Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4)

by Lucy Arlington

  I stood also, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare apologize!” I gave her arm a quick squeeze. “You’re the nicest person I know, Flora. I appreciate you being concerned about my situation. And, by the way, thanks for volunteering to see Nell about a cake.”

  Her face brightened a bit. “My pleasure. I think I’ll stop in on her this afternoon. I was thinking about picking up some dessert for after dinner tonight. Brian just loves her red velvet cupcakes.”

  With that, she was off without any further trace of agitation. I stared after her, glad that her mood had improved and even happier that I was free to delve back into my mystery. I still had over an hour before I needed to be at Catcher in the Rye to meet Alice Peabody for lunch. Plenty of time to get through the last pages. And, if the rest of the story captivated my attention as well as the first half, I’d be making a phone call to one talented author later this afternoon.

  Only … I was just a few pages along when I heard a quiet knocking sound. I looked up to see Sean hovering by my office door. “Can I come in?”

  He must have felt guilty. Sean, ever the authoritative type, usually didn’t ask permission to enter a room; he’d just give a perfunctory knock and walk right in. I decided he wasn’t going to get off so easy today. What did he think, he could just waltz over here and pour on a little charm and everything would be okay?

  “I’m sorry. I’m busy working,” I said, turning my attention back to my mystery.

  He walked in anyway. “Look, Lila. I get it. You’re still hot about Saturday’s dinner. I’m sorry. Something important came up at work and I couldn’t get away.”

  I glared up at him. “You stood me up. I felt like a fool all dressed up with no date.”

  He reached a hand across the desk. I sat upright and placed my hands on my lap.

  “I tried calling,” he said.

  I knew as much. I’d been ignoring his calls for almost two days and a tingle of guilt fluttered in my throat for that, admittedly, selfish reaction. I mean, it was foolish (he could have had information that would ease my mind about the skull-in-the-yard fiasco); immature (he had called at the restaurant and explained already); and likely reflected the jealousy of a woman who wanted a man who placed her above his career. Which I was. I felt the fight drain out of me and realized I needed to meet him halfway. I knew Sean loved me and that I loved him. That should be enough.

  He sighed. “Can we try again next Saturday?”

  “Try?” I nearly screeched. Sean blinked in surprise at my reaction, oblivious to the impact that one word had. Unbelievable. Obviously, with that operative word, every date with him, let alone my life with him, would be contingent on whatever case he happened to have at the time. I tightened my lips and rolled my eyes sideways. “Well, I don’t know. I’m awfully tied up with work. One of our clients is in town and I’m busy trying to coordinate a dinner and book signing with him. Damian York. Do you know who he is?” Just in case he didn’t, I pointed to Damian’s book on the corner of my desk, his handsome face shining forth from the cover.

  Sean glanced at the cover and did a double take, noticeably grimacing. “That’s your client?”

  “Well, technically he’s Franklin’s client. But I’m helping Franklin with the event, so I’ll be working closely with Damian.” I sighed. “I just don’t know how much free time I’ll have.” I was playing one of those female games I detested, but I couldn’t help myself. He wasn’t the only one in this relationship with career obligations. Plus a tiny part of me thought the threat of another man might propel him into an immediate proposal. At least I wouldn’t have to wait to try to get that proposal on a date.

  I didn’t need to wonder. Instead of dropping to one knee, Sean stood. “Never mind, then. But before you get back to work, you should know that they unearthed the rest of the skeletal remains.”

  He had my full attention. “And?”

  “They don’t know the exact age, but the anthropologist says the bones belong to an adolescent female.”

  “Oh no!”

  He nodded. “She’s been buried in your yard for approximately thirty years. We went through the missing persons records from that time, but didn’t find anything.” He paused, his gaze holding steady on mine. “There’s more, Lila. It appears there’s evidence of a basilar skull fracture involving the temporal bone.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s likely she was murdered.”

