Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4)

by Lucy Arlington

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The stupid cops haven’t got a clue who did in the old lady.”

  I cringed at his choice of words, then corrected myself. It wouldn’t be wise to put him on the defense. “Who do you think did it?”

  Grant tipped back his head and let out a raucous laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Franklin interrupted as he and Damian rejoined us.

  “This gal”—he jerked a thumb in my direction—“she just asked me who I thought might have killed my stepmother.”

  “You think that’s funny?” I asked incredulously.

  He laughed again, only not as heartily this time. “Only the fact that you would ask. The cops, heck, most of the people in town, seem to think I knocked her off.”

  I struggled to maintain my composure. Next to me, Franklin and Damian remained speechless. I hated the fact that Damian was witnessing this little tirade. “Actually, I would think there are a lot of possibilities.”

  Grant leveled his gaze on me. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  I shrugged. “For starters, it could have been an intruder. Or someone that held a grudge against your stepmother.” I switched gears. “By the way, thanks for letting us retrieve Eliot from the house. He’s found a good home with one of my coworkers.”

  “No problem. I hate that ugly fur ball.”

  I stiffened, but ignored his comment. “While we were in your stepmother’s home, I couldn’t help but notice all the photos of children.”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “Those were her kids. At least that’s what she always called those rug rats from her work.”

  “Rug rats?” Damian asked.

  Grant looked his way. “Don’t get me wrong, man. I feel for those kids, I really do. Caught up in bad situations, being shuffled from home to home. Gotta be tough. But my stepmother got too caught up in their lives.” I noticed his fists clenching at his sides. “Heck, she put more time into those kids than she ever did me. And they didn’t even live in our home.”

  “I’m sure that type of work would be consuming,” I interjected, trying to soothe his rising anger. “It would take a special type of devotion to deal with broken families on a daily basis.”

  He kicked at the dirt some more. I felt a twinge of sadness for this young man. I remember Mama saying Grant was in his early teens when Fannie and Doc married. That’s a turbulent time for most adolescent boys, even in the best of situations. Losing his doting mother at that age and living with what sounded like workaholic parents—a father who was busy with his medical practice and a mother more devoted to her foster kids than her own stepchild. No wonder he had such a tough exterior; he probably needed it to cover the vulnerability he felt inside.

  I continued, my voice softer this time. “I’m sure she did the best she could, Grant.”

  “That’s right,” Franklin added. “Working with those kids must have been difficult. I know I wouldn’t want that type of responsibility.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Social workers have to make difficult decisions. Is it possible that she made an enemy along the way? Maybe a drug-addicted mother who had her children taken from her?”

  Grant considered the idea for a second, obviously mulling over another option that could lead to a murder suspect. Then he shrugged. “Beats me. I do know before my dad died, he got some nasty letters from one of his patients. I told the cops about it. They didn’t seem too interested in what I had to say, though. They’re hell-bent on pinning this thing on me.”

  Damian cleared his throat. “Sounds like Ruthie’s here.”

  In the distance, I could hear the crunching gravel of Ruthie’s approaching car. I knew I didn’t have much more time for questions. “Which patient?” I prodded.

  “I don’t know. Some guy whose wife died. He claims my dad misdiagnosed something. He went as far in one of his letters to say he wished my dad could feel his pain.”

  “That’s awful,” I lamented. Of course, I knew that grief could often bring out the worst in people. The question was, did this man’s grief drive him to the breaking point? Was it possible that poor Fannie was murdered out of revenge for a mistake made by her dead husband? It didn’t make much sense, especially since Dr. Walker couldn’t feel the loss of Fannie a year after he’d already died. But revenge didn’t often make sense to anyone but the avenger.

  “Yoo-hoo!” We both looked over to see Ruthie stepping out of her sedan and coming our way on tippy-toes to keep her heels from sticking in the ground. She must not have had time to change; she was still wearing her trademark skirt and blazer and two-inch pumps.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she called out, making her way to us with her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker holding a pole as she attempted to balance her heels on the uneven ground. “My last showing ran late,” she finished breathlessly, finally reaching us. “Lila! I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Uh, well … Franklin invited me to come along and offer a second opinion on the property.”

