Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery 4)

by Lucy Arlington

  Vicky stood straight-backed, jutted her chin out, and placed her hands on her hips. “I would never do such a thing. I’m not the type of person who would damage someone’s reputation for the sake of a competition.” Eliot’s whiskers twitched as he curiously watched the scene from the waiting area’s chair.

  Alice shook her fist in Vicky’s face. “Don’t you stand there and lie to me, Vicky Crump. You pretend to be all prim and proper, but I know how competitive you can be. Don’t forget it was that competitiveness that got you kicked off the garden club board in the first place.”

  Eliot uncurled and jumped down from the chair, moving across the room with a hunched back and a low growl in his throat. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard Vicky growl, too, as she took a step closer to Alice. “No, Alice. The reason I got kicked off the board is because you claimed you saw me sabotage Doris Mosby’s prize Belinda rose plant, but there’s no—”

  “Whoa!” I interjected, stepping between the two of them before they came to blows. “What’s going on here?”

  Vicky pointed her finger. “I went to fill Eliot’s water bowl and when I came back I found Alice standing here in the reception area. She immediately started accusing me of telling the police that she killed Fannie.”

  “Well, you must have,” Alice reiterated. “Some officer came by my place late yesterday afternoon to interview me. He said a reliable source suggested that I might have motive to want Fannie dead. Who else would say such a thing?”

  Slowly Vicky turned her head from her adversary and looked my way, narrowing her eyes at me. “Who else indeed,” she muttered. Then turning back to Alice, she added, “Ms. Wilkins was present the entire time I was interviewed. She can vouch for the fact that I said no such thing, can’t you, Lila?”

  I bobbed my head, but kept my mouth shut. Mostly because I knew my lower lip was trembling. I was terrified Vicky was going to reveal that I was the one who ratted Alice out to the cops. Heaven knows what the crazed rose gardener might do to me then. Wait for an opportune time and spade me to death? I shivered.

  We turned at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Bentley and Franklin spilled into the reception area with Damian right behind them. He shot me a quizzical look as Bentley inserted herself into the scene. “What exactly is going on out here?” she demanded, glaring at Vicky and soliciting a hiss from Eliot, his tail bristling as he stood by Vicky’s feet.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption, Ms. Burlington-Duke,” Vicky said, scooping up the feline and stroking his fur until a low purring sound started. “Just a little misunderstanding. Everything is under control now.”

  Alice, who seemed to have quickly forgotten the previous hubbub, turned her focus to Damian, who hovered quietly behind Bentley and Franklin. Her scowl turned upward to a sappy sweet smile. “Is this the famous Damian York?” she inquired. With her hand outstretched, she brushed past Bentley and Franklin. “I’m Alice Peabody, president of the Dirty Dozen. It’s such a pleasure, Mr. York.”

  The sudden change in Alice’s demeanor gave me mental whiplash. I watched in amazement as she shook Damian’s hand and poured on the charm. “On behalf of the garden club, let me thank you for agreeing to judge this year’s van Gogh contest. We feel so fortunate to have someone of your expertise and reputation judge our modest competition.”

  Damian took her hand and flashed a little charm. “My pleasure, Ms. Peabody. And I’m sure your roses will be a treat to see.”

  Vicky and I exchanged a wide-eyed look. Alice’s emotional flip-flop had left us both a bit breathless.

  I glanced over to where Alice had cornered Damian, the poor guy’s back against the wall as she stood in front of him, hand over her chest and batting her lashes like a silent film star. I swear she was about to swoon. “I’m especially looking forward to your expert opinion of my humble garden. I have worked so hard this year to cultivate award-worthy roses.”

  A pained expression crossed Damian’s face, but he recovered well. “I’m sure your garden will be a pleasure to see,” he managed, diplomatically.

  Alice gasped with delight and shook his hand again, pumping it over and over while she gushed on about all the work she put into her garden: fertilizing this, pruning that, and even mentioning some strange solution she concocted with mouthwash and vinegar to thwart powdery mildew. “Oh,” she continued, “we’ll have to get together soon and discuss the regulations for judging this year’s van Gogh contest. May I call you and set up a time?”

