Every Trick in the Book Read online

  “Oh yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. As he described his ideas for the second, third, and even fourth book, I realized this could be a winner. Of course, I cautioned myself, it would depend on the quality of the writing.

  When he finished, I handed him my card. “Email me your first three chapters along with your query, and put ‘Requested material for Lila Wilkins’ in the subject line. That way our assistant knows to forward it directly to me.” I smiled at him. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

  Reenergized after that pitch, I felt that maybe something good would come out of this very long afternoon after all. I glanced around the room and called the next name on my list, T. J. West, the last appointment before a much-needed break. As the name left my tongue, I wondered if T. J. was a male or female.

  Jude was deep in discussion with a young woman whose vibrant red hair was tied back in a ponytail. The creepy guy in black still sat near Jude’s table, staring intently at me. By the door, a woman stood chatting with a man with brown hair and glasses. When I called out for T. J., that man turned in my direction, but my eyes instinctively darted back to the man in black. At that moment he rose and walked to my table while at the same time, the man with the glasses was also approaching me. I knew I should have been focusing on him, because in all likelihood he was T. J. West, but I kept my attention on the sinister-looking man, who stopped at my table and placed a large raven feather in front of me without saying a word. Then he turned and left the room.

  I picked up the feather, wondering what on earth it could mean. The barbs radiating from the vein were silky smooth and glossy in their blackness, and even the downy afterfeathers at the base of the shaft were black. I had no idea why that disquieting man would give this to me, as I had never seen him before today, and made a note to ask Jude if he knew anything about him.

  T. J. West turned out to be a pseudonym, and the writer was unwilling to give me his actual name. His pitch was for a cozy based in a small lakeside town and featured a widow who ran a bed and breakfast. His depiction of the town and description of the protagonist were strong, but I have to admit that the writer didn’t have my full attention because I could not keep my eyes off the black feather. What did the creepy guy mean by leaving that plume on my table?

  I returned my focus to the man’s voice. After all, he should be given as much consideration as the others who preceded him.

  “So the clue that my widow is convinced will help her solve the murder,” he was saying, “is something that the murderer left in the victim’s arms. A child’s much-loved teddy bear.”

  I sat up. “A teddy bear? I don’t think cozy fans would like that. Children are untouchable in a cozy, unless they serve as cute or humorous minor characters.”

  “But it’s the key to the murderer’s motivation. She kills the woman because—”

  At that moment a cold, wet drop fell on my forehead. Two more fell onto my appointment schedule, blurring some of the names. T. J. West directed his eyes upward and a fat droplet splashed onto the lens of his glasses. “The ceiling is leaking!” he exclaimed.

  I looked up. Sure enough, drops of rain were collecting at a crack directly over our table. Another plopped on me, this time on my nose. I shoved the table out from under the leak and handed one of my cards to the man. “If you take out the teddy bear, you can email me the first three chapters, with ‘Requested material’ in the subject line.”

  He took the card. “But—”

  “I like your setting and your protagonist. However, before you send me your proposal, check our agency guidelines on what constitutes a cozy and make sure your book fits the criteria, okay?” I held the door open for him. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to find a bucket.”

  I ran to the lobby where Vicky was sitting at her table sipping from a cup.

  “Vicky, the ceiling is leaking in the courtroom!” I exclaimed. “Do you know where I can find a bucket?”

  “No need to panic, Lila.” She put her cup down. “One of the presentation rooms has a dripping ceiling, too. Zach found a bucket for it in the janitor’s closet down that hall.”

  She pointed to a corridor behind one of the large easels displaying the panel schedules. We had placed it there to prevent attendees from entering that part of the building.

  “But that area is cordoned off because of the renovations,” I protested.

  “The entry is simply obstructed by barriers and our signs. You can get in easily.” She glanced down at my shoes. “I’m glad to see you’re not wearing a pair of unstable high heels. Just watch out for the construction debris.”

  “Okay. Where’s the janitor’s closet?”

