Every Trick in the Book Page 6

  Bentley stopped him with a stern look.

  When the laughter had died down, Flora told us that her most memorable appointment had been with a twelve-year-old girl. “This young lady showed me a picture book filled with skull-splitting trolls and killer vampires and fairies ripping one another’s wings off. Her mother told me all she ever does is closet herself in her room penning these extremely violent fantasy stories.” She shook her head. “I believe it’s all the child does. She was as pale as my napkin. Reminded me of that strange little girl from the Addams Family.”

  “Was this a case of age discrimination?” Jude teased.

  Flora put a hand over her heart. “Certainly not, but the girl’s books are far too frightening for the intended age group. I suggested she focus her attention on middle grade fiction.”

  “Hey, the average sixth grader could have run circles around my worst pitch of the day,” Zach said. He’d eaten everything on his plate with gusto and was now reaching for a second hunk of bread. “I met with this retired high school football scout who wanted me to represent his tell-all on the dark side of recruiting. The subject was awesome, but the guy could barely string two words together. When I told him he’d have to give me a few examples, he had the gall to say that he wasn’t going to speak a word until I coughed up ten grand in advance!”

  Bentley let loose a nearly inaudible snort, and her eyes gleamed with amusement. “That’s all? And were you supposed to write him a check then and there?”

  “Totally!” Zach bellowed in theatrical indignation. “I tried to explain that I wasn’t buying anyone’s book, but this meathead could not be made to understand how the publishing world works no matter how simple my vocabulary was. Man! He was thicker than a two-by-four. Stormed out when I wouldn’t pay up, too!”

  Before I could discuss my pitches, a quartet of waiters cleared away our hors d’oeuvre dishes and set warm dinner plates before us. Empty wineglasses were refilled, and succulent entrée platters were arranged in the center of the table. The waiter hovering behind my right shoulder informed us that we were being served veal medallions in a creamy cognac sauce, filet mignon with a dusting of peppercorns, sautéed chicken breasts in marsala wine, and a pan-seared rockfish. Side dishes included spaghetti squash, white-striped beets with goat cheese, and tamarind-marinated eggplant.

  For several minutes, no one spoke a word. Our taste buds were in ecstasy. No words could describe the layers of flavor, the tenderness of the meat, or the freshness of the herbs and spices. We were reduced to groans, our eyes half closed in pleasure. Between the wine and the rich food, I had nearly forgotten about the man in black and could barely recall experiencing even a moment of fear in this glittering haven of tantalizing aromas and superb cuisine. In the company of my coworkers, I felt relaxed and happy.

  I’m ashamed to admit how much I ate, but it was worth it. Only Vicky and Bentley refrained from cleaning their plates, and both women passed on dessert, settling for decaf coffee instead.

  As the waiters served us shallow cups of ginger and vanilla bean crème brûlée, I wondered how I’d ever zip my skirt tomorrow morning.

  “Tell us about your pitches, Lila,” Flora prompted, splintering the crust of her crème brûlée with the edge of her spoon.

  “I guess the most unusual thing about my session was that I had not one, but two men pitch cozy mysteries to me. The first was about a group of stay-at-home dads turned amateur sleuths, and the second was a village-style cozy featuring a widow who runs a B and B.”

  “Are you sure they were real dudes?” Zach winked at me. Clearly, the younger agent had consumed too much wine.

  Vicky stared at him in confusion. “As opposed to what?”

  Before Zach could elaborate, Franklin broke into an elaborate coughing fit and then asked me to pass the creamer. After pouring a splash into his coffee, he asked, “Were their pitches any good?”

  I nodded. “Yes, actually. I told both of them to send me their first three chapters. Unfortunately, I was a bit distracted during the last pitch because the man who came after me in the hall dropped this feather on my desk.” I reached into my purse and drew forth the black feather. “He didn’t say a word. Just dropped it and kept walking.”

  Flora shuddered in distaste. “Be careful tomorrow, Lila. This man might be so desperate to get published that he may have taken on the behavior of his character.”

