Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4)

by Lucy Arlington

  “Oh my.” Franklin wrung his hands. “This won’t do.”

  Damian rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Franklin. I know you have another engagement to get to; I’d be happy to give Ms. Wilkins a ride home.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. My cab should arrive at any moment.” Although, deep down, I knew there was a possibility it wasn’t going to arrive at all. I could call Mama, but I hated the idea of her driving all the way out here. Trey was out with friends, so I didn’t want to cut his evening short. Of course, there was always Makayla, but … “Actually, I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. York. And thank you.”

  “Damian, please.”

  I nodded and followed the men out front to where the valet had parked two vehicles at the curb. The first I recognized as Franklin’s conservative four-door, the second was a dark model luxury vehicle. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much a rental like that must have set Damian back.

  Damian bid Franklin good-bye and stepped in front of me to open the door, allowing me to slide easily into the buttery soft leather seats. “Thanks again for the ride,” I said after we were down the road a ways.

  “My pleasure. Besides, I’m interested in hearing more about this garden competition.”

  I felt myself relax in this charming man’s presence, in the luxurious seats and on a subject much nearer to my heart right now than Sean. “I hope you don’t mind. The garden club ladies are huge fans. They’ll be delighted that you’ve agreed to judge this year’s entries.” I chuckled. “I have to warn you though, they’re quite competitive.”

  He quirked a smile. “It should be interesting.”

  “‘Interesting’ is one way to put it. There’s a rivalry between the garden club president, Alice Peabody, and last year’s contest winner, Fannie Walker. She grows prize roses.” I noticed he flinched at the mention of roses. It was good to know someone else, even an expert gardener, struggled with the darn things. “Don’t worry, though. As I understand it, the competition is more about overall garden design than any single plant.”

  He glanced my way and then refocused on the road. We rode quietly for the next few miles. As we neared the edge of town, I directed him to my turn. “I live in an older part of Inspiration Valley. Back in the day when our town was known as Illumination Valley, my house was a rental cottage,” I explained. “Oh, but you’re from this area, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t been back in years.”

  “You don’t have family left in town?”

  He shook his head. “My father’s around, but we’re not close.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. The car grew uncomfortably quiet and I searched for something else to say. Luckily, we were almost to my home. “It’s up here on the right.”

  He pulled into my drive, his jaw gaping. “This is your house?”

  I winced. When I accepted his ride home, I didn’t think about my yard. With mounds of upturned dirt and sprawling crime scene tape, it looked like a cross between a postapocalyptic world and a mass murder scene. How embarrassing. “Please excuse my yard. It doesn’t normally look like this. We’re … uh …” I struggled for an explanation. I could say we were undergoing some massive landscaping project, but landscapers didn’t use yellow tape marked Crime Scene. Besides, even if he overlooked that, he’d probably want to know more about it. Landscaping was his specialty, after all. Finally, I settled on the truth. “My son and I were digging up our old hawthorn bushes and we found a skull. Can you imagine?” I made a wide sweep with my hand, indicating the entire yard. “Next thing I knew, the police were digging up the whole place. It’s horrible, isn’t it? I’m not sure how we’ll ever get it back to normal.”

  He was oddly quiet. Even in the darkness, with only the lights of his dashboard to illuminate his expression, I could tell he’d gone white as a ghost. I could understand. I felt the same way about the idea of someone being abandoned in an anonymous grave. I attempted to move the topic along. “Maybe if you get some time, you could give me some landscape pointers?” I prodded. Yeah, like “Quit finding dead bodies in your yard.”

  He shook his head and looked at me. “What was that?”

  “Pointers,” I repeated. “I was saying that maybe you could give me some tips for landscaping. I have no idea where to start after all this.”

  He recovered and shook his head. “I can imagine how overwhelmed you must feel. What’s that saying? ‘It’s so good, but terrifying to stand in front of a blank canvas’?”