  Chapter 7

  As I walked down Lavender Lane for my luncheon appointment, I was impervious to the warm rays of the sun and the light breeze perfumed by flower blossoms wafting from the terra-cotta planters that lined the sidewalk. Usually I reveled in the colorful displays of spiky red cordyline, crisp white lobelia, and wave petunias that spilled onto the walkway; but today my head was filled with macabre thoughts of crushed skulls and nameless entombments. I felt an overwhelming sense of pity for the poor young woman found in my yard, her life brutally taken and her body so disrespectfully discarded. Had her loved ones been searching for her all this time? Were her parents holding out hope that their daughter would return one day, unharmed, the happy young girl they’d lost so long ago? Had a boyfriend believed she’d just abandoned their love and lived his life alone and heartbroken all these years? It was almost too much grief to consider.

  Not even the usually comforting aroma of baking bread or the welcoming smile of Big Ed, Catcher in the Rye’s owner, could lift my sour mood. “A bad day?” he asked, adjusting a bandanna that covered his large bald head. Despite his lack of hair, everything else about Big Ed gave the impression that he was much younger than sixty-something, especially his warm eyes and wide grin.

  I forced a smile. “I’ll be fine, thanks, Ed.” Glancing around, I asked, “Have you seen Alice Peabody? She’s supposed to meet me here.” No sooner had I uttered the words than the door flew open and Alice tumbled inside, looking bedraggled and flustered. “Mrs. Peabody? Are you okay?” I asked, shocked with the woman’s appearance.

  Her hand flew to her disheveled hair and pushed a few loose strands back into place. “Why, yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged, trying not to stare at her dirt-stained slacks and untidy blouse. She must have been working in her garden and lost track of time. “I haven’t ordered yet. What would you like? My treat.”

  While she studied the chalkboard menu, I went ahead and ordered my usual sandwich—the Hamlet, which was rye slathered with Dijon mustard and piled high with Black Forest ham, Havarti cheese, and juicy fresh tomatoes. Alice finally settled on the Van Gogh—turkey, creamy Brie, and thinly sliced apples with honey mustard on a French baguette. “The Van Gogh, huh? A precontest ritual?” I asked.

  She stared at me blankly for a second before catching on. “Oh yes.” She smiled tightly. “The van Gogh award. Maybe I’ll finally receive the recognition I deserve this year.”

  I did a double take, surprised by the vehemence in her voice. I decided to let the touchy subject drop. Instead, I suggested we look for a place to sit. Monday’s lunch hour was always busy at the popular sandwich shop and only a few tables were open. The one we headed for was quickly scooped up by someone fleeter of foot, but the outside seating area had only a couple of customers, so we set our jackets out on chairs and headed back to await our orders. I glanced down at my name card. I usually loved Ed’s practice of assigning customers a name card displaying a picture of a famous literary or film character that suited the customer, instead of simply giving out numbers. But today my picture was of Groucho Marx, complete with bushy eyebrows and smoking cigar. I frowned. What was Ed trying to say? That I was a quick-witted funny person like Groucho had been? Or that I was grouchy and needed an eyebrow wax?

  Alice must not have liked her card, either. She gave it a quick once-over and grimaced. “I swear, I don’t know why this man doesn’t just use numbers like everyone else.”

  I shrugged. “Part of his charm, I guess. Who’d you get?” But I needn’t have asked. All
of a sudden Ed bellowed out, “CRUELLA DE VIL!”

  I stifled a chuckle, and so did the rest of the customers in line, as Alice stepped forward, slapped her card down on the counter, and snatched her bag. Suddenly, I thought being Groucho wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  A peeved Alice headed for the outside eating area while I waited for my order to come up. I leaned one hip against the counter and folded my arms. “Cruella De Vil?” I asked with a grin. “Isn’t that a little much?”

  His mouth tightened into a thin line and he shot a baleful glance toward Alice as she made her way to the patio door. One of his workers slid an overstuffed brown bag his way. Ed picked it up and read the tag. “MOTHER HUBBARD!” he shouted, holding the bag out for a young mother with three tagalongs. “Still waiting on that Hamlet,” he shouted over his shoulder. Turning back to me, he said, “Sorry for the wait. New guy in the back.” Then he hitched a thumb in Alice’s direction. “As for Cruella, watch yourself, Lila. She is a cruel devil. And she’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants.”