  “I hope not!” Jude declared as Bentley handed the waiter her credit card. “In his proposal, Kirk Mason’s killer murdered someone with a meat cleaver.”

  And just like that, I was ready to get home, lock the door, and call a policeman. My policeman.

  IT WAS NO longer raining when we left the restaurant, and the moon cast a luminous glow in the velvety blackness of the sky. The night was pleasant but I paid it little heed. I was just eager to get off the street, as my mood was colored by a lingering disquiet from our final conversation. Water sprayed onto my shoes and pant legs as I rode my scooter through puddles left by the rain, so that by the time I got home I was damp and cold. It was a relief to walk into my warm and comfy house.

  I immediately removed my wet clothes and put on pajamas, even though it was barely eight o’clock. Sean would not be coming by, as he was on duty tonight, so I had no fear of him seeing me in plaid flannel pants and a T-shirt that said, Chocolate is the fifth food group. Curling up on the couch with my phone, I threw a chenille blanket over my legs and punched in Sean’s number. As it rang, I hoped my call wasn’t interrupting an arrest or other important police business.

  “Hey, you,” he answered with enthusiasm. “How’d it go today?”

  It was such a balm to hear his deep, masculine voice. “That’s a loaded question,” I replied. “The first day of the festival was a huge success, but it had its pitfalls, too.” I proceeded to tell Sean my experiences with the disturbing Kirk Mason, starting with the way he kept watching me from across the room, describing the feather he dropped on the table, and then relating how I belted him with the buckets before running away. “I was terrified and don’t know what might have happened if Zach hadn’t shown up when he did.”

  “It sounds as if you were quite a match for him—the way you decked him with those pails,” Sean said with a hint of admiration in his voice. “But seriously, Lila, this guy could be dangerous. You’d better be careful and take some precautions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like perhaps keeping a cop close by?” he said in a playful voice.

  He’d barely finished his sentence when the doorbell rang. The sound was so unexpected that it made me jump, and my heart pounded a few extra beats per second.

  “Sean, stay on the phone while I answer the door,” I said as I made my way to the front hall. “I have no idea who it might be.”

  “I’m right here.”

  Peering through the peephole, my wariness turned to delight when I saw Sean standing on my front porch, in uniform, holding his cell phone to his ear. He was not wearing his policeman’s hat, however. Instead he’d donned a Greek helmet with red plumes sprouting from its crown. His free hand was raised in a salute.

  I whipped open the door. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight! Aren’t you on duty?” My joy at seeing him overshadowed any reaction to the fanciful addition to his attire.

  Stepping inside, he removed the helmet and said with a grin, “I do get donut breaks, you know.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” He truly was a welcome sight. Standing there in his policeman’s uniform, his handsomeness was intensified. He seemed taller, leaner, and more muscular; his eyes were bluer, and his face was more ruggedly captivating.

  I reached up and kissed him, then took the helmet from his hands. Examining the craftsmanship, I said, “This is great, Sean. You’re going to look just like Paris.” I placed it on the hall table.

  “Just a few years older than the original,” he said with a smile. “I rented a breastplate and arm guards, too. I’ll need to look my best, a
s I’ll be escorting the beautiful Helen of Troy to the costume party tomorrow night.” He pulled me close and kissed me again. “Move over, Orlando Bloom and Diane Kruger.”

  I laughed and took his hand. “Come into the living room. Can I get you a coffee or something?” I peered at him impishly. “I have no donuts, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I don’t want anything, thanks. I just came over to show you my helmet. But I need you to tell me more about this creep at the festival. We have to find him and ensure that he won’t be a threat to you anymore.” He sat down on the couch and glanced around. “This room feels homey,” he said. “Your personality is all over it.”

  “Thanks. I forgot you hadn’t seen the place yet. Want a tour?”

  “Not now. Let’s save that for another time.” He patted the couch next to him. “Come sit down.”

  I lowered myself beside him and rested my head on his shoulder. “Thanks for coming, Sean. You are just what I needed.”

