Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery)

by Arlington, Lucy

  Makayla grinned and gestured at the café table where I normally sat. “Let me get Mr. Sheehan his cappuccino and cinnamon scone and then I’ll tell you about my secret admirer.”

  “What?” I glanced at the impatient Mr. Sheehan. “Okay, but hurry up.” I checked my watch and decided that I could be a little late for work. After all, my office was right upstairs. I sipped my latte and flipped through the pages of Inspired Voice, Inspiration Valley’s free paper, and felt another thrill of excitement about all the Taste of the Town events I’d be attending as a representative of the Novel Idea Literary Agency.

  “Read this.” Makayla perched on the edge of the table and handed me a scrap of paper. “This one’s from yesterday. It was folded inside a two-dollar bill and stuffed into my tip jar.”

  I raised my brows. “You don’t see these in circulation anymore.”

  “That’s how I know it’s the same guy. He always puts his notes inside a two-dollar bill.” She nudged my elbow. “Go on, girlfriend. Drink in the words.”

  Complying, I read the following typewritten lines out loud: “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way.” Putting the paper on the table, I looked at Makayla. “Wow. Who wrote this?”

  “Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet. Lord, I got weak in the knees reading his stuff.” She touched my hand. “But Lila, they’ve all been this beautiful. My secret admirer has given me three bits of poetry so far. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it wasn’t a fluke, but this makes number four.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “And you have no idea who this guy is?”

  “None. And it’s driving me insane!” She gripped my hand. “I’m counting on your talent as a seasoned investigator to help me discover his identity. I need to find out soon, because I am not getting any sleep. I lie in bed and picture my customers’ faces one by one until they’re spinning around in my head like a merry-go-round on speed.”

  “Of course I’ll help.” I paused and then looked into my friend’s green eyes. “But what if he’s not who you hoped he’d be? What happens then?”

  Makayla sighed. “If he’s married, lives with his mama, or has been to jail, then I’m not interested, but if he isn’t Prince Charming, that’s fine by me, too. I’m no Cinderella. I want a man who appreciates stories, is a good listener, and laughs easily. It doesn’t matter to me if he’s black, white, bald, short, pudgy, or hairy.” She gave me a sly smile. “But he’s got to love books, especially since I just finished writing one.”

  I’d been on the verge of taking another sip of my latte when she uttered this declaration. “What?” I asked through pursed lips. “I thought it was just an idea you were fleshing out.”

  “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to read my work in progress,” she hurriedly assured me. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if I’d finish it at all, but these little lines of love in my tip jar really got me going, and The Barista Diaries is done and ready to be submitted to an agent. Know any good ones?”

  Delighted, I listened as Makayla described her collection of short stories and then realized I was going to be noticeably tardy if I didn’t zip upstairs that second. After making her promise to email me a copy of her manuscript, I scooped up my take-out cup and headed for the lobby, hoping that Vicky Crump, our agency’s punctilious office manager, wasn’t at her desk yet.

  • • •

  I SPENT ALL Tuesday morning working diligently as I wanted the tasks out of the way before Taste of the Town began that Friday. I barely stopped for a coffee break and ate my lunch of leftovers from the previous night’s Wild Ginger dinner in front of my computer. Chewing on the last bite of cold broccoli beef, I placed the empty plastic containers in my tote and scooped up a package of washable markers along with my Taste of the Town folder. Thus supplied, I headed for the conference room.

  As expected, no one was there, and I began to prepare for my meeting. On the whiteboard, I drew out a chart. Across the top row, I wrote in the agents’ names, and in the far left column, filled in an event for each subsequent row: Klara’s Book Release, Books and Cooks Signings, Short Story Contest, Food in Children’s Lit, Literary Banquet, TV Show. I was so intent on my task that I didn’t realize Jude had come into the room until he spoke.

  “You look completely absorbed,” he said in a playful tone.

  His voice startled me and my hand jerked, giving the “w” on the word “show” an upturned tail. I spun around. As always, my pulse sped up at the sight of Jude. His chocolate brown eyes held a glint of amusement beneath his long lashes. Smiling at me, he ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. “I’ve been watching you for five minutes and you didn’t even notice,” he said. “Not that I didn’t enjoy the view.”