  Damian politely withdrew his hand and shoved it into his pocket.

  Franklin stepped forward. “Just call the office, Mrs. Peabody, and I’ll be happy to schedule a time for you and Damian to meet.”

  Unabashed, Alice gushed a little more before finally turning to leave. “Well then, I must bid you all adieu. I’m off to tend to my roses.” She moved to the exit, turning to wiggle her fingers and flash yet another sappy sweet smile toward Damian. “As you know, a gardener’s job is never done.”

  “Well!” Bentley exclaimed. “I have no idea what that was all about.” She held up her hand. “Nor do I want to know. Let’s just all get back to work, shall we.” She clapped her hands together. “Chop-chop, people. Damian’s big event is only one week away.” Then turning to me she added, “Come to my office right away. I have something to discuss with you.”

  My heart did a little somersault. Whenever Bentley said she had something to discuss, it meant she’d been scheming. Nine times out of ten, when her schemes included me, it meant I was in for something unpleasant.

  Before taking off to follow Bentley, I turned quickly to Vicky. She’d just returned Eliot to his perch and was settling behind her desk. “Thanks for not throwing me under the bus. I hate to think what Alice might have done to me if she’d known I was the one that sicced the police on her.”

  Vicky raised her brow and straightened a stack of papers. “Of course, Lila. Besides, we already know who the real killer is, don’t we?” she said with a pointed look. Then her ironclad façade cracked a little. “Although, I have to admit, I was caught off guard by Alice’s erratic behavior.”

  I patted her hand. “Don’t let it ruin your whole day, Vicky. By the way, have you seen Flora this morning?”

  “She was in earlier, but left, saying she had some sort of appointment.”

  I sighed. “I was hoping to catch her first thing. Did she say when she’d be back?”

  Vicky shook her head and started to reply, but stopped short when Bentley bellowed down the hall. “Lila! In my office!”

  I scurried to comply, finding her seated behind her desk, impatiently tapping her silver-plated fountain pen. “Glad to see you’re finally ready to join us, Lila.” She pointed the pen toward an extra chair someone had dragged in from the conference room. Franklin and Damian were already occupying her two guest chairs. “Take a seat. This won’t take much time. I just wanted to inform you that today is your lucky day.”

  I cringed. This was going to be worse than I’d initially thought.

  She continued, “I just got off the phone with Detective Griffiths and he’s assured me that all restrictions on your yard have been lifted. The crime scene tape will come down this morning.”

  “Oh really?” I replied apprehensively. Normally that would be good news, but with Bentley, good news meant good for her, not necessarily me.

  “I also spoke with Damian’s producer this morning and we’ve decided a great way to promote his upcoming event was to have a mini yard makeover.”

  “A yard makeover?” Oh no. I knew where this was heading.

  “Just something small,” Damian interjected. “Perhaps the outdoor reading nook we discussed the other day.”

  Bentley nodded fervently. “Perfect. A reading nook for a literary agent. Of course, you’ll mention Novel Idea by name.”

  “Of course,” Damian agreed. “And there’ll be a lot of mentions regarding next weekend’s signing on my national broadcast. Doing a makeover of a garden in the a
rea of the book signing will surely bolster exposure. Plus the local news is going to recommend their viewers watch the national broadcast because of the community-interest angle, so it’ll attract a lot of attention at all levels.”

  Franklin, who’d been a quiet observer so far, finally jumped into the conversation. “I think it’s a wonderful way to draw local and, who knows, maybe national, too, book buyers to our event, don’t you, Lila?”

  “Plus,” Damian added, “you’ll get a little free landscaping out of the deal. My producers will cover all expenses. You just have to be up and ready to go first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “First thing … when?”

  “Tomorrow. My film crew will be by at the crack of dawn.”

  “Great,” I replied, forcing a smile.

  “There’s more good news,” Franklin added. “Damian’s offer on the Walker land has been accepted. He’ll break ground on his new showcase home later this summer.”