  “Fifth door on the right. And I’ll get Jude to mop up the water on the floor in your room. We can’t have any lawsuits on the first day of our festival.”

  Ducking behind the easel and then under the wooden barrier, I found myself in a dimly lit passageway that disappeared into darkness. The floor was littered with chunks of plaster, pieces of wood, and dirt, and I couldn’t see past the first three doors. To get to the janitor’s closet I’d have to venture into the dark.

  The rainy weather made the air in the corridor dank, and I felt a chill. “‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,’” I whispered, quoting Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Rubbing my arms, I gingerly picked my way around the debris.

  My eyes became accustomed to the gloom, but I still couldn’t see very clearly. The rubble on the floor was a shadowy obstacle course. My steps echoed in the hollow-sounding, somber space, and I felt edgy, even though there was absolutely no reason for me to be skittish. I was just getting a bucket, for heaven’s sake.

  I passed the fourth door and was almost at the fifth when I stumbled on a crumbly brick. I reached out my arms and my hands caught the wall to keep me from falling. Vicky had been right about the shoes, and in that moment I was glad I’d worn flats. Wiping my hands on my pants, I continued.

  A noise sounded down the corridor, almost like an echo of my stumble. I stopped and held my breath, listening. Hearing nothing, except for the beating of my heart and the rain assaulting the roof, I waited a minute more and then moved forward.

  The fifth door opened easily, revealing a small cubicle. At one end, a tiny square window shot a shaft of dull light onto a set of metal shelves and a troop of mops in the corner. I felt along the walls to the side of the doorway for a light switch and was jubilant when my fingers touched one. However, flicking it produced no result. In the gray light shining in from outside, I could see two buckets under the bottom shelf to the left of the window. I darted over and grabbed both of them. The door slammed behind me with a loud thump.

  I cried out in surprise. Annoyed with myself for being so jittery, I left the room, pulling the door closed firmly behind me, and started to make my way around the maze of debris.

  Ahead in the corridor, footsteps approached in my direction.

  “Jude, is that you?” I called out.

  No one responded, but the footsteps came closer.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded, tightening my grip on the bucket handles.

  In the gloom, a man appeared, casting an eerie light ahead of him with an open cell phone. It was difficult to make out his features, but his tall, thin body filled the narrow corridor with more shadow. His dark clothes allowed him to melt into the blackness.

  “This wing is closed,” I announced. “Festival attendees aren’t allowed in here.”

  As he moved his head, there was a glint at his brow. I suddenly realized that I stood in front of the creepy man in black, the one with the eyebrow rings who had unnerved me in the courtroom during the pitch appointments. He was the one who’d left the feather on my table.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?” I inquired in my best authoritative voice.

  “You.” The single syllable rumbled from his throat like a growl. It echoed in the emptiness, replete with undeniable menace. “Finally. I’ve fou
nd you.”

  He advanced, his hands reaching out for me.

  Chapter 4

  FOR A MOMENT, I STOOD IN THAT DARK CORRIDOR LIKE I had been hewed from the same stone as the floor. My mind couldn’t seem to come to terms with the fact that a strange man was reaching for me with a pair of long, spidery hands. It didn’t make any sense. Why me? I’d never seen his craggy, pierced face before in my life.

  These fleeting thoughts were quickly replaced by a more primal urge—my instincts took charge and my body reacted like any cornered animal. My muscles were now in control, the message issued to my nerve center commanding me to fight.

  Just as the creep’s bony fingers were about to close on my forearm, I swung the metal bucket in an upward arc. It connected with his chin, the impact forcing his head to snap back. His head bobbed on his neck like one of those plastic drinking birds dipping its beak in and out of a glass of water.

  “HELP!” I shouted before my attacker could recover. I stumbled down the hall toward the public area. As the light grew brighter, I could hear the tread of heavy footsteps behind me. He was coming after me again.

  Then I realized that those footfalls sounded like they were ahead of me. But how could they be behind and in front? Was someone now blocking my path to freedom? I pulled up short and gasped. Another man was entering the shadows.

