Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery)
Page 24
“Well, it just so happens that my calendar is wide open, so bring on the wine and the roses,” I said and leaned forward to kiss him.
That was the only highlight of the next two hours. I gave my statement to an extremely thorough female officer who made me repeat every word of my conversation with Annie over and over again until I couldn’t take it anymore. When she asked me to review the entire evening for the fifth time, I pushed my cup of cold decaf away and folded my arms over my chest. “No,” I said firmly. “I’m done. I’d like someone to drive my son and me home, please. Now.”
The woman tried to stare me down but failed. “Of course.” She handed me a pen. “If you could just sign and date the bottom of your statement, I’ll see if your son is ready.”
I followed her out to the lobby where Trey sat on one of the chairs, his gaze fixed on his iPhone. Looking up, he said, “I wasn’t sure if they arrested you by mistake. Iris and I have been texting for like, an hour.”
“Officer McBride here knows how important it is to cover all the bases in this case.” I turned to the female policewoman. “Is Officer Griffiths free?”
Her frosty composure melted a little. “He’s still in with the suspect, but he told me to see you home. He also wanted me to tell you to leave the lights on the front porch on.”
I nodded and Trey and I followed her out of the building.
“What’s with the porch light? Is that a secret code between the two of you?” Trey asked.
Smiling, I said. “Not really. It’s just his way of saying that no matter how late it is, he’ll be coming over tonight.”
“He’s really into you, Mom,” Trey said and nudged me playfully in the side.
I linked my arm through his. “I’m a lucky woman. Tonight, I’ll have a cop and a hero under one roof. What more could I ask for?”
“Supper,” Trey replied and handed me a granola bar. “I know you didn’t get a chance to eat, so I bought that from the vending machine.”
I stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Unable to help myself, I said, “This reminds me of a cute little poem by an unknown author. It goes:
‘A rose can say “I love you,”
orchids can enthrall,
but a weed bouquet in a chubby fist,
yes, that says it all.’
The policewoman stopped in the middle of unlocking her car. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears. “That is so sweet,” she said. “As soon as I drop you off I am going to call my mother.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed to Trey. “I need to do that, too. I think your grandmother was in the middle of trying to warn me that I was in danger when I hung up on her to answer the door bell.”
Trey opened the car door for me. “Guess she was right, considering you were about to invite a killer inside.”
• • •
I WAS SO exhausted that I didn’t hear Sean come into the house. In fact, I slept so deeply that it wasn’t until I heard the murmur of low voices in the kitchen the next morning that I realized he’d lain beside me for hours without my even knowing it.
It was after eight when I tiptoed to the kitchen. The house felt quiet, as if it were holding its breath, and I didn’t want to disturb the tranquility. However, when I heard Sean say, “I need to ask you something really important, Trey, and I don’t want you to tell your mother about it,” I stopped in the middle of the hall. Why would my boyfriend want to talk to my son in secret?
“Trey, I love your mom. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before. She’s smart, kind, generous, and incredibly beautiful. And seeing as you’re the man of the house, I’d like to ask for your permission to marry her.”
My breath caught in my throat. When Trey didn’t answer right away, I felt the stirrings of panic. But then I heard, “That’s so cool, ah, Sean. I can tell she totally loves you back. You guys are good together. So yes, I’d be happy if you got married.”
“Thanks, Trey. I’m really looking forward to starting a new chapter with your mom. She makes me a better man in every way.”
I rushed back to my bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and shouted joyfully into my pillow. How would I ever be able to go into the kitchen without the biggest smile on my face?
Fortunately, I was saved by Sean who came into the room carrying a cup of coffee.
“Finally awake?” He grinned. “You didn’t move an inch all night. You were in a deeper sleep than a hibernating bear.”
“But I feel like myself again,” I said, accepting the coffee and a good-morning kiss. I wanted to put the cup down, pull him onto the bed, and kiss him some more, but I didn’t want him to suspect I’d been eavesdropping. “Please tell me you got a confession. Tell me that Inspiration Valley can return to normal.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s over. The other chefs caught the first train out of Inspiration Valley. Ryan and his kids are gone, too. We have a signed confession and plenty of evidence to back it up.”
“Thank the Lord,” I said in relief. “Does it sound weird for me to admit that I feel sorry for Annie? Ryan and Klara used what was precious to her—her grandmother, her family recipes, and memories that belonged to her childhood. All Annie ever wanted was for Ryan to see her and to return the all-consuming love she felt for him, but she never existed in his eyes.”
Sean looked thoughtful. “She chose to leave her family and her past behind based on an unhealthy obsession with a married man, Lila. And two people died because of that obsession. Annie was wronged. That much is true. But in actuality, she behaved like a spoiled child who didn’t get her way. Instead of throwing a tantrum, she committed murder. Twice.”
I nodded, unable to disagree. And as I considered his words, I thought of another young woman who had behaved like a spoiled child. “Sean, what about my slashed tires? Did anyone have a chance to informally question Zoe Bright?”