  I swallowed hard. Big Ed wasn’t usually so acrimonious. First Addison at the nursery and now him. I agreed that Alice Peabody seemed a little crusty around the edges, but how bad could she really be? I wanted to ask him more, but another bag came down the line. “Here you go, Groucho. Enjoy,” he added with a wink.

  I took my bag and made my way to the patio, where Alice sat at the shady table we’d chosen. She’d already unwrapped her sandwich and was munching away. “I’ve got good news and more good news,” I started, settling across from her.

  She swallowed and took a quick sip of soda. “And what might that be?”

  “I spoke with Damian York yesterday and he seems on board with the idea of judging this year’s van Gogh contest.”

  Alice’s eyes popped. “Really? Well, that is good news, dear. I can’t wait to tell the other ladies.”

  “Now … about the dinner and signing,” I said, taking advantage of the moment. I pulled a notebook out of my satchel and ticked off the agency’s plans for the event. Surprisingly enough, Alice agreed to the entire agenda. Which was good news, considering the Annual Garden Walk was completely under the Dirty Dozen’s dominion. “I’m thinking, if we work together, we can aid each other’s events,” I continued. I reached back into my satchel and pulled out one of Damian’s books. “Our agency would like to offer a signed copy of Damian’s book to each member of the Dirty Dozen, plus complimentary tickets to the dinner.”

  She eyed the book like it was a snake ready to strike. “And what do you want in exchange?”

  I took a quick bite of my sandwich, mulling over my reply while I chewed. “Not much, really. We just need a little help to get the word out about Damian’s events. We’re on a time crunch. I’m wondering, have you finalized the design for the brochure map for the garden walk?”

  Alice brushed a few crumbs off her blouse. “No, I haven’t. I’m on my way to the printer’s right after lunch. Thanks to your agency agreeing to take a spot on the tour, we now have a full schedule. You see, each board member is assigned an entry, but we save the thirteenth spot for a local business. Our little way of saying thank you for supporting the Dirty Dozen. Last year, that spot was awarded to the local printer’s wife.” She leaned in with a surreptitious gleam in her eye. “He gave us a substantial deal on printing the brochures, you know? And the year before it was the hardware store. They gave our members wonderful discounts on gardening tools. This year”—she gestured my way—“it’s your agency, of course. We do so appreciate the fact that you’ve coordinated the event for Damian York, who’s perhaps the most prominent name in outdoor design, with our Annual Garden Walk. Not to mention that now we know that he’s agreed to judge our competition,” she added with a tiny squeal.

  “That brings to mind my other tidbit of good news. You see, there’s a problem with my yard. I’m afraid I need to withdraw from the garden walk.”

  Alice about choked on her drink. “And you call that good news? Who will I find as a replacement at this late notice?”

  I held up a hand. “Let me finish. As a representative of our agency, and in an effort to show her support for the garden walk, our office manager, Vicky Crump, has graciously agreed to step in for me. She’s happy to have her garden featured as the final stop on this year’s tour.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Alice interjected, pursing her lips and folding her sandwich wrapper into a tidy square, running her fingers over the creases until they were razor sharp. I couldn’t tell if she was happy with the prospect of Vicky’s garden on the tour.

  “I haven’t seen Vicky’s garden,” I continued, in my most convincing tone, “but I’m sure it’s wonderful. Everything she does is so … so perfect.”

  “Yes, I know. Ms. Crump used to be a member of the garden club.”

  “Used to?”

  “Well, as you can imagine, disagreements often arise when a large group of women try to run a successful club like ours. That’s why we’ve limited the board to just twelve members, hence the name, the Dirty Dozen. And every year we vote on standing board members.”

  I tried to smile politely as Alice explained the inner workings of the Dirty Dozen. As I listened, though, a couple of reasons why an avid gardener like Vicky would no longer belong to the Dirty Dozen popped into my mind. Either she lost a vote to get on the board or she preferred to enjoy gardening without dealing with snarky women like Alice Peabody.