  “And?” She regarded me eagerly. “What do you think?”

  “Yes, what do you think?” Damian echoed.

  “I think it’s a perfect spot for what you’re looking to do, Damian,” I replied honestly.

  Ruthie let out her breath. “Good. And you’ll be glad to know, Grant, that I spoke with the attorneys and everything is in order. Since Fannie had no children, her property rights transfer directly to you.”

  Grant clapped his hands together. “Fantastic!” He turned toward Damian and smiled. “Looks like the property is yours if you want it for my price, Mr. York.”

  I excused myself while the three of them started discussing details. Franklin walked me back to Trey’s car. “Thanks for playing along with our little game, Franklin,” I whispered. “I’m sorry if Damian found any of the discussion upsetting.”

  Franklin got that little gleam in his eye again. “Glad I could help. And don’t worry, Lila. I told Damian all about you being our agency’s own version of Nancy Drew. He didn’t mind a bit that you wanted to come out and pump Grant Walker for clues.”

  I smiled, but my heart sank to think yet another person held out what looked like false hopes that I could solve this crime. My gaze slid to Grant, who was deep in discussion with Ruthie and Damian. “I know Vicky’s convinced that Grant killed his stepmother,” I said, “but for what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it.”

  Franklin’s face tightened. “It’s hard to say, Lila. He does seem like a very angry young man. Maybe you’d better save judgment until you have more facts.”

  *

  WITH ALL THE dismal distractions recently, it was nice to focus on something positive. So, first thing Thursday morning at work, I busied myself checking off the smaller items on my long list of tasks. First, I called a sluggish editor and pushed for an answer to a proposal she’d sat on for a couple of months. I knew the book and the author were a perfect fit for this particular publishing house; the editor just needed a little extra convincing. By the end of the call, I think I’d persuaded her to take a chance on the rookie writer.

  Next I worked on some presubmission edits from a promising author who had a great project idea, well-developed characters, and an exciting plot, but just needed a little help strengthening the story’s hook. In my experience, editors were all about that little “snappy-something” that tantalized readers and caught book buyers’ attention. In essence, a good hook sells books. For this particular mystery, the main character, who had a penchant for solving mysteries, worked as a fashion designer for doggy apparel. Coming up with a hook seemed simple to me: Add more cute puppy tidbits and pitch the series as something like The Trendy Tails Mysteries.

  I was so absorbed in my work, the morning flew by. I was surprised when I looked at my watch and saw it was already time to leave for my two o’clock meeting with Paul Cohen, the catering director at How Green Was My Valley. When I arrived at the market, I was delighted to find Paul had arranged for me to sample menu ideas for Damian�
��s upcoming dinner event. Having worked straight through lunch, my stomach was rumbling in protest. I had to control myself to keep from diving into the tantalizing samples he’d placed before me.

  “Try this one,” he suggested, lifting a tiny plate of appetizers my way. We were sitting across from each other at a small table set up outside the store’s catering kitchen. Paul, a short, bald, bespectacled man with a passion for food and the girth to prove it, was the success behind How Green Was My Valley’s catering department. The market, which touted itself as the area’s premier source for natural, organic, and local products, had launched their catering division less than a year ago. With Paul’s expertise, they’d gone from offering boxed lunches and deli trays for business functions to developing an extensive menu suitable for any event. And, by the looks of things, he’d hit just the right mixture of fresh and local fare that was sure to please Damian’s readers.

  “What I want to achieve with this menu, and what I think is important to Damian—I do love that man’s food philosophy,” he added with sincere admiration, “is a sense of conscious, artful cuisine. All locally provided, of course, and of the utmost quality.”

