I had a bad feeling that our archaeological discovery was going to lead to something more ominous. Or maybe I was just allowing
my mother’s grim predictions to give me the willies. “For the life of me, I can’t remember anything about the people who owned the place before me.”

  Ruthie briefly paused before pushing away from her desk, the wheels of her chair squeaking as she rolled toward a large file credenza. She pulled out the drawer and walked her fingers across the tips of the manila files. “Here it is. Let’s see.”

  I watched her shuffle through a stack of papers from what must have been the file on my home. “That’s right. The Cobbs. Peggy and Doug Cobb,” she said, leafing through a few more papers. “Actually, the original title was owned by Illumination Valley Rental Company. The Cobbs purchased it in the early ’80s. Eighty-four to be exact. Prior to their owning it, the property served as a vacation rental owned by a property management company.”

  “But the Cobbs owned it until I purchased it?”

  Ruthie nodded. “Yes. They were an older couple. And, if I remember correctly, Doug was quite ill when they listed with me. They’d already vacated the property and were living in Dunston. I think Doug was in a convalescent home there.”

  What she said made sense. I did remember the cottage was empty when I first saw it. Plus the inside had an air of seniors about it at first—that mix of menthol combined with Jean Naté and a musty dust that dim eyes can’t always see to clean. “Do you know if Peggy is still alive?”

  Ruthie shut the file. “No idea. I only met with them a few times. Enough to sign the initial paperwork. I remember Doug was too ill to make it to the closing, so they signed before a notary and appointed a power of attorney.”

  I tried to remember back to the closing. It was such a hectic time, with starting a new job and living in my mother’s house. All I could remember was Ruthie handing me the keys and telling me the cottage was finally mine.

  “Too bad about the skull,” Ruthie was saying. “It’ll depreciate your home’s value, you know.”

  My stomach lurched. I’d already felt a bit guilty for thinking of the inconvenience my yellow-ribboned crime scene garden would be to me personally instead of the greater concern of knowing someone died in my yard—or at least was cast off like refuse in my garden. Now Ruthie’s ever-so-practical mind gave me yet another reason to be selfish in my appraisal of this turn of the spade: the financial impact. “Really?” Interest rates were dropping and I was hoping to refinance and take some cash out to purchase a vehicle for the upcoming winter months. I’d made it through the previous winter on my trusty Vespa, but had to borrow my mother’s truck several times when the weather was at its worst.

  “Most certainly,” she postulated. “After all, would you want to buy a home where a dead body was found in the yard?”

  *

  RUTHIE’S WORDS RANG through my mind as I maneuvered my banana yellow scooter over cobblestone side streets on my way to the Secret Garden. She was correct about one thing: Who in their right mind would buy a house where human remains had been found? It was just my luck that this had happened to my charming little cottage. There was only one way to make peace with this situation and with myself. I needed to find out who the remains belonged to and lay their memory to rest. Whether that would help remove the stigma on the property was beside the point; this person needed to be respected, even in death. Not to mention my mother would be infinitely relieved as well, allowing her to feel better about the spirit world that had failed to prepare her—or me—for this event. I resolved to look up Peggy Cobb, the first chance I got. But, for now it would have to wait. Thanks to Bentley, my schedule was full for the day.

  I pulled through the stone gate that marked the entrance to the Secret Garden. I’d phoned ahead and made arrangements to meet with Addison Eckhart to discuss Damian York’s pending signing. I hated to do business on a Saturday, especially since it was Addison’s busiest day of the week, but with my looming deadline, there was no choice.

  I spied Addison as I was parking my Vespa under the shady branches of a magnificent magnolia. I cut the engine, lowered the kickstand, and took a second to inhale the lemony scent of the tree’s showy white blooms before heading over to where she was tending a colorful display of potted flowers.

  “Lila,” she called out as I approached. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat to shield her already freckled face. Addison had recently been promoted from the gift shop manager to general manager, a job I thought she was well suited for, and I was glad to see her obtain it. Especially after the misfortune she’d experienced last year when a member of her family was incarcerated. “Just in time,” she continued. “I’ve been thinking of your venue and I know the perfect spot to hold the dinner and signing.”

  I followed her around the corner, over the pea gravel pathways through the various themed garden areas to a tall green hedge. “You’ll love this,” she assured me as we walked the length of the privet hedge until we came to a white trellis covered in climbing roses. “This is the entrance,” she said, opening a small gate, pushing aside a stray rose hanging low overhead, and walking through the enchanting entryway to the open yard beyond.