He leapt up, pulling the notepad from his pocket. “With all the goings-on surrounding Annie, I forgot to tell you. Vicky gave me Zoe’s address and I went to see her myself. Apparently, the sight of a uniformed police officer at the door compelled her to confess to the vandalism before I even asked about it. She apologized profusely, and admitted acting in a fit of frustration because her attempts to rewrite her novel had failed and she had no one to lash out at except you.”
I frowned. “That’s a vicious way to vent her frustration. Should I be worried?”
He shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, Zoe won’t trouble you or the agency anymore. She’s decided to give up on writing and plans to focus her energy on making jewelry. In any event, I charged her with vandalism for which she’ll most likely do community service.” He flipped pages. “She also offered to pay for the tire replacement and wanted you to pass her contact information on to the garage so they could send her the bill.” He tore a slip of paper from the notepad and placed it on the bedside table.
“That’s good news,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry the writing didn’t work out for her, but I have to say I’m glad I won’t be seeing her again. Jewelry making is probably a better career path for her anyway. The necklace she crafted for me is actually quite beautiful.”
Sean kissed me on the forehead and headed for the door. “I have to go. Don’t make plans for dinner tonight, because now that things have quieted down, I’m going to arrange a special evening for us.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, bringing the coffee mug to my mouth in an attempt to hide my grin.
• • •
THE WALK TO work kindled my senses. Warm sunlight dappled the sidewalks, birds sang their morning songs, and the scent of lilacs and peonies permeated the air. Shopkeepers were opening their stores and there was a general atmosphere of buoyancy and joy around town. It was contagious, and I couldn’t keep from smiling. There was no longer a murderer on the loose, the chefs had all left, and Sean was going to ask me to marry him. My feet barely touched the ground as I envisaged our romantic night together.
“I can imagine,” I said, thinking I was right there with her. I glanced at all the people in her café. “I have something to tell you, but not now. Can we have lunch today?”
“You bet.” She handed me a cup. “Here’s a caramel mocha latte to prepare you to read the magnificent, one-of-a-kind manuscript that’s waiting in your email inbox.”
A thrill of anticipation ran through me. “Did you finally send me your book?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now that things have calmed down around here, I figured it was time.”
• • •
I HURRIED TO my desk and turned on the computer. Feeling giddy with anticipation, I opened Makayla’s attachment and began to read.
Her book was a collection of interconnected short stories set in a coffee shop. The Barista Diaries recounted the lives of seven coffee shop customers as told by a sensitive young woman who’d gained an intimate glimpse of their hopes and setbacks by listening to them talk day after day. There were poignant tales of love, humorous narratives of mishaps and exploits, and moving family dramas. I was delighted to discover that Makayla was a skillful and talented writer. Her sincere voice transported the reader into the world of her fictional café and convinced me to care about each and every character.
After the third story, about an elderly man who discovers a happy secret while having coffee with his son, I sat back and took a sip of my latte, envisioning Makayla’s book in print. I knew I could sell this book and mentally compiled a list of publishers who might be interested. A smile crept over my face. Despite all that had happened this weekend, I still loved my job. What could be more gratifying than making a writer’s dreams come true?
Flora knocked on my door. “I’ve baked a special treat for everyone. We’re all gathering in the kitchen,” she said. “Come join us.”
“Absolutely.” I got up and eagerly followed her. “What did you make?”
“Some Dutch cookies from a recipe out of Klara’s cookbook. I thought it would be nice to honor her this way.” She sighed as we entered the kitchen, where Jude, Franklin, and Zach sat at the table, coffee mugs in hand. “Of course, that was before I found out she was a fraud and her recipes and stories had all been plagiarized. My, my, but it’s all such a shame.”
“The recipes are still good, aren’t they?” Zach asked. “I hope so, because the Zachmeister’s breakfast was hours ago.”
“Yes, dear, they’re wonderful. Annie’s grandmother was the source of the recipes and I’m sure she was a great cook.” Flora removed the lid from a round flowered tin, releasing the scent of cinnamon and almonds. “These are jan hagel koekjes. ‘Koekjes’ means ‘cookies,’” she explained.
The cookies were flat diamond shapes covered with toasted almonds. I bit into one of the crispy treats. The cookie’s buttery sweetness, combined with cinnamon and nuts, was delectable. “It melts in your mouth,” I said, taking another bite.
“They’re baked as one big piece,” Flora said. “After you spread out the dough on a cookie sheet, you sprinkle the almonds on top and bake the whole thing. When it’s done, you cut the dough into diamonds and serve.”
“These are totally amazing. I hope you made more than one batch!” Zach exclaimed as he chewed. “Klara may have been a crook, but there’s nothing wrong with her cookbook.”
Franklin took a sip of his coffee. “That’s true. The book is very engaging. The stories about Annie’s grandmother make it more than a simple book filled with photos and recipes. It’s a snapshot of someone’s memories.” His eyebrows knit together. “Just not Klara’s. How I wish I had known the truth about it all.”
“I wonder if the sales will be affected when the news that Klara stole the material goes viral,” said Flora as she poured hot water from the kettle over the teabag into her favorite mug.