  My eyes widened. “Very good. I believe it went: ‘It’s so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas.’” He shot me a look, but I couldn’t tell if it was appreciation of our shared love of reading or surprise at my having corrected him. Which I instantly realized hadn’t been necessary or polite, for that matter. “A habit from being an agent, I guess. I’m into the exact wording of things.” I tried to cover myself. “I think one of the famous French Impressionists said that about painting.”

  “Cézanne, actually.” This time I recognized his expression: pleasure at our shared knowledge. “A habit from my planning landscapes: I always know the source of my planting inspiration.”

  “Well, Cézanne nailed exactly how I feel about my yard. I haven’t a clue where to start.”

  He shot me a sly grin. “You’re not alone. And, I’m glad. It’s people like you that make it possible for me to earn a living.”

  I laughed, thanked him for the ride, and slid out the door, thinking it was going to be a pleasure to work with Damian York these next couple of weeks.

  Chapter 6

  I spent all day Sunday dreading Monday morning’s status meeting and facing down Bentley with the bad news. Sure enough, she wasn’t taking it well. “What do you mean, you have to withdraw from the garden walk?” She’d yanked off her reading glasses and left them to dangle from a chain as she paced the conference room. “I thought I explained to you the importance of representing our agency.”

  “You did, but—”

  She placed both hands on the conference table, leaning in to emphasize her point. “Lila, there are no ‘buts’ in this business. You just do it. You want to be a team player, don’t you?”

  I glanced around the table, looking for some support from the “team,” but didn’t find any. Franklin was doodling on his notepad. Jude Hudson seemed half asleep; apparently this little bit of drama wasn’t enough to hold our agent who represented thrillers and suspense. Zach Cohen was tapping his pen annoyingly and staring out the window; Zach was Novel Idea’s youngest agent and also the least attentive at any meeting. And Flora Merriweather was busy knitting her latest project.

  Vicky Crump, our ever-efficient office administrator, was the only attendee who seemed genuinely tuned in to the meeting. Unfortunately, judging by the sharp look she was giving me, she wasn’t going to be one of my supporters. She probably thought I was trying to shirk my responsibilities, an inexcusable action in Vicky’s dutiful mind. Squirming like a naughty schoolgirl, I refocused on Bentley and tried a different approach. “It’s impossible for me to have my yard ready in time for—”

  “Nonsense!” Bentley interrupted again. “Nothing’s impossible with determination and hard work.” She’d clenched her fist and taken on a look that I recognized as her demented-coach look. She usually assumed this posture right before launching into a fervent pep talk, designed to inspire and enthuse—or perhaps terrify—delinquent members of her literary agency team.

  “Now, hold on!” I blurted, louder than intended. “I was only doing what you asked, reworking my garden, when we found a skull buried under some of the bushes. Now the police have cordoned off my yard and I can’t do anything about it.”

  Bentley stood motionless, her eyes locked in a weird raised-brow expression. Somewhere in the background, I heard Franklin’s pencil tip break and a hollow pinging sound as Flora’s knitting needle hit the floor.

  It was Zach, our slightly hyperactive sports and screenplay
agent, who finally broke the awkward silence. “Wowsa! Another murder? Why, death practically follows you around, doesn’t it?” He was leaning over the table, bug-eyed and practically licking his lips in anticipation of more details. “Spill, Lila. Who was murdered this time?”

  I stuttered for a moment, my eyes darting from one agent to another. “Who says it was murder? There could be any number of reasons why a skeleton might be buried in my yard. Like maybe the house was built on an ancient burial ground or … or anything, really.”

  “Oh, come on!” Zach just wouldn’t let it drop. “You’re practically a murder magnet.”

  Oh no. There was that term again—murder magnet. First Trey, now Zach. Or maybe the whole town had dubbed me the local murder magnet. Heaven forbid.

  Zach continued, “There was the poor guy who ended up dead the first week you started working here. Then it went downhill from there.” He started ticking victims off on his fingers. “One of our own agents, an editor from New York. Boy, too bad she decided to do business with us, huh? Then there were the two murders during the Taste of the Town event … um … Am I forgetting someone?”

