Buried in a Book (20 page)

“I keep wondering if this girl is Sue Ann and if Sue Ann is the person who accused Marlette of molestation. This isn’t the first drawing he made of her. So far, I’ve found two of them. She
must
have been significant to him.”

Makayla’s frown deepened. “Not in a good way, either. This girl haunted him.”

We both fixed our gazes on Sue Ann’s defiant eyes.

“I’ve got to get back to work!” I exclaimed, suddenly noting the time. I grabbed my takeout cup, thanked Makayla, and trotted up the stairs.

It was unlikely that anyone was keeping track of my whereabouts, but I needed this job. I wanted this job. And I had no desire to lose it because I was abusing my lunch hour.

By two o’clock, I was so hungry that I went rooting through the refrigerator in the break room. I was just pulling the tin foil from a casserole dish when Jude entered the room. I started guiltily and shoved the dish behind my back.

“It’s not that bad,” he said with a smile. “I’ve actually been told that my five-cheese, creamy tomato pasta casserole could bring about world peace.”

He cooks, too!
Not only was the man gorgeous, funny, and successful, but he knew his way around the kitchen as well? Again, I felt a surge of heat warm my body, and I swallowed hard, suddenly aching with thirst again. “I was so busy doing errands during my lunch break that I didn’t actually get a chance to eat.”

In two strides, Jude was next to me. He took the casserole from my hands and gently pushed me toward the table. “Please be seated, milady. I would be honored to serve you my humble fare.” Giving me a deep, rakish bow, which earned him a laugh, Jude scooped pasta into a bowl and placed it in the microwave. Each of his gestures was theatrical to the point of being ridiculous, and I giggled like a teenage girl on a first date right until the moment I tasted my first bite of casserole.

My eyes went wide as the blend of cheeses and creamy tomato sauce coated my tongue. I shoveled in several forkfuls before finally pausing to compliment him on the delicious fare. Surely a man who cooked with such artistry couldn’t be a murderer!

Jude bowed again and then walked behind my chair and bent over, his lips an inch away from my ear. “Dessert is in my office,” he murmured. “Stop by anytime.”

With his breath on my neck and the woody scent of his cologne tingeing the air, I nearly lost muscle control and dropped my fork. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, and I closed my eyes, picturing Jude’s full lips, his arms yanking me against his chest in a rough, passionate embrace,
his hands moving under my blouse, feeling my hot skin against his fingertips.

I blushed again, recalling how recently I’d had the same fantasy sequence with Sean as the leading man. I was going to have to either rein in my crazed hormones or actually kiss one of these men. And clearly Sean was the better choice. After all, he wasn’t on my list of possible suspects.

After I’d eaten, I attacked the query pile, amazed that over a dozen had come via email between twelve and one. Just how many aspiring writers were out there?

Ten queries fell flat before I ripped open an envelope and unfolded a query that gave me chills. Not only was it compelling, but the opening lines made me think of Marlette.

The author’s words carried a strong sense of grief and regret. I could tell that Connelly was the epitome of a troubled police officer and that the writer had likely developed a complex, three-dimensional character. This query deserved to be put in front of an agent’s eyes.

I worked steadily for the rest of the afternoon, but the query about the Poppy Killer continued to silently call to me from the corner of my desk. I’d been putting off delivering it to Jude because I didn’t know what he meant by saying that dessert was in his office. I did know that we generated enough heat between us to send this query letter up in flames.

Jude was on the phone when I knocked on his door, his feet propped up on the desk, his arms cushioning the back of his head so he could lean as far back in his chair as he dared. He waved me in and then told the caller, “You know you’re the most beautiful flower in the garden.”

Replacing the receiver, he dropped his feet and gave me a dazzling smile. “Do you have a treasure for me?”

“I believe so,” I answered and handed him the query, an absurd rush of jealousy flooding through me. Who was his beautiful flower? I shook my head, trying to chase off such unprofessional thoughts. It was gratifying to watch Jude place the paper on his desk blotter, smooth it flat, and begin to read the contents without delay. When he was done, he rubbed his sensuous lips with a fingertip and gazed at some
point in the middle distance. He remained in this pose for several seconds and then touched the letter.