  I refused to respond to his flattery. I was Sean’s girl, and my brief ill-advised fancy of being with Jude had dissipated long ago. Glancing at the time on the wall clock behind him, I said, “You’re early. The meeting doesn’t start until two.”

  “I know. I just wanted to have a few minutes alone with you before everyone else comes in.” He stepped closer to me.

  “Jude,” I cautioned. “You know Sean and I—”

  “Not like that. I know that you and the policeman are tight. My loss,” he said, shaking his head. He held out a stack of papers. “I actually came here early to discuss the latest submissions for the Alexandria Society sequel. Not one of these has the same spellbinding, desperate voice that Marlette had, and I’m inclined to turn them all down. How did you fare with yours?”

  Marlette Robbins, one of the agency’s authors represented by Jude, had written an intriguing suspense novel that became an immediate bestseller. Unfortunately, he didn’t live to see his masterwork in print. Now, with the book’s success, his publishers were eager to put out a sequel and Jude and I had been given the task of finding a ghostwriter for the book. So far, we hadn’t had any luck.

  “Same here,” I answered. “I wasn’t impressed by any of the submissions I received. And some of them were from big-name authors.”

  Jude sighed and plunked himself into a chair. “I thought this would be an easy project, but Marlette’s unique voice is proving difficult to replicate. Any suggestions?”

  “What if . . .” I tapped the end of a marker on my chin. “Instead of focusing on seasoned authors, we expand the playing field. Go through our unsolicited queries, maybe put the word out to writers who may not have published a bestseller yet. Or published anything, for that matter. Look at Marlette. He was unknown and unpublished, and he still penned a winner.”

  Jude nodded. “But how do we advertise what we’re looking for without seeming overanxious?”

  “The Taste of the Town will bring lots of people in—maybe we could have a contest in conjunction with the first event held at the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts.”

  “I like that. A ghostwriting contest to honor Marlette.” Jude started writing on his notepad. “However, since we already have the Stories About Food writing contest underway, it might not be such a good idea to have two contests going at once. Should we run it by Bentley and see what she thinks?”

  “Maybe we can talk to her after this meeting. Right now I have to finish this.” I turned back to the whiteboard and completed the chart.

  A few minutes later, the rest of the staff were seated around the conference table, gazing expectantly at me. I felt a little self-conscious standing at the front, especially with Bentley Burlington-Duke, the founder and president of Novel Idea Literary Agency, sitting to my left. She peered at me over her diamond-studded reading glasses but said nothing.

  I cleared my throat and began. “I set up this meeting because the day after tomorrow the chefs arrive in Inspiration Valley and the Taste of the Town festival begins on Friday. As you know, our agency’s portion of the festival, Books and Cooks, commences at the same time. And I wanted to ensure that everything is in place so that i
t all runs smoothly, especially for our chef clients.” Pointing at the chart on the whiteboard, I continued. “If I could get your status on the areas for which you are each responsible, we can move on from there.”

  Vicky spoke first. With her ramrod-straight posture and direct approach, she gave the impression that she was much taller than a mere five feet. Straightening her blue-rimmed glasses she began. “I’ve booked rooms for all of our celebrity guests and their entourage at the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast, although a few of the underlings have rooms at Bertram’s Hotel.”

  “It’s a good thing our Bertram’s Hotel isn’t like the one in the Agatha Christie story,” Zach Cohen, our “Mr. Hollywood” agent for screenplays and sportswriters, interrupted. He waggled his black eyebrows. “If it was, we’d be sending those people straight into a group of criminals.”

  Jude chuckled. Vicky stared at Zach for a brief minute, and then continued. “I made sure that Klara Patrick’s room is on an entirely different floor from Doug Corby, Leslie Sterling, and Charlene Jacques.”

  “Hoo boy, that was smart, Vicky!” exclaimed Zach. “The Magnolia B&B would see some fireworks if they were sleeping down the hall from Chef Klara.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Zach?” Bentley asked. “Aren’t they all professionals?”