  “Lila?” a familiar voice called.

  Thank heavens! My coworker Zach Cohen had come to my rescue.

  “Zach!” My panicked shout reverberated off the walls. “Someone’s chasing me! Help!”

  To his credit, Zach didn’t waste another breath. He charged past me into the gloom, carrying a bucket just like mine in one hand. “YOU!” I heard him bellow as my potential attacker’s steps changed direction. “STOP! NOW!”

  Part of me wanted to follow Zach. He was a strong young man in his midthirties, and though he was nearly impossible to intimidate and I was confident he could take care of himself, I was still worried. After all, there was something sinister about the man in black. Menace oozed out of him like foul cologne. I could easily picture him slipping into a nook to wait for Zach to pass by. What if he picked up a loose brick or another makeshift weapon from the construction debris? Zach would have no chance. No chance at all.

  That terrifying thought propelled me into the lobby. I grabbed Vicky, told her to call the police, and then looked around for backup. Just then, Zach reappeared. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, but he was unscathed.

  “He…got…away!” Zach put his hands on his knees and bent over, sucking in air. “Out the fire door.”

  My eyes traveled beyond the town hall’s double doors to the sidewalk below. Since the festival was now officially over for the day, people were streaming outside, spilling over the sidewalk and into the street. There was no sense searching for the man in black. Despite his height, it would be impossible to spot him in the crowd. Because of the weather, dozens were clad in dark-colored coats.

  Moving closer to the exit, I gazed out at the gunmetal gray thunderclouds and crossed my arms over my chest, rubbing the goose bumps away from the skin of my arms. Beneath my suit jacket and blouse, I felt chilled.

  “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Zach put his hands on my shoulders and examined my body with his gaze. Normally, I would have pushed him away and let loose a snide remark or two, but instead, I hugged him and gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for rushing to my aid.”

  Zach preened, glancing this way and that to see how many women had witnessed his act of heroism. Unfortunately, the only audience he had was Vicky, and she appeared entirely unimpressed.

  “I won’t have much to tell the police,” I said to her.

  She shrugged. “No need to worry. I didn’t place the call because there was nothing for me to report. I make it a rule not to jump to conclusions, and once again, it’s proven to be a good rule. It looks like the imminent threat has passed.”

  I scowled at Vicky. “That horrible man could be back tomorrow! We need to identify him and be prepared in case he comes back. Where’s Jude? The psychopath had a pitch appointment with him, so we must have a record of his name and contact information.”

  This was the type of action Vicky was eager to pursue. She pushed away her chair and stood with the straight-backed discipline of a marine heading to the front lines. “I’ll see to this immediately.”

  Zach watched her march away. “What a pistol! The Zachmeister likes her.”

  My coworker had a particular way of referring to himself in the third person. Looping his arm through mine, he led me outside. “Come on, we’ll head over to the restaurant for the agency dinner. I found a maintenance guy to deal with the leaks and Vicky can handle the detective work. You and I will order some booze. After today, I could use a tall, frosty mug of Octoberfest ale.”

  A drink sounded good to me, too. I was more of a red wine kind of gal, but after my run-in with the stalker in the shadows, I had half a mind to down a shot of whiskey. Or two.

  However, by the time Zach and I joined the rest of the agents from Novel Idea at Voltaire’s, Inspiration Valley’s new French restaurant, the frightening experience had lost its edge. It was difficult to concentrate on anything unpleasant inside Voltaire’s. The interior was resplendent with crystal chandeliers, red velvet and gilt chairs, and gold brocade tablecloths. The mirrored walls cast splintered refractions of light onto a ceiling painted with winged cherubim and ethereal celestial goddesses.

  I sank into one of the soft chairs and smiled with relief as a waiter placed a napkin on my lap. “Good evening, madam. May I pour you a glass of champagne?”

  Bentley gestured at my empty glass. “We’re celebrating the completion of a very successful first day. I am immensely proud of my agents.” She hesitated. “Where are Jude and Vicky? We can hardly have a toast without them.”