  “No problem.” He placed his hand on my thigh. “Nice jammies, by the way,” he teased as he stroked the flannel pants leg. “Too bad I’m not appropriately dressed for a pajama party.”

  “Maybe next time.” I placed my hand over his, entwining our fingers.

  Bringing them up to his lips, he kissed them and then freed his hand. “Okay, let’s get down to business. You say this guy’s name is Mason?” He pulled a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket.

  “Kirk Mason. But we’re not sure that’s his real name, because the address he wrote on his registration form was incomplete. Vicky thinks he paid by cashier’s check, so that’s untraceable, too.”

  “And you’ve never seen him before? You have no idea why he was targeting you?”

  I shook my head. “All I know is that he was going to pitch a gory serial killer novel to Jude and for some reason he has something against me.”

  “Can you describe him?” Sean had his pen ready.

  I leaned back. The last thing I felt like doing was conjuring up the image of that man again, even if it was merely in my mind. But I closed my eyes and verbally sketched every detail I could remember.

  “Good recall, Lila.” He sighed as he folded closed his notepad. “I hate to leave so soon, but I do have to get back to work. I told my partner I’d only be ten minutes.”

  “Wait. I want to give you that feather he left on my table.” I grabbed the plastic bag in which I’d placed the black raven feather. “Isn’t it just too weird?” I asked, handing it to Sean.

  “It is inexplicable acts like this that cause me the most worry,” he said in a troubled voice, “because they illustrate the perpetrator’s unpredictability. I’m glad I’ll be at the old town hall tomorrow.”

  I walked with him to the door. Opening it to the darkness, I saw Sean’s police cruiser.

  “There’s my ride,” he quipped. “I’ll leave the helmet here until tomorrow, okay?”

  I nodded and we stepped out on the front porch. The night air was crisp, and the moon shone high in the dark sky. We faced each other, clasping hands. “See you tomorrow,” I murmured.

  “Be careful, Lila. Lock that door tight.” He caressed my cheek and lowered his lips to mine.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, and there, under the glowing orb in the sky, we kissed. His arms encircled me, enveloping me in warmth and affection. Our kiss intensified, and when our lips finally parted, I held his eyes with mine. “‘Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips,’” I murmured, quoting Shelley. Sean’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and he brushed his lips against mine once more before letting go.

  Chapter 5

  THE NEXT MORNING WAS SO BEAUTIFUL THAT IT WAS easy to forget about my encounter with Kirk Mason. The late October sun set the ocher and paprika petals of the chrysanthemums in my garden afire and illuminated the lavender asters until they glowed.

  I had bought an old Radio Flyer wagon at my neighbor’s yard sale, lined it with hay, and set it on my front porch. I then stuffed it with miniature gourds of all shapes and sizes. The yellow, green, and creamy white vegetables looked terrific mixed in with a dozen small pumpkins.

  Now that my son was independent and living away from home, I wasn’t too interested in decorating for Halloween. However, there were plenty of children in our little subdivision who’d be ringing my doorbell in hopes of acquiring a few pieces of candy, so I hung a wreath of black cats and witches on the front door just to show that I welcomed trick-or-treaters. In fact, I’d had to hold off buying bags of candy for fear I would eat them all before the big night.

  This year, Halloween fell on a Sunday. Because it was a school night, the neighborhood committee had voted to send the kids around just after sunset. They could collect their goodies, burn off some of the sugar they’d eaten, and be home at a reasonable time. The elementary kids had to be at the bus stop at seven o’clock each morning, so I knew their Halloween evening would be a low-key affair. I, for one, was glad. After a three-day book festival, it would take every ounce of remaining energy to drag myself off the sofa. It would be all too easy to ignore the doorbell and gorge on snack-sized Milky Way bars, but I knew I wouldn’t let the children down.