  “Oh, Addison! This is perfect!” A neatly manicured lawn, anchored by two grand willows, led to a large stone patio shaded by a rustic pergola covered in wisteria vines. “I’ve been to your nursery at least a dozen times, but didn’t know this was here.”

  Addison shrugged. “We use it mainly for weddings, baby showers, and such. Do you think it’ll be big enough to accommodate a hundred guests? We can only fit eight or nine round tables on the patio area, but I thought we could place some tables on the lawn, too. There’s a service road behind the back hedges, so the caterers can easily access the area.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure we can make it work. I’m thinking we should place Damian’s table on the right side of the patio, directly under the main timber of the pergola,” I started, temporarily sidetracked by a group of chatty, hatted women who pushed past us and headed for the pergola. One of them was carrying a covered tray, another a pitcher of sweet tea and a stack of plastic cups. They headed straight for one of the tables on the patio without bothering to even glance our way.

  “Don’t mind them,” Addison said, waving their way. “It’s just the Dirty Dozen.”

  I tried not to laugh. The garden club’s name always reminded me of a war movie with the same title. Only that movie featured a squadron of a dozen miscreant commandos. A sharp contrast to the Aunt Bee look-alikes who were passing around cookies and iced tea.

  Addison squinted their way. “Cute name for a garden club, isn’t it? They hold their monthly meeting here every third Saturday of the month.”

  I could imagine they had a lot to discuss with the garden walk coming up. “Actually, I’m glad they’re here. I need to coordinate a few things with them for the signing. Which one is Alice Peabody. Do you know?”

  She pointed to the hefty woman with a smart-looking blue hat perched on her well-coiffed head. “Watch out for that one; she’s as prickly as a cactus.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I cringed inwardly, wondering how the prickly Mrs. Peabody was going to take the news about my yard being unavailable for the garden walk.

  I firmed up a few more details with Addison and excused myself, making my way toward the cackling ladies. I could hear snippets of their discussion as I approached: “I think it’s a wonderful idea to ask him to judge the contest.” And “Of course it is, think of the notoriety we’d receive.” One contrarian added, “I don’t know. I think we should stick with Professor Jackson. He’s a horticulturist, after all.”

  They gals were caught up in such a frenzied discussion, they didn’t notice me until I cleared my throat a couple of times. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m Lila Wilkins with Novel Idea Literary Agency.”

  Finally they looked up.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting, but I thought since you’re all gathered here, I’d take the opportunity to introduce myself and perhaps discuss a few points about the upcoming events.” I smiled around the table. I definitely had their a
ttention, though they held back smiles, waiting, I guessed, before making their decision about me. I continued, “My boss, Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, has assigned me to coordinate Damian York’s author event with this year’s garden walk.” I let my gaze settle on Alice Peabody. “I believe she’s discussed the event with you, Mrs. Peabody.”

  Mrs. Peabody shifted her girth and eyed me curiously. “Are you number thirteen on the garden walk?”

  I hesitated, trying to think of just the right words. “Yes, my garden was assigned to the final spot on this year’s walk, but—”

  “Do you grow roses?” one of the ladies interrupted.

  “Roses?”

  “I’ve won the van Gogh competition for the past three years and everyone knows my roses were the deciding factor,” a dark-haired woman added with a competitive gleam in her eye. I knew she must be Fannie May Walker. Her reputation for rose cultivation was well-known, even amongst brown-thumbed gardeners like myself.

  I shook my head. “I’m not really into roses.”

  A collective gasp sounded from the table.

  “I mean, I can’t grow roses. Of course, I like roses. Who doesn’t?” I backpedaled, wondering how this conversation had gotten so off track. I attempted to swing it back to the author event. “Anyway, I’m working with one of my colleagues, Franklin Stafford, to plan an afternoon signing and meet and greet dinner for Damian York.”

  “We were just discussing Mr. York,” Alice Peabody interjected. “Do you think that he’d be available to judge this year’s garden walk competition? We’ve always used a retired horticulture professor as our judge, but some of us think he’s become biased toward certain gardeners.” Her eyes slid toward Fannie May as she dished out that last comment.

  “Uh …” I didn’t know what to say. Damian wasn’t actually my client, so I couldn’t speak on his behalf. “I’d have to check with my colleague Franklin Stafford about that. It’s possible, I guess.” These ladies were all about roses and not much else. I didn’t think I’d accomplish much by discussing the garden walk weekend’s events with them as a group. I’d be better off approaching Alice, the group’s president, alone. I glanced at my watch. “How about I discuss it with him and get back to you on Monday, Mrs. Peabody,” I said, looking pointedly at the club’s president.