  “Of course,” she went on, “every garden walk entrant is automatically eligible for the van Gogh award, and the winner of this prestige automatically secures a lifetime membership as a board member. Only two members hold a lifetime membership: Doris Mosby and Fannie Walker.”

  I could see why the van Gogh award was so important for the garden club ladies. The winner won the opportunity to bypass the annual vetting of the board. “So, those two are the only ones who have ever won the van Gogh award?”

  “Well, in the past ten years or so. There have been others, but they’ve either moved on or passed on. Doris won about seven years ago. Since then Fannie has been on a winning streak. But I think her luck is about to change.” A conspiratorial edge to her tone made me feel more like I was at a clandestine meeting with one of the characters in the mystery book awaiting me on my desk than at a lunch with a garden club member.

  I tried to lighten the tone with a little smile. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

  “Well, she’s had the judge in her back pocket, of course. But since Damian has agreed to step up and judge the competition, the true winner will have a chance to shine.”

  “Doris?”

  “Doris! No, of course not. I’m a shoo-in to win this year. Everyone says so!”

  Of course.

  “Besides, poor Doris doesn’t stand a chance of winning again.” She leaned in and whispered, “Old age gets the best of all of us, you know.”

  I nodded. “How old is Doris?”

  Alice looked toward the ceiling. “Oh, I’d say in her late eighties. She’s really beyond being able to properly tend to a garden.”

  I wasn’t sure what properly tending to a garden referred to in Alice’s eyes but felt suddenly grateful for the yellow tape preventing my meager efforts from coming under this club’s scrutiny. “Well, I imagine she still enjoys participating anyway,” I offered.

  With a slight upturn of her lips, Alice countered with, “She’ll be, shall we say, relinquishing her membership soon, I would think.”

  “Relinquishing … but you said she has a lifetime …” I shuddered involuntarily. “Oh, you mean … ?”

  She must have noticed because she started trying to mollify my obvious reaction. “Oh, don’t take it so seriously, dear,” she said, reaching across the table and patting my hand. “That’s how it goes. Out with the old and in with the new. Why, even in the garden you have to deadhead the old blooms so the new ones can burst forth and flourish.”

  I pushed aside my half-eaten sandwich. The reference to deadhe
ads in the garden dug up unwanted imagery of the skull buried under my hawthorns. “Getting back to the event,” I said, taking another sip of soda and willing the queasiness in my stomach to settle, “would it be possible for you to include information about Damian’s events in your brochure? Also, when you finalize the garden walk map, it would be wonderful if the last stop was as close as possible to the Secret Garden. That’s where we’re holding the signing and dinner. The extra convenience might just add up to more book buyers for us.”

  She hedged. “You were originally number thirteen on the walk, so you would have been the last stop. Now with Ms. Crump taking your place, I’m not sure if that would work. I’d have to change the entire map.”

  My shoulders sagged. “Really? Does she live far from the Secret Garden?” Funny how I had no idea where Vicky lived. I’d never even thought to ask. Maybe because she was always the first to arrive and the last to leave the office. I just couldn’t picture her anyplace else.

  “No, she lives right down the street from the nursery, actually.”

  I scrunched my face in confusion. “I don’t get it.”

  Alice took a long deliberate sip of her soda before explaining. “Giving Vicky the last stop on the tour would put her at an unfair advantage in the contest. She’s … well …” She rolled her eyes. “Let’s just say that she’s an above-average gardener. And everyone knows the last gardens to be judged usually hold a slight edge over the first entrants.”

  Ah … Vicky’s gardening talents were a threat to the other contestants, whereas my talents, or lack of talents, made me a safe bet for the coveted last-stop position. “I understand. And who determines the order of the tour?”

  Alice guffawed. “Me. After all, I am the president of the club.”

  I stared in disbelief. “And, once you’ve rearranged the map, whose garden is going to occupy the last stop on this year’s tour?”

  “Well, I’d already occupied the twelfth spot, so when I place Vicky’s little plot somewhere toward the beginning of the lineup, I guess it will just naturally be mine. Don’t worry, my house isn’t far from the Secret Garden. Besides, I’m sure Damian’s book buyers won’t mind a little extra exercise.”