Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4)

by Lucy Arlington

  He snatched up my hand. “Let’s stay in, then. I could get some takeout from Wild Ginger and bring it by your place.”

  I pulled away, my ambivalence quickly turning to annoyance. Why did he always expect me to be available at the drop of a pin? Never mind that he was always too busy to make plans, or worse yet, just didn’t bother to show up for the plans we had. “I’m sorry, but I really am exhausted, and I still have some work to do tonight.”

  His blue eyes sparked. “With that York guy?”

  Suddenly, what was simply annoyance a few seconds ago was churning into anger. I opened my mouth to snap back, but was unable to come up with a suitable retort. Instead, I spun on my heel, letting his question hang in the air as I walked away. I knew it wasn’t the wisest thing to do. By keeping silent, I was letting him think that I did have plans with Damian York. But really, did he think he was the only one with a career? If he weren’t so egocentric, and took time to really listen to me, he’d realize that all I planned to do was go home, take a hot bath, and soak away my stress with a glass of wine and a few proposal chapters.

  *

  I DIDN’T GET the chance to do any of those things, though. I fully intended to head straight home, but as I maneuvered my Vespa through the streets of Inspiration Valley, my mind wandered. In the course of one day, I’d discovered two people had been robbed prematurely of their lives. First, the poor girl buried in my yard and now Fannie Walker. The more I dwelled on the whole situation, the farther I veered from my usual route home. Next thing I knew, I was on the road to Mama’s house. I parked in the drive behind her pickup.

  She was waiting for me on her front porch, rocking in one of the cane chairs. Next to her was a small table set with a bottle of Jim Beam and two shot glasses. I also spied a covered plastic container, which I hoped contained some of her chocolate banana bread. I’d come to learn that Mama’s banana bread could calm even the most frazzled nerves.

  She waved me over as soon as I removed my helmet. “Come on over and sit with me a spell.”

  I made my way onto her porch, ducking under a few wind chimes and around several large planters of flowers. Mama’s porch was perhaps even more cluttered than her house, if that’s believable. She had every type of porch knickknack possible: an assortment of colorful birdhouses, a wooden wagon wheel, an old painted milk can, and at least a dozen wind chimes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. When a breeze came through, which wasn’t often this time of year, it sounded like front-row seats at the symphony.

  I nodded toward the glasses. “Hello, Mama. Were you expecting someone?”

  She gestured toward the open chair and reached over to pour me some Jim Beam. “Just you, hon.”

  I should have expected that.

  “Rough day?” she asked, popping the lid to the container to reveal several neatly stacked slices of banana bread. I gladly helped myself.

  “Only if you count two murders as a bad day.” I bit into the bread, closed my eyes, and let the sweetness roll around my mouth for a second.

  When I opened my eyes again, I saw Mama’s head cocked to the side. “You mean new books you’re gonna agent, honey?”

  I realized how flippant my response had sounded; no wonder she didn’t take it seriously. Was I getting jaded to murder, as the Murder Magnet that I’d been dubbed? Or was I just too numb from the shock of it all to react properly?

  I pressed my lips together, shook my head. “Sorry, Mama. I mean for real.”

  Unable to say more for the moment, I took another bite of bread. I swear, my Mama’s bread was magical. I took a sip of whiskey, hoping it possessed some magic as well. It did. Surprisingly enough, its flavorful bite seemed to blend with the savory sweetness of the banana bread, and I felt some of the stress in my neck and shoulders begin to melt. Of course, Mama would say that Jim Beam pairs well with any food. Just one more reason, in her book, that it was the superior beverage of choice.

  I turned to Mama again and saw the shock on her face. “Two?” she croaked.

  I nodded. “The body in my yard belongs to a young woman. It’s been there for about thirty years. The police found evidence she was murdered.”

  “My lawd!” Mama muttered under her breath. She grasped at her stomach with one hand and snatched up her glass with the other. “A young woman? That’s horrible.”

  “I know, Mama. It breaks my heart, too. And to think she’s been there all this time and no one knew.”

  “But … you said two,” she muttered before draining the rest of her drink.

  “Fannie Walker.”

  “Fan … ?” Her face went white as she shook her head in disbelief. “That can’t be. Why, I just saw her a few days ago. And you said they were both … murdered?”

  “Yes, Mama, it’s true.” I leaned over and took the empty glass from her trembling hand, refilled it, and set it on the table in case she’d need another in a few minutes. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “This can’t be,” she whispered. “The other day when I laid out the cards for her, I kept askin’ about the roses. That’s what she wanted me to … but …” She clenched her fists. “Those damn roses! No wonder the cards weren’t speakin’ to me. I was askin’ the wrong questions.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “It’s my job. What I do,” she said, biting her lip. She picked up the glass I’d filled and clutched it like a life ring and asked, “How did it happen? Who—”

  I held up my hand. “Mama, I don’t know. Sean’s people are working on it.”

  “Oh lawdy,” she mumbled again, tears filling her eyes.