  “Supposedly, but Klara is always undermining the other chefs, especially Charlene Jacques, who has a show on the same network. And the food critic, Doug Corby, wrote a scathing review of a meal Chef Klara prepared for the Food Fair in Baltimore last month.” He feigned a throat-cutting motion with his pointer finger. “Talk about the pen being mightier than the sword. Ouch!”

  “I remember that review.” Flora leaned forward on the table. “He called her veal ‘leather-like’ and her sauce ‘as heavy as cement.’ Said he wouldn’t feed her dish to a stray dog. Created quite an uproar at that food fair.”

  Bentley frowned. “Well, let’s hope these people can manage to control their animosity toward each other at our events. Carry on, Lila.”

  I scanned my notes. “Vicky, will the chefs all be here for the introductory tour and Bentley’s catered supper? Have you confirmed the pickup arrangements?”

  She nodded. “Klara and her people are driving up in their limo, and three of the chefs are coming in on the train. Doug Corby will be on the Inspiration Express on Friday morning. The television crew for Klara’s TV show arrived earlier this week to set up.”

  “Speaking of which,” Zach interrupted, “the setup crew made some trouble about the stove at the Arts Center. It was wired for electric, but not for gas, and several of the chefs, including Chef Klara, insist on cooking only with gas. Her majesty also insisted that a stove be reserved for her use only until she has finished with her demonstration. So to keep the culinary kings and queens happy, we installed a six-burner gas stove. That cost a wad of dough.” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips. “Lila, can we bill Klara’s company for that?”

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. And I can certainly understand a chef preferring a gas stove to electric. Especially one as talented as Chef Klara. I find the heat on a gas stove easier to control. Franklin, is everything in place for the release party for Klara’s new cookbook?”

  Franklin rubbed his chin while considering my question. “Sure is. It will kick off after the filming of the television show. There’ll be delectable food for people to sample and a display table for her new cookbook as well. She can sign books for her fans for as long as she likes.”

  “That’s not to be confused with the signings scheduled at the Constant Reader,” Jude interjected.

  Franklin shook his head. “No, those are separate. Although, Klara expressed a desire to do a signing at the Constant Reader after her panel on Friday morning. Can we schedule that in for the early afternoon, Lila?” At my nod, Franklin continued. “The Cooks and Books chef signing session on Saturday afternoon at the Arts Center is for all the chefs other than Klara, and their latest cookbooks. The other Constant Reader signings are for books about food, but not necessarily cookbooks.”

  “Like Doug Corby’s A Foodie’s Diary: Meals Worth Remembering (and some not so much),” Vicky said. “I found that an intriguing read.”

  Flora giggled. “That man can be nasty,” she said. “In a funny kind of way.”

  “I just hope Joel Lang’s new Asian fusion cookbook won’t be too overshadowed by all the focus on Klara.” Franklin sighed. “It releases the same day, you know. I don’t know why publishers do that.”

  Zach vigorously shook his head. “No way, man. There’s been as much buzz about his cookbook on TV as Klara’s. He’s booked solid on the area morning shows for the next couple of weeks. Even with all of the prepublication hype Klara’s been getting, Joel will still be a very popular dude. He might even steal her limelight.”

  Franklin raised his eyebrows. “Nobody needs to steal anyone’s limelight, Zach. We want the pair of them to do well. Remember, they’re both clients of Novel Idea.”

  “Then let’s get two clients on the New York Times list at once.” Zach snapped his fingers in sequence. “Batta bing.”

  “How about your ‘Food in Children’s Literature’ session, Flora?” I asked after I’d updated the whiteboard data. “Is that on track?”

  “Yes, dear, it certainly is. It should be a tasty exhibition, to be sure. Ed from Catcher in the Rye and Nell from Sixpence Bakery helped with the sample list. Even How Green Was My Valley got on board. Let’s see.” She perused her notes. “On the menu we have Stone Soup from the famous folk tale, Marilla’s Raspberry Cordial from Anne of Green Gables, Pippi’s Pancakes from Pippi Longstocking, Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham—”

  “Whoa! How are they making those eggs green?” Zach interjected, cutting short her recitation.

