Buried in a Book (26 page)

It was probably my imagination, but in the silence between night and day I felt as though I’d stepped back in time. With most of the town’s businesses closed, the square and its environs were deserted and it was all too easy to picture this tree as it once stood hundreds of years ago—the monarch of a rolling field, as wide and endless as the sea.

Approaching the scarred and time-ravished trunk with reverence, I instantly felt a connection to Marlette. I pictured him seeking refuge here, beneath the umbrella of ancient branches. It felt a little like being tucked away inside a warm
cave of brown and green, the last flickers of light mimicking a campfire.

Yet, as the sun retreated fully from the sky to make way for evening, I felt vulnerable and pessimistic about my task. My feelings must have shown on my face, because Sean gave me an encouraging smile and said, “Let’s make the most of what daylight we have left. Trust your instincts, Lila. Maybe there really is something here.”

The oak was pocked with dozens of knots and niches. Some of them rose far above my reach, and I wondered how Marlette could have found a place that no one else would be inclined to probe with curious fingertips.

While Sean examined the trunk, I decided to focus on the thickest branches. Prodding the wood, I investigated any depression large enough to contain a note. Normally, I would have enjoyed this exercise. I loved being outdoors, and the feel of the rough bark beneath my hands was a pleasant one. However, the shadows began to stretch and lengthen all around me, and even though Sean was only a few feet away, the silence became more of a presence. The bantering of birds was replaced by the shriller calls of bats, zigzagging in between the leaves in search of mosquitoes.

By the time I had searched the limbs above my head, my arms were so sore that I didn’t feel like raising them again. My head ached and I wanted to give up. The impulse to forget about this task, to go home and change into my pajamas, flounce on my mother’s couch, and drink an entire bottle of red wine, was almost too strong to resist. I was tempted to dull the sharp edges of this day with lots of alcohol, and yet, I couldn’t turn away from this tree until I found Marlette’s hiding place. Sean seemed just as determined.

“I know Burke is going to think I’m crazy,” he said, “and
she’s probably seconds away from calling me back to the car, but I have the strangest feeling that there’s something here. You must be rubbing off on me.”

I felt a rush of gratitude toward him. “Thanks for helping me. I knew it was a long shot but—”

Suddenly, I noticed a deeper shadow in a V where one of the thickest branches sprouted from the trunk. It seemed the perfect place for a nest or a concealed niche, and standing on tiptoe, I reached my tired arm over my head and blindly felt around the space with my fingertips. Two of my fingers sunk lower into the wood and brushed against material that felt oddly like wrinkled plastic.

My exhaustion was usurped by excitement. Pinching the object tightly, I eased it from the crevice and drew it down to eye level. It was a sheet of white paper folded into a square and swaddled in plastic wrap. I gave it a brief glance in the fading light and recognized Marlette’s angular scrawl. There was also a large chunk of plastic and paper missing from one corner, and I groaned, picturing a squirrel nibbling at the edges.

I paused in the hazy blue twilight for only a moment and then handed it to Sean, who’d drawn on a pair of gloves the instant he saw me retrieve the prize from the niche. I knew that I’d just passed him a potentially significant piece of evidence, but I had a right to see what it was.

“Can you open it? Please?” My voice was soft and plaintive. “I won’t touch it, but I need to know what’s inside.”

Two people had been murdered, and I needed to know why. This was no passing curiosity; my intentions had grown well beyond a concerned citizen seeking justice. I had a powerful new motive for inserting myself into the investigation. Self-preservation. It was only a matter of time before
the killer became aware of my involvement. I wouldn’t stand idly by while my mother or Trey became targets, and there was no way in hell I was going to give someone a chance to smother me with my own pillow!

“It’s too dark,” Sean argued.

Pulling a penlight from my purse, I turned it on and waited. Sean grinned. “I should have known you’d have come prepared.”

Gently, he unfolded the piece of paper and held it out in front of his chest so we could both see it clearly.

My heart leapt in my chest as soon as I began to read. Without a doubt, I had found Marlette’s query letter. I didn’t need to be a seasoned literary agent to know that his idea was extremely marketable.