  Damian nodded enthusiastically. “And while overseeing the construction, I plan to pen my next book: Nature-Inspired Décor for Every Room.”

  A tiny squeal emitted from Bentley. “Sure to be a bestseller! What do you say we all head downstairs to Espresso Yourself and celebrate with coffee? My treat.”

  Sounded good to me. With the way things were going, I’d need a hit of caffeine to get through my day. I shouldered my purse and followed the group out the back door.

  *

  AFTER AN EXTRALONG coffee break and listening to Bentley’s numerous reiterations of her most lucrative deal-closing stories, I was sufficiently fueled to spend the rest of the afternoon getting work done. The first thing I did was begin suggesting revisions for the cozy English mystery I’d just signed. The author had yet to title the work, so I started brainstorming some possibilities. Considering the protagonist was a pub owner, I thought maybe the title should reflect something to do with an English tavern. I pulled out a legal pad and began scribbling: Death on Tap, Brews and Clues … no, that wasn’t the feel I was going for. Moaning under my breath, I scratched those out and let my pen hover over the paper while I contemplated more. My mind wandered to one of my favorite authors, Martha Grimes, who wrote the series featuring the protagonist Richard Jury. Each of those books was centered on English-style pubs and, if I remembered correctly, was titled after famous pubs from around the world, not just in England. It had been years since I read the series, but I still remembered titles like The Dirty Duck, The Old Silent, and of course, The Horse You Came In On. I’d actually been to the pub Grimes named that book after. It was on Thames Street in Baltimore, and as I recalled, it seemed nothing like the pub described in Grimes’s English mystery. Nonetheless, it was a great title.

  Maybe … just maybe … I put down my pen and took to my keyboard, searching for the author’s synopsis. Scanning it, I found the name of her pub, the Tumble Inn. I smiled. I knew just the title: Tumble Inn and Die: An English Pub Mystery. We could even market it with something like “Callie Flannigan, spirited pub owner and amateur sleuth, serves up shots and stirs in murder … ” Blah, blah, blah. I leaned back in my chair and exhaled, clasping my hands behind my head. Helping an author polish a book proposal was like putting icing on a cake—turning something already good into something perfectly scrumptious, ready to be devoured by hungry readers. I chuckled to myself. Even as a kid, I’d duck out of the kitchen when Mama was going to all the work of measuring, pouring, and stirring up a cake, just to return later to slather on the frosting and add little touches of candied ornaments. Guess I was a polisher, even back then.

  By quitting time, I’d typed up almost five pages of editing suggestions for the author. Not that the book was far off the mark, but I wanted to present the most marketable version to editors. I had no doubt that if the author followed my advice, she’d find herself with a contract from one of the top five publishing houses. Then in one of Bentley’s next glowing stories of her agency’s recent accomplishments my new author would be right up there with the other gold stars.

  I decided to celebrate my work accomplishments with takeout from Wild Ginger, the local Chinese restaurant. I’d also been meaning to talk to Trey about his argument with Sean and was hoping that a little of his favorite Asian dish, beef and broccoli, might set the right tone for that conversation. Trey always did discuss things better with a full stomach.

  When I pulled in front of the house a while later, I was surprised to find my mother’s truck parked in the drive. “Mama?” I called out, juggling the door, my bag, and the takeout order. “Trey!”

  “In the kitchen, Mom.”

  By the way the house smelled, I should have guessed where they were. I followed the sweet scent of warm banana bread through the family room and into the kitchen, finding them bent over a large mixing bowl, adding ingredients. There were already several loaves of bread cooling on my counter. “What’s this?” I asked, smiling at the sight before me. Mama and Trey were so much alike: both tall and sinewy—built for action. Trey also possessed a healthy dose of my mother’s uncanny intuition, something I learned last spring when he came to my rescue just in the nick of time to save me from a treacherous death at the hands of a coldhearted murderer. Now, it looked like he shared Mama’s baking abilities, also.

  “Just teachin’ my grandson the family secret,” Mama said, her face beaming with pride.

  “I’ve already made a dozen loaves,” Trey added. “Nana’s going to freeze them for the church bazaar at the end of the month.”