  Flora’s cheeks flushed pink. “I’m not exactly sure, Zach. We’ll have to ask the chef. Should I continue?”

  “Let’s leave the rest for us to discover at the event, Flora. It all sounds great.” I glanced at the chart. “That about covers it, except for the short story contest, Stories About Food. We received several submissions by last week’s deadline. Jude and Bentley, are you on track with the reading?”

  “Of course,” Bentley replied. “I’ll have my assessments to you shortly.”

  Jude nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Good. Thanks for volunteering to be judges for the contest, by the way. It takes some of the pressure off me.”

  Bentley inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  “My pleasure,” Jude said. “There’s always a chance we’ll find a gem.”

  “Everything is set for the banquet as well.” I passed pages around the table. “Here is the menu. And thanks for all your suggestions on which literary foods we should serve.”

  “Sweet!” Zach hit the table with gusto. “My suggestion to add the clam chowder from Moby Dick was picked as the first course! The Zachmeister rules.”

  “I’m glad, too,” Franklin said. “I enjoy a good clam chowder. But I’m surprised you’ve read Melville’s masterpiece thoroughly enough to remember that soup,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  Zach leaned forward. “Are you kidding? I love that book. Melville goes on and on for almost a whole chapter about that chowder.”

  “Ahem,” Bentley interceded. “Back to the banquet?”

  I shot Bentley a grateful smile. “We have ballots for people to guess what literary works they believe each menu item is from, and there will be door prizes, too. Should be a great evening. And at the closing ceremony we’ll award the Novel Idea Best Cookbook Award as voted on by all the attendees. Vicky, you’re handling the ballots, right?”

  Vicky nodded. “It’s all under control.”

  “Good. Other than that,” I looked around the table, “we’re good to go. The first wave of chefs arrives tomorrow and then Taste of the Town and our Books and Cooks will be underway.”

  “Well, Lila, you seem to have everything under control. Remember, people, you are e
xpected to come into work on Saturday as if it’s a regular workday,” Bentley said, gathering her papers together. “Let’s hope that these capricious cooks behave themselves. After all, we’ve filled the Arts Center kitchen with an array of very sharp knives.”

  Chapter 2

  BY THE TIME THURSDAY ROLLED AROUND, MY TO-DO list was so long that my little office at Novel Idea began to feel claustrophobic. My email was overflowing with proposals I’d requested as well as the queries Vicky had deemed worth viewing, the desk was cluttered with Taste of the Town and Books and Cooks schedules, and the coffee I’d bought hours earlier had gone cold. I don’t know where the morning went, but by half past twelve I was too hungry to think straight.

  Outside my window, the entire town seemed to be cajoling me to play hooky for a spell. As I stretched my arms and rubbed my sore lower back, I gazed down at the picturesque small park that stood at the heart of Inspiration Valley’s business district. The grass was a lush green, daffodils bloomed in cheerful clumps along the sidewalks, and every park bench was filled with a smiling man or woman. Oh, how I envied the townsfolk and tourists their novels and paper bag lunches. Gentle sunlight fell on their shoulders, a dogwood-scented breeze tickled the ends of their hair, and a chorus of birdsong provided them with the perfect background music for reading.

  The moment I spied a young woman removing a sandwich from a Catcher in the Rye take-out bag, I knew I could no more resist the temptation of an alfresco lunch on a perfect spring day than I could pass by a bookstore without going inside to browse. Grabbing my purse, I hurried out of my office before my computer chimed again, alerting me to the arrival of yet another unread email.

  Vicky was at her desk sipping herbal tea from a bone china cup when I hurried by. She gave me an inquisitive glance, which I totally ignored on my way to the stairs.

  “I’m taking an hour for lunch!” I called to her over my shoulder.

  “Very well,” Vicky replied and I swear I heard the slightest hint of reproach in her voice. Then again, it was probably my guilty conscience making me believe something that wasn’t there.