Marlette had created a character by the name of Knox Singleton. A tenured classics professor at Princeton University, Singleton was a renowned scholar and lecturer. He was also a member of a secret society formed to protect obscure and possibly dangerous texts rescued from the flames that burned the Ancient Library of Alexandria to the ground. In just a few lines, Singleton and the members of the illustrious Alexandria League leapt from the page, their passions and eccentricities immediately captivating my interest. Despite my surroundings, I was whisked off to covert meetings in wood-paneled reading rooms across the globe, eavesdropping in fascination as these intellectuals in bow ties and polished loafers formed a reckless plan to recapture a Babylonian scroll providing a magical formula for a substance that, recreated using modern chemicals, could be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

When I reached the final paragraph, I knew that this imaginative idea and well-written letter was a viable query
and could indicate a very successful manuscript. Cursing whatever small creature had chewed off the section in which the thriller’s title had been written, I reread the query in its entirety.

“What fool would turn this down?” I demanded, looking at Sean but not really expecting him to answer. The sound of my voice was muffled by the dense canopy and the impeding darkness. But I knew. It was time to let Sean get on with his work. Touching his arm, I thanked him for sharing the letter’s contents with me. He nodded, his eyes distant, and carefully refolded the letter. He then walked me to my scooter, assured me that he’d be in touch, and hurried off to where Officer Burke waited behind the steering wheel of the police cruiser.

I zoomed away, my mind filled with images from Marlette’s query letter. I barely remember driving to my mother’s house. I found her in the kitchen when I dragged myself inside.

“There you are,” she said with an affectionate smile. “No need to fret about makin’ your son dinner. I told him you’d had a hell of a day and gave him a rain check for another night. Everythin’ you need is waiting in your bathroom.”

I was about to argue that what I needed most was a glass of wine, when she shooed me up the stairs using the damp end of a dish towel.

“I’m going, I’m going!” I growled, leaning heavily against the banister for support.

An inviting aroma of rose water drifted out from the bathroom, and when I opened the closed door, I was met by the sight of a full bubble bath and a large glass of wine resting on one of the tub’s porcelain corners. As I squatted down to test the water, I noticed my pajamas hanging from a hook
alongside an oversized towel. Not only was the bathwater hot, but my mother had also put my towel in the dryer. It still smelled of fabric softener and was warm to the touch.

“You really
are
amazing, Althea,” I whispered. I wasn’t even aware that tears were running down my face until I slipped off my shirt and the fabric became damp from moisture wetting my cheeks.

Sinking into the water’s embrace, I closed my eyes. I’d reached that state of overtiredness where the mind darts from one thought to another but can’t settle on a fixed image. So much had happened during the day that I couldn’t stop the tumble of flashbacks, but eventually, I came back to the thing I most wanted to think about, and that was Marlette’s query letter.

Lost in a brief fantasy in which I stood by Knox Singleton as he rolled out an ancient scroll in a dimly lit reading room, I drank my wine and exhaled as the smoky plum flavors of the merlot coaxed my shoulders to relax even lower into the tub.

“The question is,” I addressed my toes, which protruded through a layer of rose-scented bubbles, “was the idea so good that someone would kill to call it their own?”

I emptied my wineglass and then looked around for the bottle, but my mother knew what I needed, and it wasn’t alcohol. It was sleep. A long and restful night’s sleep.

Draining the tub, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and collapsed into bed. I wondered if I should call Trey and warn him of Iris’s possible involvement, but I decided that Sean would question the girl before the night was through. I also had a powerful feeling that the two deaths were tied to Marlette’s thriller and had nothing to do with Iris. Someone
in the publishing world had wanted his book so badly that they’d been willing to kill for it.

“But where is it?” I murmured groggily into the pillow. “Where
is
Marlette’s book?”

THE RINGING OF
my alarm woke me from a dreamless slumber, and I shut it off with a slow-moving hand and turned my face toward the window. The morning light made the thin, cream-colored curtains look like parchment paper, and I lay back against the pillow and pictured Makayla removing a tray of fresh-baked scones from the oven.