“They’ll probably go through the roof,” said Jude. “Remember what happened with A Million Little Pieces by James Frey? He claimed he’d written a memoir and then people found out it wasn’t true. The book sold like crazy. Even bad press is good for sales.”
“Yes, but there might be legal ramifications as well.” Franklin reached into the tin and took out another cookie. “Especially if Annie decides to sue Ryan and the publishers for rightful ownership.”
I wiped crumbs from my hands. “I don’t think she’ll do that. Not as long as she’s in love with Ryan.”
“She may change her mind about that after spending time in prison,” said Jude. He entwined his fingers behind his head and stretched back. “All I can say is that this stud of an agent is glad that it’s over and we can get back to doing what we do best.”
Franklin nodded his agreement. “I don’t think I could survive another day with those chefs.”
“And I, for one, would be happy if we don’t have to organize another festival for a very long time,” I said.
“Here, here,” said Zach, toasting me with his coffee cup. “Well, people, Zachmeister’s gotta run. Time is money.” As he rushed out the door, he almost collided with Bentley. “Sorry, boss,” he said and disappeared down the hall.
Bentley watched him go and then crossed the threshold. Flora held out the tin. “Would you like a cookie?”
“I’ll take one to eat later,” Bentley said as she reached her manicured fingers into the container. “Lila, Jude, what’s the status on the Marlette sequel? Have you signed Jay Coleman as a client yet?”
“We’re meeting with him this afternoon to do just that. His proposal is superb.” Jude looked at me. “Jay emailed it to us last night. Have you had a chance to read it? I know you were somewhat preoccupied.”
I shook my head. Jude was referring to my encounter with Annie, but in truth, I had been so wrapped up in Makayla’s submission that I hadn’t looked at anything else in my inbox. “It’s next on my agenda. I can’t wait.”
“His plotline is tightly woven and complex. He’s also managed to thoroughly replicate Marlette’s voice.” Jude turned back to Bentley. “We’re confident that Marlette’s remarkable characters will continue to live through Jay’s writing. And I believe that the publishers will concur.”
“Good. Let me know when it’s all finalized.” Bentley’s departure spurred us to end our break. After a few more pleasantries, we all stood and dispersed.
At my desk, I enthusiastically focused on my computer. I clicked on Jay’s proposal and its thousands of words and characters sprang onto my bright white screen. I wondered how many other queries and proposals were in line behind his, how many other fresh voices were just waiting to be discovered. Voices with powerful stories to tell, fascinating characters to bring to life, and intricate mysteries to solve.
Feeling utterly content, I settled in my chair and began to read.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for spending time in Inspiration Valley. I’m Ellery Adams. Sylvia May and I coauthor the Lucy Arlington mysteries, and I hope you enjoyed Lila’s latest adventure. It’s amazing what can happen in a pastoral small town, isn’t it? After all the excitement, Lila is fortunate enough to be able to return to her office at Novel Idea and bury her nose in a book.
In the meantime, I’d like to introduce you to my newest mystery series: the Book Lovers’ Resort Mysteries. These books take place at an exclusive resort called Storyton Hall. What’s Storyton Hall, you ask? Picture a stately English manor house—a sprawling behemoth of a building—and then move it, stone by stone, to the Virginia countryside. Next, fill each room with books. Hundreds of books. Thousands of books. And then decorate each room so that it reminds you of a famous author. You’ll end up with pla
ces like the Jane Austen Drawing Room, the Ian Fleming Lounge, and Shakespeare’s Theater. Next, fill the many bedrooms with comfy chairs, soft bedding, fresh flowers, and boxes of complimentary chocolates. When all is ready, throw open the massive front doors, offer the guests a glass of champagne, and join them as they enter this readers’ utopia.
But be warned. You’re stepping into this haven for book lovers—this place of meandering garden paths, decadent afternoon teas, and secret passageways—at your own risk. For you see, a murderer has checked in along with you.
My friends, I invite you to take a brief sojourn into the delightful and occasionally deadly world of the Book Lovers’ Resort Mysteries by offering the first chapter of Murder in the Mystery Suite. A word of caution, however. Once you visit Storyton Hall, you might be so captivated by the resort’s beauty and charismatic staff that you may never want to leave.
Yours,
Ellery Adams
THERE WERE BOOKS EVERYWHERE. HUNDREDS OF books. Thousands of books. There were books of every size, shape, and color. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, standing straight and rigid as soldiers on the polished mahogany shelves, the gilt lettering on their worn spines glinting in the soft light, the scent of supple leather and aging paper filling the air.
To Jane Steward, there was no sweeter perfume on earth. Of all the libraries in Storyton Hall, this was her favorite. Unlike the other libraries, which were open to the hotel’s paying guests, this was the personal reading room of her great uncle Aloysius and great aunt Octavia.
“Are you ready, Sinclair?” Jane mounted the rolling book ladder and looked back over her shoulder.
A small, portly man with a cloud of white hair and ruddy cheeks wrung his hands together. “Oh, Miss Jane. I wish you wouldn’t ask me to do this. It doesn’t seem prudent.”