  “The writer from Dunston,” Flora answered bitingly. “How could you forget her?” Flora flushed from ear to ear and began fanning herself with today’s meeting itinerary. “Dreadful, really dreadful.”

  “This just won’t do,” inserted Bentley. She was back to pacing. “If this trend continues, we may develop a reputation as a … a …”

  “An agency of death,” Zach finished, his hand sweeping before him as if proposing a brilliant subtitle to his latest book acquisition. Bentley shot him a look that could very well peg him as the next murder victim.

  “Give it a break,” Jude grumbled. “None of those things were Lila’s fault.”

  “That’s right,” Franklin hastily interjected. “In fact, because of Lila’s quick thinking, several ruthless murderers have been brought to justice. Personally, I’m grateful she’s kept our little burg safer, and at great personal expense, I might remind everyone.” He must have been referring to my own close scrapes with death.

  Bentley’s expression loosened and she let out a long sigh. “Yes, I’m sure we’re all grateful for Lila’s contributions to making our little corner of the world safer, but let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we?” Just like that, she repositioned her reading glasses and started scanning the itinerary, all dead bodies swept under the rug. Her callousness never ceased to amaze me. After all, it was her literary events that always seemed to land me in these compromising, even dangerous, positions. And what did I get? Not so much as a “thanks for taking one for the team, Lila.”

  “First item of business is the garden contest,” she continued. “Since Lila’s yard is off-limits we’ll need a replacement entry.” She peered over the rim of her glasses and scanned the table. “Any volunteers?”

  Vicky Crump’s hand shot straight up. “I’d be glad to offer my humble garden as an entry,” she announced, looking quite proud of herself. I eyed her straight posture and impeccable appearance and imagined her garden was as neat and prim as they came.

  Bentley’s face brightened. “Wonderful! Thank you, Vicky.” She beamed as she marked that item off her task list. “Lila, inform Mrs. Peabody of the change,” she said to me.

  Great. Now I have that to look forward to. I glanced at Vicky’s smug expression and scowled. This whole fiasco with my yard could have been avoided if Bentley had asked Ms. Perfect in the first place.

  “Next item,” Bentley continued. “The venue for Damian York’s dinner and signing.” Bentley sat down and indicated that Franklin and I should take the lead.

  I gathered my notes and moved to the front of the conference table. Using a large whiteboard, I outlined tentative plans for the signing and dinner, with Franklin jumping in from time to time with his own points. To my delight, the rest of the agents listened enthusiastically, each taking on a piece of the action. Jude stepped up right away, agreeing to coordinate, with Vicky’s help, a small marketing campaign with media announcements, flyers, and ticket sales for the dinner. Zach, who had fancied himself in charge of media relations for the Taste of the Town event, where two ill-fated visitors had met their demise, offered no resistance to Jude taking that role. Instead, he promised to be on hand to direct traffic and parking at the Secret Garden the night of the event. Franklin was thrilled that Makayla and Jay had agreed to take over the task of setting up the dinner, and planned to contact them right away with his visions for decorating. Flora graciously offered to meet with Nell of Sixpence Bakery to coordinate the design of a special cake. That really left me with only the planning of the menu, and Paul Cohen, the catering director at How Green Was My Valley, had already given me some great suggestions. Feeling a little bad about my earlier sentiments, I smiled around the room at my coworkers, even Vicky. Say what you want about Bentley—she may be an exacting boss, even onerous at times—but she’d assembled and trained one of the best literary teams around. What other group could pull off an event of this magnitude with only a couple of weeks to prepare?

  With our tasks assigned, Bentley quickly wrapped up the rest of the meeting and the group dispersed to their respective offices. I was looking forward to a little quiet time to finish the last chapters of the cozy English mystery I’d started on Friday. That wasn’t to happen, though, because Flora was waiting for me in my office.