  I nodded, grabbing a fork and stabbing at my caprese salad. I savored my first taste. The tomatoes had that earthy, sun-ripened taste that reminded me of Grandma’s heirloom garden. Their acidity paired perfectly with the creamy sweetness of the mozzarella fresca and spicy, crisp basil leaves.

  “That cheese is made locally at Itsa Gouda, by the way. That’s the new goat farm that opened up at the old co-op on Red Fox Mountain. Isn’t it delish?”

  I smiled the best I could with a full mouth, and moaned my approval.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he started, passing another plate my way. “We start with passing appetizers, such as these, at the signing. I’ll secure a couple of extra waitresses for the job. At the dinner, we’ll offer the caprese salad first and then move to two choices for the main course.” He lifted lids on two hot plates and pointed to scrumptious-looking meals. The smell that wafted from the platters caused my mouth to water. He went on, “A hickory nut–encrusted pork shoulder, which is braised in white wine, wrapped in bacon, and plated with fresh shallot jam; and for vegetarians, grilled zucchini and eggplant Parmesan. For side dishes we could offer either white asparagus with a brown butter vinaigrette, or cheese polenta with carrots.”

  I kept sampling and smiling. Everything was superb.

  “And, here’s something for a little refreshing cleanse. Try this heavenly rhubarb fruit salad.” He handed me a little glass bowl brimming with colorful bits of fruit.

  I took a spoonful, my tongue practically dancing with delight. “Oh my goodness. I’ve never tasted fruit salad like this before. It’s wonderful!”

  His chest puffed out. “Isn’t it? I’ve combined green grapes, cantaloupe, strawberries, and of course, rhubarb. It’s the Grand Marnier and honey that give it just the right touch of sweetness. You like?”

  I took another spoonful. “Yes, I like. It’s all wonderful, Paul. I couldn’t be happier with your ideas and I’m sure Damian will be thrilled.”

  Paul sat back, a smug smile forming. “Be sure to tell him it’s strictly farm-to-fork cuisine. All local and fresh. He talks a lot on his show about the importance of buying local.”

  “You’re a fan?”

  He reddened. “Absolutely. I’ve followed his television program for years. Even before it became as popular as it is today. I knew him from when he lived around here, you know.”

  “Really? You’re the first person that I’ve run into who remembers Damian from his younger days.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. He was nothing like he is today. I went to school with him over in Dunston. He had a difficult childhood. His father abandoned the family when Damian was in junior high. The mother struggled, trying to take care of the kids and keep food on the table.” Paul shook his head. “It was difficult for Damian, I remember. He was withdrawn. A real loner. That’s why people probably don’t remember him. He was one of those kids that just blended into the background.”

  “What finally happened to the family?”

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t know the whole story. Something happened to the mother. No one really talked about it much and I was just a kid, so I really didn’t understand what had happened at the time. Looking back on it now, I wonder if she didn’t commit suicide.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  Paul sighed. “Anyway, sometime during the summer before our freshman year of high school, Damian just disappeared. I always assumed he went to live with family somewhere.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, you can understand, then, why I’m so interested in his career. It’s a feel-good type of story. A kid, with so many strikes against him, rising above it all and finding success.”

  I nodded, my mind working overtime. “That is an inspiring story.” One that would make for a great memoir. I wondered if Franklin knew about Damian’s personal history. Nothing made a hotter bestseller than a memoir of a known celebrity, the rags-to-riches variety especially. I’d have to make sure and ask him about it later. I finalized the menu and setup details with Paul, reminding him that Makayla would be in later to select dinnerware and coordinate the setup time with him.

  As I was making my way back through the store, I spied Brian, Flora’s husband. He was in the produce department, filling a bag with fresh peaches. “Brian! I haven’t seen you for a long time,” I greeted. “How have you been?”

  He turned and nodded curtly before turning back to the peaches. “Fine, thanks.”