  “Hope you’ll save a couple loaves for me.” I plopped the takeout bags onto the table. “Anyone have time for a little break? I brought Chinese. I didn’t know you were going to be here, Mama, but you know how much there usually is. I can never eat it all by myself.”

  Trey dropped the stirring spoon and headed straight for the bags. “Beef and broccoli?”

  “Of course. And sesame chicken,” I replied, grabbing three forks and a few cold sodas from the fridge.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Mama said, pulling up her own chair. “I was fixin’ on just stayin’ here tonight, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure, Mama. You and Trey planning on baking banana bread all night or something?”

  She glanced his way, then back at me. “We might,” she hedged.

  Trey looked up from his container of beef and broccoli and squinted at us. Sensing something was up, he grabbed his soda and stood. “Mind if I eat in front of the television?” he asked me.

  I answered by tipping my head toward the family room, never quite taking my eyes off Mama. What in the world is going on now?

  “Sorry, sug,” she started as soon as Trey was out of the room. “I just have the need to be close to y’all right now. Couldn’t explain it even if I wanted to.” She glanced around and leaned forward. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the child, but I just have this feelin’.”

  “A feeling of what?”

  “Dread. A deep-down feelin’ of dread. Like some sort of bad thing is comin’ for our family.”

  Suddenly sesame chicken didn’t sound so good. I put down my fork and sat back in my chair with a thud. No matter how odd, or even downright weird they seemed, my mother’s bad feelings usually held merit. Oh, sometimes I think she liked playing the part of drama queen, talking up her feelings as if she were an all-knowing sage or some sort of prophet, but nine times out of ten, they did precede something bad. Like the time when I was a teen and she got one of her “feelings” right before the big dance. Well, I hadn’t even made it to the first song before I got in a fight with my best friend, spilled punch down my dress, and caught my date in a dark corner with Della Mae Thompson. Oh, then there was my wedding day. She rushed in at the last minute and instead of doing that motherly thing of helping me with my veil or giving me a special family heirloom, she held out a tarot card. “I’ve got a bad feelin’ about this marriage,” she’d said. I’d thought at the time that it was the worst thing any mother could do: spoil her own daughter’s weddin
g day with her dramatics. But oh, if only I had listened.

  “You know what, Mama,” I finally said. “You can stay as long as you like.”

  *

  A FIERCE POUNDING from the front of the house woke me at the crack of dawn Saturday morning. I sat straight up in bed. “Oh no. Of all the mornings to oversleep!”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all!” I heard my mother call out from the front of the house. “Looks like you’ve got company, sug.”

  I ran down the hall and passed Trey and Mama, who were already dressed and had coffee cups in their hands, and skidded to a stop at the front window. I cracked the curtains and peered through. “It’s Damian! I forgot to tell you they’re filming a segment for his program here this morning.” Guess with all the talk of dread and doom the night before, I’d forgotten to mention the yard makeover.

  “Here? Why our house?” Trey asked, running a hand through his hair.

  I rolled my eyes. “One of Bentley’s brilliant ideas.”

  The doorbell rang. I jumped and scurried for my bedroom. “Can you stall them, Mama?” I asked from down the hall. “I just need to fix up a bit.”

  I heard her answering the door as I hopped in for a quick shower, avoiding my hair, because I certainly didn’t have time for blow-drying. After toweling off, I tore through my closet for something to wear. Damian hadn’t been very specific about what part I would play in the filming of my yard project. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be interviewed on camera, or worse yet, be expected to participate in the actual work. Not that I minded hard work, but I cringed at the thought of my clumsy gardening skills being forever archived on film.

  After a few more passes through my racks, I settled on a pair of dark wash cropped jeans and a tan madras plaid shirt. I thought the hues of brown set off my coffee-colored eyes, which would be a bonus if I did have to be on camera. As for the rest of me, things weren’t going to be so easy. My hair looked like a massive fur ball, but no matter how much I brushed, it seemed to get worse. Finally, I slicked it back into a ponytail, slathered on some lipstick, and called it good.