  “They are searching for the identity of Lila’s crazed writer stalker!” Zach announced and then proceeded to tell Bentley, Flora, and Franklin how he’d scared off a veritable giant in the deserted town hall wing.

  After listening to his inflated version of the event, Bentley eyed me curiously. “Perhaps you should mention this incident to your policeman friend, Sam? Or is it Scott?”

  Bentley rarely remembered the names of people she had no use for, so I patiently replied, “Sean,” before she could list every name beginning with the letter “S.” “I’ll definitely tell him. And since Officer Griffiths is a guest speaker tomorrow, I’ll certainly feel safer should that…man…return.”

  Jude and Vicky arrived at that moment, shrugging out of rain-drenched jackets and easing into the red velvet chairs with the same sigh of relief I’d uttered.

  “Well?” Zach demanded excitedly. “What’s the psycho’s name?”

  “We’re pretty sure it’s Kirk Mason,” Jude answered. “He was booked for my last pitch session of the day, but in the confusion of the leaking ceiling, everyone cleared the room and I didn’t actually meet with him.”

  Vicky fiddled with her silverware until the forks, knives, and spoons were perfectly aligned. After taking a prim sip from her water goblet, she said, “We’re tardy because I wanted to review Mr. Mason’s registration form. He paid by check—a cashier’s check, I assume, considering the address he provided is incomplete. The street is missing. He only filled in the state and a zip code.”

  “Then Kirk Mason could be a pseudonym?” Flora’s eyes widened. “Oh, this sounds like a Nancy Drew novel!”

  The other agents gave Flora an indulgent smile.

  “No offense, Flora,” I said, “but I’d prefer to have Sam Spade by my side should Mr. Mason come back to the festival tomorrow.”

  “But why did he go after you, Lila?” Franklin wanted to know. “He was supposed to pitch to Jude, so you couldn’t have caused him offense.” He turned to Jude. “Do you know anything about Mason’s pitch?”

  Jude consulted his legal pad. “Only from
a proposal he sent to the office. His thriller-suspense intrigued me, and I had really hoped to speak to him.” He shook his head. “It certainly held a lot more promise than the last pitch I heard. The story was your run-of-the-mill serial killer stuff, full of graphic detail with no character development.” He frowned in distaste. “The killer’s signature was that he pierced a body part on all of his victims with a safety pin. The author was more than happy to describe all the gory details, but I wasn’t hooked.”

  “As fascinating as this discussion may be,” Bentley said in a tone that belied how she truly felt about the topic, “I would like to review the highlights of the day.” She gave a regal wave of her hand, indicating that she was ready to make a toast. After praising the agents and Vicky for their hard work, Bentley ordered a sampling of the most decadent food on Voltaire’s leather-bound menu and the waiter scurried off to the kitchen. Another waitress materialized with loaves of warm baguettes and a sun-dried tomato cheese spread and presented Bentley with the wine list.

  Later, after sampling indulgent appetizers like brandy and peppercorn steak tartare, butter-basted sea scallops, and artichoke hearts with shitake mushrooms in a white wine garlic sauce, we went around the table and shared some of the most memorable moments from our pitch sessions.

  “I’ve got one for the history books,” Franklin declared. “Hold on, I need another gulp of vino to bolster my courage.” He took two long swallows and then cleared his throat. “Well, then. I actually had a gentleman propose that I represent his how-to book on the alternative uses of, ah, prophylactics.”

  “Someone pitched a book on what to do with a condom?” Zach asked and began roaring with laughter before Franklin had the opportunity to answer. “How many pages could that take?”

  Jude grinned. “Perhaps there are meant to be dozens of colorful illustrations.”

  “No, no, you misunderstand the young man’s intent,” Franklin interjected, his cheeks flushing the same hue as the velvet on his chair. “His book centers on nonsexual uses. For example, a few hundred can be stitched together and dyed to make a fashion-forward dress. They can be turned into balloon animals at children’s birthday parties, swimming gloves, replacement rubber bands, Christmas tree—”