  I was taken aback by his terseness. At well over six feet tall, with the build of a linebacker, Brian was, as Flora always said, “nothing but a big ol’ teddy bear.” Laid-back and quick to smile, Brian knew no stranger. He was usually the epitome of friendliness. “Is something wrong, Brian?”

  “No, I’m just busy,” he replied with a clenched jaw as he placed his selection into a cloth tote bag and strolled away without a backward glance. Now what was that about? As I stared after him, it hit me that something big must be going on with Flora. After seeing the picture of her at Fannie’s house, I’d been meaning to ask if she was once a foster child, but hadn’t had a chance. But it would make sense that such a personal connection with Fannie could be behind Flora’s sudden change in demeanor. Losing someone instrumental in your life would upset even the happiest person. But now Brian’s disconcerting attitude made me wonder if there was something else going on. Then I recalled the way Flora huffed and puffed after climbing the outside steps to the agency the day before; the excessive sweating and her pale skin.

  I jogged after him, catching him just before he reached the checkout lane. “Is it Flora?” I inquired, panic seeping into my voice. “Is she ill or something? I’ve noticed she’s been acting strangely lately.”

  Brian wheeled and glared down at me, his usually bright eyes flashing with darkness. “I know it’s hard for you to do, Lila. But for once, just mind your own damn business.”

  I flinched and felt heat rising in my cheeks as if they’d been slapped. I opened my mouth to respond, but Brian’s vehement tone had struck me dumb. Instead, I glanced around nervously, wondering who else had witnessed his outburst. Luckily, the other customers in line seemed not to notice our heated exchange.

  In the meantime, Brian starting unloading his items on the conveyer belt, turning his back to me. Obviously, the subject was closed, so I simply left, feeling confused and helpless. What was going on with Flora and Brian? We’d always been friends. In fact, Sean and I often met up with them after work at the James Joyce Pub for dinner, drinks, and always a ton of laughs. What could possibly be so horrible that they couldn’t share it with me?

  I decided to forgo the rest of the afternoon at work and just head home. My mind reeled with questions about my friend as I maneuvered my Vespa back toward the center of town. Did Fannie’s photo mean that Flora herself had once been
a foster child? If so, why all the secrecy? Thousands of children were touched in some way by the foster care system. There must be more to it.

  Come to think of it, Flora had always been a champion of children, whether it was assuring that the children’s books our agency represented were of the most outstanding quality, doting on her nephews and nieces, or knitting hats for patients of the children’s cancer center. I always just assumed it was her nature to love children, but it dawned on me that I’d seen a different, more protective side of Flora before.

  When I’d first started with the agency, before we knew a local man was to become a well-noted posthumous author, we thought of him as the town vagrant. Practically homeless, he spent his days wandering from bench to bench, loitering in parks and receiving handouts from local business owners. One of his frequented spots was the Wonderland Playground, where he’d sit and watch the children for hours on end.

  I remember Flora was upset about this man’s presence at the playground. She’d even called the police on him several times. At the time, I thought she was overreacting, inappropriately judging him by his appearances, a standard that proved impetuous after the real reason for his vagrantlike tendencies was revealed. Only now that I was looking back on it, maybe Flora wasn’t overreacting, but simply reacting to something from her past. Perhaps something had transpired during her childhood that caused her to spend her adulthood trying to compensate for her own losses.

  *

  FRIDAY MORNING, I once again skipped my usual stop at Espresso Yourself and took the steps leading to the agency two at a time. I’d spent most of the night awake, before finally coming to the conclusion that I needed to address my concerns to Flora directly. Despite Brian’s warning to mind my own business, I decided that Flora’s well-being was my business. I was her friend, after all. And if something was bothering her, I wanted to help. I intended to go directly to her office and clean up the bad air between us.

  Only, once inside the reception area, I stopped short at the sight of Alice Peabody standing in front of Vicky’s desk, arms flailing and shoulders gyrating as she berated our office manager. “How dare you tell the police that I had something to do with Fannie’s murder! I bet you did that just so you could knock me out of the competition.”