  Mama stood and moved to the porch railing. I went right along with her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders as she stared into the woods that surrounded her house. The sun was beginning to slide lower on the horizon, the clacking rhythm of cicadas fading away just in time for the initial calling of the tree frogs and the sharp trills of crickets. Funny how everything in the world can go awry, but without fail, every evening settles in with the same prenocturnal din. I could see why my mother loved living in this peaceful setting. There was something calming about watching the day’s end from the rustic comfort of her front porch.

  Mama gave a little shudder, her eyes drifting over the evening’s landscape. “Fannie’d started comin’ regular to me after her first husband died, all depressed, you know, and I told her someone special was gonna come courtin’, and she’d just laugh.” Mama smiled lightly, recalling the happiness she’d brought Fannie in those sessions. I knew many people came to Mama for something deeper than a spiritual reading and sweeter than even her banana bread.

  “And then, right as a summer rain, Dr. Walker and his boy came along, just like I’d said, and they were so happy. She’d still come by but with smiles and we’d pass the time talkin’ ’bout, well, just life, you know. And, oh, how she loved that boy of his, although I don’t know how she had patience for the little hooligan. Nothin’ but trouble, he was.” Mama took a deep swallow of her whiskey, still looking out at the darkening sky. “When Doc Walker passed, well, she was at peace with it in a way. Like she knew they’d had somethin’ real special and it had been a privilege, not something you could hold on to forever. Just like she’d accepted his gettin’ calls in the middle of the night and having to run off to tend to patients, miss special occasions, even. Some things are so special you take it in whatever doses you can get, and be happy for it.”

  My arm slipped from her shoulder and I couldn’t help releasing a heavy sigh. Sean was like that. So special, so right for me, yet so devoted to his career as well …

  I realized Mama had turned her head to me, a knowing look in her eyes. “What is it, honey? Somethin’ with that man of yours?”

  I nodded. Mama did seem to have a way about her, a knowing way. “Sean’s a good man and he loves Trey. I’m just having trouble seeing how things are going to work.”

  She turned to face me squarely. “Why’s that, sug?”

  I shrugged. “Lately, he’s been
consumed by his job. It always comes first. Before me.”

  “You know, hon, being a cop’s wife would take a healthy dose of understandin’ and respect. Why, you and me, we can’t even begin to imagine what he sees on a daily basis. All those things you read about in your murder mysteries, all safe and comfy at your desk, helping authors figure clues and catch the bad guys and whatever … well, he’s facing them in real life. And, no one’s sugarcoatin’ it with smart words and fancy descriptions for him. And it doesn’t always end all tidy and neat, either.”

  Mama placed her glass on the railing and rubbed her hands up and down my arms. “You won’t ever be able to separate a good man like him from his work. Just like Fannie couldn’t stop her doctor hubby from doing his doctorin’ whenever it was needed. It just isn’t possible and you shouldn’t want to. It’s what makes him who he is.” She placed her hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look directly into her eyes. “I understand your frustration, sug, but if you’re going to be angry and resentful about what he does, things just won’t work between you two. You’ll have to decide if you’re cut out to be a cop’s wife, that’s all.”

  She was right. It really was that simple. Here I’d been manipulating Sean, trying to mold him into something I wanted, a man who fit one of Flora’s romance authors’ heroes, a man who falls at my feet, anxious to please me at my every whim and need. When really I just needed to figure out if I could accept him for the man he is … a good man, a loyal man. The man who loved and accepted me unconditionally. “You know what, Mama?”

  “What?”

  “You are amazing.”

  Chapter 9

  I held the phone away from my ear as a loud shriek came over the line. To say that the author was glad to hear from me was an understatement. “I have just a couple of suggested changes before we start submitting,” I interjected with a few giggles of my own between her joyful babblings. I’d chosen to start my Tuesday on a happy note and called the author of the English cozy mystery to make an offer of representation.

  “No problem! I can make changes,” she gushed. “What’s a few changes after I’ve rewritten it at least a hundred times over the past three years?”

  I couldn’t help but smile into the phone. Making calls such as this was one of the things I enjoyed most about my job. Most authors I’d encountered had spent years trying to find a publisher for their book, and finding an agent was just one step closer to achieving their dream. “Well, all those rewrites have definitely paid off. I enjoyed reading your story. In fact, I already have a couple of publishers in mind.” This author’s descriptions of the soft purple of heathers, the rolling fog-shrouded landscape and rocky seaside of her English countryside created such vivid images I nearly felt I’d been transported there. I knew I could find a publisher who would feel the same.

  After another round of sniggering, I began explaining our agency’s contract for representation and a few other things to expect as we began the process of getting her book sold to a publisher. “I’m looking forward to working with you,” I said, wrapping up the call. “And I can’t wait for the day when your books finally get into the hands of readers.”

  Little shrieks of happiness were still emitting from the line as I hung up the receiver. “A happy author, I take it.” My eyes snapped upward. Vicky was standing in my doorway, straight as a soldier, chin held high as if she was trying to put on a brave front.

  “Yes. Remember the English cozy query you put on my desk a couple of weeks ago? I’ve just made an offer of representation.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she replied flatly. Despite her valiant front, the telltale signs of grief were evident in her blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes.

  “You should have taken today off, Vicky.”