Despite all that had happened yesterday, I was incredibly hungry. I hadn’t eaten last night, and after ten hours of rest, I felt revitalized and ready to tackle whatever challenges awaited me. But not without a hearty breakfast first.

When I got downstairs, I saw that my mother’s wooden walking stick was not in its customary place by the kitchen door and knew that she had chosen to exercise early in order to avoid the oppressive heat Inspiration Valley expected today. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of my mother swiping at the tall grass with her stick, warning snoozing copperheads that she was about to invade their territory.

Like her, I wanted to begin my day with a dose of fresh air and sunlight, so I ventured out to the back porch, where I drank coffee and peeled a ripe banana, in no mood to rush off to work.

In
The Moonstone
, Wilkie Collins had written, “We had our breakfasts—whatever happens in a house, robbery or murder, it doesn’t matter, you must have your breakfast.” As I leaned against a post, chewing the soft fruit and inhaling the
scents of wet grass and honeysuckle, I couldn’t agree more.

At that moment, I realized that my mother had been right when she said that I’d needed to stay with her for a spell. She had been a source of constancy over this tumultuous summer, and I’d yet to truly show my appreciation for all the little things she had done to keep me sane.

I felt a rush of shame pinken my cheeks. I had always believed that Althea was the crazy one in the family, and I had held her at arm’s length because of her profession, but I now had to admit that she possessed an uncanny ability when it came to predicting my needs. If she was just as accurate with her clients, then perhaps she did have a unique and wonderful gift that I would never understand.

“When my house sells, I’m going to do something special for her,” I vowed, sending the promise across the dew-covered fields.

Thirty minutes later I was buying my second cup of coffee, a plump apple, and a cranberry orange scone from Makayla. She was too busy to talk, but I assured her that I’d drop by later and fill her in.

Yesterday, I couldn’t imagine mounting the stairs leading to the literary agency feeling so calm and in control, but I was ready to face whatever awaited me there. In fact, I was looking forward to it. For too long I’d been stumbling around in search of clues, and now, to my great relief, the Dunston Police had taken over. Sean and his officers had undoubtedly questioned my colleagues and were merely waiting for a fingerprint match to come through. They’d wrap up the case, and we could all move on.

As I passed through the reception area into the main hallway, I could see that all the office doors were open with
the exception of Bentley’s. Voices emitted from the staff kitchen, and I was drawn to the murmur of conversation. It was such a normal, regular sound in comparison to the unsettling sirens and radio crackles of the day before, and I realized that just like the first day I’d arrived at Novel Idea, I still wanted to belong to this group, to be one of them. An equal.

“Zach Attack is
totally
scratched off the suspect list!” Zach declared loudly as I entered the room. “Flora and I went to Catcher in the Rye for lunch, and a
million
people saw us.”

“More like heard you,” Franklin mumbled under his breath, and I had to cover my smile with my hand. “Hello, Lila,” he added, catching sight of me in the doorway.

Leaping up from the table, Zach offered me his chair with a flourish. “Please take my seat. You must be sorry you ever accepted this job! But don’t leave us. We
need
you!” His dark eyes were filled with concern. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened at Luella’s?”

“I’d prefer not to, but thank you,” I said, accepting his seat and putting my coffee and takeout bag on the table. “And I don’t regret my internship, though I’m really sorry about Luella. You all knew her much longer than I did, and I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. If I can do anything to help, just say the word.”

Flora, who was standing by the counter stirring spoonfuls of sugar into a teacup, gave me a sad smile. “That’s so sweet of you, dear.” Her large bosom rose as her lungs inflated with air and then lowered as she released a sorrowful sigh. “It’s too, too terrible. And for the police to think that one of
us
could have…” she trailed off with a sniffle.

Franklin left his seat at the table and offered her a tissue.
“Flora, you were at Catcher in the Rye with Zach. No one’s pointing a finger at you.”

She gave him a grateful little smile. “I was Mata Hari yesterday. I’ve been waiting all year to be given that name, but when I think of what poor Luella must have been going through while I was all smiles and giggles because Big Ed called out some silly name…” She shook her head and stared at her teacup.