“It has promise,” he said. “The author makes you want to read more. That’s the real challenge of a query. If you don’t make the reader yearn for more, you’ve failed. Let’s hope that this guy’s first three chapters are as strong as this paragraph.” Grinning, he gestured for me to come closer to his desk. “Want to see one of my dirty little secrets.”

It was impossible not to respond to those dimples. I edged closer as he whipped his bottom drawer open. Peering inside, I saw that it was filled with an assortment of candy bars.

“Does your dentist know?” I asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

He scooted his chair toward me and cupped his hands as though he wanted to whisper the answer in my ear. I pivoted my head, inviting him to move even closer, and forgot to breathe.

When Jude didn’t speak, I turned my face back to him and found that my mouth was inches away from his. Without thinking, because if I had been thinking, I would have remembered that Jude might be Marlette’s killer, I parted my lips and closed my eyes, waiting for him to make his move.

And he did. Oh my, his kiss obliterated my ability to have a single rational thought. All I knew were his lips, brushing against mine as gentle as the flutter of a butterfly wing, and the warm wetness of his mouth when he kissed me again, harder and longer this time. Then, to my body’s delight, his fingers dug into the flesh at the nape of my neck and moved tantalizingly down my spine. I put my arm around his back,
wanting nothing more than to rip off the buttons on his shirt and touch his naked skin.

Suddenly, his phone rang and we broke apart, grinning foolishly, our lips swollen from kissing. Jude’s cheeks were flushed, and he looked unbelievably sexy. As he reached for his phone, I smoothed my hair and let out a nervous little laugh that sounded more like a hiccup.

“Stay,” Jude murmured huskily, his eyes shining with desire.

I swallowed. “I can’t. There’s this lecture tonight…” I edged away from him, trying not to be swayed by the sweep of his dark eyelashes or the feel of his mouth on mine. What was I doing? He was a potential womanizer, murder suspect, and my coworker!

“At least take a Butterfinger then,” he said with a wink. I grabbed one and hurried out of his office, marveling at how normal his voice sounded when he answered his phone. His calmness unsettled me, and I knew that I’d just made a mistake. No matter how good kissing Jude had felt, I would not be repeating the experience.

Back in my office, I shut down my computer and collected the book I’d bought at the Secret Garden. I pulled a compact from my purse and examined my face.

“You’ve got to stay focused, Lila,” I scolded my reflection. “You have a murderer to catch.”

ENTERING THE LECTURE
hall filled me with an excitement for which I was unprepared. The atmosphere created by the chattering groups of students carrying books and laptops sent me right back to my own college days. I remembered those four years fondly, cherishing the sense of fun, freedom,
and endless possibility. I breathed in deeply, trying to soak in the feeling. Would Trey have this experience, too? For his sake, I certainly hoped so.

My mother nudged my arm. “Let’s take those two seats at the end of the row. That way we can scoot out early if this is about as thrillin’ as watchin’ grass grow.”

“We won’t be leaving early, Mama,” I warned her as we sat down. “I need to talk to Professor Walters after the lecture.” I pulled up the writing tablet from the side of the chair and placed my bag on it, suddenly remembering how awkward it was to take notes on the right-side tablet. When I was in college, we left-handed students would covet the limited number of left-side desks in the lecture halls.

“I wonder what he’s gonna say about Shakespeare’s Soothsayers,” my mother mused. “While ole Willie Boy gave us our due respect, people in these fancy schools tend to look down their noses at our kind.”

I was prevented from responding by the arrival of a very thin and extremely tall man with a shock of white hair. Standing at the lectern, he shuffled his papers, cleared his throat, and directed his gaze around the room. His gold-rimmed glasses glittered in the light as he scanned the audience. Gradually, the buzz of conversation died down.