  She immediately drew me to her ample bosom. “You poor dear. You must be simply shocked. Why, I can’t imagine the horror of discovering a buried body. And in your own yard, even.”

  Pulling back, I mumbled an appropriate reply and stole a longing glance toward the partially read manuscript that was stacked neatly on my desk, waiting for my return. Part of my joy at my relatively newfound career as a literary agent was the escapism that reading manuscripts allowed me, and I knew it. Right now, aside from really enjoying this writer’s understated descriptions and depth of emotions at every turn of the page, I knew part of me longed for a few hours, at least minutes, of escape from buried skulls and planning menus for a hundred guests. But life—and death—outside of the printed page existed and demanded its own due time. I forced a smile and reluctantly motioned for Flora to take one of my guest chairs. I sat across from her in the other.

  “It was a shock. But these things happen more often than we realize. Trey looked it up on the Internet. I guess there was a couple up in Canada who discovered the four-hundred-year-old skeleton of an aboriginal woman in their yard.” What he also told me was that the poor couple got stuck with five thousand dollars’ worth of bills to cover the cost of the assessment, excavation, and relocation of the historic discovery. It’d be just my luck that I’d have to foot the bill for this whole fiasco. Then again, if our skull wasn’t designated as historical remains, but was simply an unmarked gravesite, wouldn’t I want to make sure the poor soul had a proper burial in a real cemetery? And, how much would that cost?

  “So, you think the remains belong to an ancient skeleton?” Flora continued.

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. I haven’t heard anything from Sean yet.” Of course, I might have heard something if I’d bothered to answer his calls. As it was, I was giving him the cold shoulder. A part of me, a large part actually, felt as if I’d been stood up on our date, hence he deserved that treatment. The fact that he was a cop and had higher priorities than our personal relationship, well, that only added to my plethora of mixed emotions. And it was, admittedly, another reason I’d have rather thrown myself into reading a manuscript for the time being. “I did check in with Ruthie over at Sherlock Holmes Realty. She said that a couple by the name of Cobb owned the cottage before me. Uh … Peggy and Doug, I think she said.” Flora’s jaw drooped and her shoulders seemed to crumble. “You know them?” I asked, wondering what brought about her sudden change in demeanor.

  She quickly straightened her shoulders and adjusted her blouse. “Well, I have lived here practically my whole life. Guess I’ve com
e to know everyone.”

  “What do you know about the Cobbs?”

  She fidgeted a little more with her blouse while her eyes darted around the room. “Well, I know Doug took ill. I believe he passed.”

  “Ruthie told me the same thing. I thought I’d try to track down Peggy, though.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Why in the world would you do that?”

  I flinched, taken aback by the zealousness of her response. “I thought the previous owners might know something more about the history of the place. Like if there had been a family burial plot on the property or something. The skull was in my yard. Seems only right to figure out why, doesn’t it?”

  She wiggled in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs before responding. “Sure. I guess. It wouldn’t be something I would do, but then again, you’re more of the curious type.”

  This conversation was getting weird. After all, she was the one who came in asking me about the skull. What did she expect? I wondered what was really eating at Flora. She wasn’t acting at all like herself. Then it dawned on me that maybe the fact that Doug Cobb had passed on, leaving his wife alone, might have triggered this reaction. “Is everything going okay, Flora? How’s Brian been?” Brian was Flora’s husband, a bit older than Flora and, according to her, the standard by which she gauged the heroes in the romance books she agented. Which made me want to giggle, considering she represented quite a few erotic romance authors. On the other hand, she also represented children’s books. Flora loved children. “Is everything okay with your nieces?” Sadly enough, Flora and Brian were childless, but she doted on her sister-in-law’s children.

  She stood and waved off my questions. “Yes, yes, yes. Everything’s okay. You’ll have to excuse me, Lila. I’m just a bit tired today. I stayed up late last night working on my knitting project.” Flora supported many children’s causes, the latest being Knitting for Noggins, which was an organization that collected hand-knitted caps for children undergoing cancer treatment.