  I was getting ahead of myself, however. There were still two more festival days to get through, and I was ready to face Day Two. Even though my sleep had initially been riddled with anxiety thanks to Kirk Mason, I’d woken well before my alarm sounded feeling surprisingly well rested. Lingering over my breakfast in a kitchen cheerful enough to dispel the gloomiest of memories, I’d filled in the Dunston Herald crossword before putting on my favorite autumn work outfit. My camel-colored skirt, espresso brown cashmere sweater, and polished leather boots made me feel chic and youthful. Hopping on my scooter, I quickly indulged in one of my favorite fantasies in which I starred as a wise and glamorous celebrity, known and admired by everyone in the literary and publishing circle. It was easy to pretend that all the automobile drivers were staring at me. The majority of them probably were casting curious glances in my direction. After all, I was the only woman in her midforties zipping around Inspiration Valley on a canary yellow Vespa.

  I loved being able to fit in tiny parking spaces all over town, but today, I didn’t try to get close to the old town hall. My heart was featherlight and the world was bathed in vibrant color and I wanted to walk a few blocks. Between the pumpkin banners hanging from each lamppost, the holiday-themed shop decorations, and garden urns filled with the perky faces of orange and purple pansies, Inspiration Valley was an autumn utopia. Leaves scuttled across my boots in a blur of red, brown, and gold until I left them behind and jogged up the front steps and into the lobby of the spacious stone building.

  Vicky was already in her position at one of the checkin tables, a thermos of hot tea and a banana stationed by her right hand.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly, my voice bouncing around the cavernous lobby. “I’m going to grab a cappuccino from Makayla. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.” She indicated her thermos. “I only drink noncaffeinated herbal teas.”

  I nodded, though I couldn’t imagine achieving a state of mental acuity without a significant jolt of caffeine first thing in the morning. “Danish? Bagel? Something to accompany your banana?”

  Vicky’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “Too many processed carbohydrates. I prefer to begin my day with fruit and whole grains.” She gave her plum-colored cardigan a prim tug and eyed me closely. “Are you all right after yesterday’s excitement?”

  Not the noun I’d have chosen, but I wasn’t about to correct our formidable office manager. “I am. One of today’s guest speakers, Sean Griffiths, is a police officer. He’s agreed to remain in the building until the conference is over this afternoon. I’ve already given him a thorough physical description of Kirk Mason, and since Mason is rather hard to miss, Sean—I mean, Officer Griffiths—is certain to spot him if he dares to make an appearance.”

  “That’s good.” Vicky produced her camera from he
r purse. “Should Mr. Mason be foolish enough to enter by the front door, I’ll be prepared to take his photograph and email it directly to the police station.”

  Vicky brandished the camera like it was a can of Mace, and I had to suppress a giggle. Still, if I were forced to pick a winner in a duel between Vicky and Kirk Mason, I’d choose my coworker. She seemed like the type to have a knife built into one of her square-toed shoes just like an Ian Fleming character.

  The scent of fresh baked goods lured me into the makeshift café area of the town hall, and I was delighted to overhear Nell declare that she’d sold out of nearly all of her stock yesterday. Makayla had had an equally profitable day.

  “I’ve got to hang with writers more often!” the beautiful barista called out. “They drink more coffee than any other population group. I’m going to tell Lila to host one of these book festivals every month.”

  “Forget it!” I told Makayla as I strode up to her booth. “I’m going to need a week’s vacation after this.”

  Makayla’s lovely face grew tight with concern. “I heard about your run-in with Mister Crazy last night. Are you doing okay?”

  I smiled. “I’ll be just fine the moment I take a sip of your new vanilla cappuccino.”

  “Then I’d better make it a double.” Makayla began steaming milk. Over the hiss of the espresso machine, she asked, “And when is your handsome policeman going to show up and dazzle the crowd?”

  “Sean’s got a morning panel. He’s been joking around all week about putting some of the audience members in handcuffs. I couldn’t really tell if he was serious or not.” I watched as Makayla sprinkled cinnamon over the cloud of white foam on top of my cappuccino.

  She handed me the drink and cocked her head to the side. “So have you two played around with those cuffs?” Her jade green eyes were alight with mischief. “Does Sean accuse you of shoplifting maybe? Or is it something more scandalous?”