  “I’d rather keep busy,” she stated, walking to my desk and offering a stack of papers. “Here are a few queries I thought you might be interested in reviewing.”

  I took the papers and glanced through them with a quick nod before placing them in the center of my desk. “Thanks. I’ll look at these first thing.” Then, noticing that she was still hovering, I asked, “Are you sure you’re okay, Vicky?”

  “I am.” She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles on her skirt and glanced toward one of my chairs. I motioned for her to take a seat and then waited patiently while she fussed some more, straightening the hem of her skirt until it cut in an exact horizontal line across her knees.

  “Vicky?” I prodded.

  She exhaled, her shoulders shifting down a notch. “I’m sorry. My mind is preoccupied this morning.”

  “Understandably so.” I folded my hands across the top of my desk and waited.

  “I meant what I told Detective Griffiths yesterday. I’m convinced that Grant Walker killed Fannie.”

  “It’s possible. From what I saw of him at the real estate office, he has quite the temper.”

  Vicky bobbed her head. “Exactly. I’m sure he went to confront Fannie about the property, lost his temper, and killed her.”

  “If that’s the case, Sean will figure out a way to prove it. Don’t worry, he’s a good cop. He’ll get to the bottom of this.” And of my backyard mystery, I hoped. I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but in my mind, I’d started thinking of the young woman in my yard as Helen, after the character Helen Burns in Jane Eyre, who also died tragically at a young age. At least by calling her Helen, I could quit thinking of her as “the skeleton” or “the buried body” or … the reference I hated the most, “Jane Doe.”

  Vicky sighed. “That’s the problem. I am worried. That’s why I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind looking into things.”

  “What do you mean? What things?”

  “Things that might have led to Fannie’s murder. Nothing against Detective Griffiths; I’m sure he’s industrious, but I’d feel better if I knew we had all our bases covered. And, as a civilian, you might have a better chance of ferreting out the truth about Fannie’s murder.”

  I checked my expression before it gave me away. On one hand, I felt angry that Vicky would ask such a thing of me. Not only would Sean not appreciate me poking around his case—and we were already on shaky ground—but doing so might land me in a dangerous spot. It’s happened before that my curiosity’s gotten the better of me. Then again, I found Vicky’s request compelling. Not to mention that I was intrigued by the case, and just a wee bit flattered that she obviously thought I was capable of helping to bring justice to Fannie.

  She must have taken my silence as a no, because she suddenly stood, adjusted her sweater, and stared down at me with a pained expression. “I’m sorry. I know I don’t have the right to ask such a thing of you.”

  “No.” I stopped her. “Sit back down, please. I just have to take a moment to think about this. For instance, what makes you think I could find out anything that might help the police investigation?” I asked after she’d resettled in the chair.

  “Because you have before on several occasions. You seem to have a penchant for that sort of thing.”

  I frowned. I really was developing a reputation in town. For what, I wasn’t quite sure. The idea of having a “penchant for solving crimes” certainly sounded better than Murder Magnet, but still … “Vicky, I would love to help you, but I’m not sure how I would even get started. I don’t even know Grant Walker. Besides, we’re just over a week away from a major event here. I couldn’t possibly pull time away from work.”

  “I understand completely. I’m not asking for anything big. Just a little poking around.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together to emphasize her point. “It wouldn’t take much of your time at all. As for getting started, I’ve already arranged the perfect opportunity for you to speak to Grant.”

  I blinked a few times. “You have?”

  She deliberately crossed her legs and clasped her hands on her lap. “Yes. Earlier today, Franklin mentioned to me that he was taking Damian to view the Walkers’ land. It’s Damian’s first choice for building his new show
case home. Franklin and Damian are meeting Grant there around three o’clock tomorrow afternoon and I suggested you accompany them. Ruthie can’t be there until three thirty, so that might give you a little time for personal talk. All I want is for you to ask a few questions.” She paused for a few seconds, allowing me to process what she was saying. “And don’t worry, Franklin’s already on board with the idea. He’s explained to Damian that you’ll be coming along to offer another opinion on the property.”

  I shook my head. Boy, was I ever easy. Biting the inside of my cheek, I suppressed the smile tugging at my lips. Truth was, as irritated as I was for having been baited so easily, I had to admire the efficiency with which Vicky reeled me in—hook, line, and sinker. She’d known all along that I wouldn’t be able to resist a little sleuthing. Besides, after thinking the situation through, I realized she had a point. As busy as Sean had been lately—the big drug case, my case, and now Fannie’s murder—he was stretched thin. Besides, what would it hurt to just ask a few questions?

  I tipped my head back and exhaled. “Okay, okay,” I relented and reached for my calendar. “Three o’clock tomorrow? I’ll be there.”

  I was awarded with a rare show of affection as Vicky bolted from her chair and reached across my desk to squeeze my hand. “Thank you, Lila. Thank you. There’s just one more thing,” she added, staring down at me with a concerned look on her face. “It’s Eliot.”

  “Eliot?”

  “Fannie’s cat. I’m worried about him. With Fannie gone, no one is at the house to take care of him.”

  “Certainly Grant has thought of that.”