“‘Beware the Ides of March!’”Professor Walters pronounced loudly. The few remaining voices were silenced. “‘A plague o’ both your houses!’” Putting his hands behind his back, he walked to the front of the podium and paced. “Do you recognize those prophecies? Do you know who spoke them?” A few people raised their hands. The professor ignored the eager students and continued. “Besides the obvious foreshadowing, what is the impact of prophecy in Shakespeare’s plays? And how significant is it that my opening
quote was spoken as a warning by the soothsayer in
Julius Caesar
and the second as a threat by Mercutio to Romeo?” He paused. “That is what we will discuss tonight.”

I felt a nugget of pride that I had recognized both quotes. Yet as the professor continued, another memory from my time at college surfaced. The droning of a lecture provided the perfect opportunity for me to drift into a daydream. I had to admit that my best doodles were drawn during my economics classes. Tonight, though, Professor Walters’s voice didn’t inspire any creative graphics; instead my thoughts centered on the group of men that vied for attention in my brain: Marlette, Jude, Sean, Trey.

A snore from my mother brought me back to the present, and I nudged her just as the professor announced, “My next lecture will be on the role of Death—that’s with a capital ‘D’—in Shakespeare. See if you can prophesize what I will say about that!” He grinned at his own joke.

“That’s one I’ll be sure to miss,” my mother announced as she gathered herself to stand.

“Mama, I need to talk to him. Do you want to wait here?” Anxious to catch Professor Walters before he left, I was poised to dash.

“Naw, sug, you go on ahead. I’ll wait for you in the truck. I’ve got an emergency flask in the glove box.”

I needn’t have rushed. A circle of students surrounded Walters as he tried to make his way out the door. I dug into my purse and pulled out an old press card from the
Dunston Herald
, hoping it would legitimize my questions about Marlette. I bided my time until the last coed had left, and then I approached the professor.

He looked at me through his glasses, his gray eyes looking
tired. “And what can I do for you, my dear? Do you also want an extension on your essay?”

“Oh no. I’m not a student.” At the raising of his eyebrows, I quickly added, “But I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture. It felt good to be thinking about Shakespeare again.”

He smiled. “I’m glad I was able to inspire you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go. These old bones don’t handle the late hours so well anymore.”

“Could I ask you a few questions first? I won’t take up too much time.” I handed him my
Dunston Herald
card. “I’m looking into the death of a former colleague of yours. Marlette Robbins?”

“Ah yes, Marlette. He was in the news recently. Such an unfortunate situation. I believe he was murdered, wasn’t he?” The professor seemed genuinely aggrieved by the idea.

“He was. He was living as sort of an outcast in Inspiration Valley, and I’m trying to discover how a man who was an accomplished academic could fall into vagrancy.” I omitted the detail of Marlette’s cabin on Red Fox Mountain. “Homelessness is such a prevalent issue these days; we should help those who have to face such a dire circumstance.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He shook his head. “In Marlette’s case, well, he found himself in a compromising situation. His reputation was smeared, the academic community lost all respect for him, and he chose to withdraw from society. I completely lost track of him and had no idea he was homeless. If I had…” his voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Pulling out a chair for him, I watched him position his long legs as he sat down heavily. In a quiet voice, I asked, “
What event precipitated such a significant change?” My reporter tentacles were quivering. I felt like I was on the verge of a breakthrough.

“Marlette was a good man. He volunteered every summer at that camp, running a creative writing workshop for talented teens.” He chuckled slightly. “I used to tease him about risking his life in the woods. He had a severe allergy to bee stings, you know.” My fingers tingled at this revelation. It would explain Marlette’s bloated face and hands. The professor shook his head. “Little did I know it would destroy life as he’d known it in a way we never imagined. One year, a young girl—she was fifteen, I believe—flirted continuously with him, always seeking him out for extra help, carrying herself in a…suggestive manner. He called me from the camp one night in search of advice on how to handle her. He was wondering how to tactfully reject her without damaging her ego. ‘Distance yourself immediately, Marlette!’ I warned him.” Professor Walters sighed.