Every Trick in the Book (10 page)

After a brief exchange with her coworker, Melissa passed the cell phone to me and
gave me a thumbs-up sign. I introduced myself and repeated my pitch. Kate didn’t hesitate.

“I love Calliope’s books and I definitely like this idea,” she told me. “But why is
she looking outside her own publishing house?”

“Her current editor wasn’t interested in historical suspense. She wanted Calliope
to come up with a new contemporary romance series, but that’s not what my client wanted
to write.”

Kate whistled. “Lucky for me, then. Can you email me the proposal?”

My pulse quickened and I tried not to shout into the phone. “Absolutely. I can get
it to you today.”

“Brilliant! I’ll have something to look forward to after I put my kids down for their
afternoon nap. I’ll start reading as soon as the email lands in my inbox.”

After promising to drive over to my office right away, I handed Melissa her phone.
She chatted with Kate for another minute and then hung up.

“Thank you, that was really nice of you,” I said. “Now I wish I’d bought
you
a pastry and not the other way around.” I got to my feet and shook her hand. “But
I’ll make it up to you at tonight’s costume party. I heard they’re serving some killer
cocktails.”

Melissa shook her head, a solemn look appearing in her eyes. “I make it a point to
stay sober around aspiring writers. I’ve had…uncomfortable exchanges with a few of
them. Especially if I’ve recently rejected one of their projects. Once, someone even
accosted me while I was in the park with my son. He was really creepy. At one point
he actually stroked the fur of Silas’s teddy bear.” She shuddered and then held out
her fist. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m a tough New Yorker, but one can never be too careful
these days. Sometimes passion can taint a person’s judgment. Artistic people can want
a thing so badly that they forget we all live by a code of conduct. Not to speak in
clichés, but some of these writers can cross the line.”

My mind flashed to the shadowy figure in the dark corridor and I gazed nervously around
the food area, and then shifted my attention to the lobby. Thankfully, there was no
sign of a tall man with pierced brows. I looked at Melissa and nodded. “You’re right.
And when people are wearing disguises like they will be tonight, inhibitions might
not be held in check.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “A room full of inebriated introverts dressed as literary
characters? This is going to be
some
party.”

THE OLD TOWN
hall was transformed that evening. The hours we’d put into decorating had paid off,
and with the lights dimmed and candles lit, the effect was one of eerie elegance.
As Sean and I, or I should say, Paris and Helen, stepped through the black and orange–ballooned
archway, a whistle escaped from his lips.

“This looks fantastic,” he said as his arm slid to my back, gently guiding me into
the hall.

Glowing ghosts and skeletons hung from the ceiling, and streamers of bats and black
cats swooped above our heads. Orange folding chairs and black-covered tables surrounded
the dance floor. At the center of each table sat a pumpkin candle nestled in colored
autumn leaves, a flame dancing on its wick.

I absorbed the atmosphere and smiled. “Look,” I said, pointing at the bar. “There’s
Captain Ahab, speaking to Dracula and Edgar Allan Poe.”

“And there’s another Edgar Allan Poe talking to a third Edgar Allan Poe.” Sean chuckled,
directing my attention to the food table.

I swiveled my head around the room. It seemed that the majority of attendees had chosen
to emulate the founder of
the modern mystery genre by wearing black suits, high-collared shirts, wavy black
wigs, and a little black moustache.

“It looks like a Poe convention,” I said in wonder, trying to recognize people behind
their disguises.

“This is brilliant, isn’t it?”

I turned toward Flora’s voice, only to find myself looking at a roly-poly Harry Potter.
Her round, dark-rimmed glasses and Quidditch cape left no question as to the identity
of her character, although her gardening clogs were in slight contradiction with the
rest of her outfit. “Flora, you look great.”

“Well, thank you,” she giggled. “So do you, Helen of Troy. That’s a beautiful dress.”
She fingered the flowing folds of my chiton. “And I must say, Officer Griffiths, you
make a handsome Paris.”

At that moment, Hagrid joined us and handed Flora a martini glass filled with an orange
liquid. “Some witches’ brew for you, my dear.” He turned to us and held out his hand.
“I’m Flora’s husband, Brian. Hagrid for tonight.” He was a good head taller than his
wife. With his matted wig and beard and dusty oversize coat, it was easy to view him
as a giant.

Just as we introduced ourselves, Zorro leaped over to our small gathering. “This shindig’s
a smash!” Zach declared, tipping his gaucho hat and winking behind his black mask.
“Have you seen all the Poes?”

I surveyed Zach’s jet-black pants and shirt and remarked, “There must have been a
sale on black suits.”

Sean touched my shoulder. “Would you like a drink?”

I nodded. “Thanks. Something fruity and nonalcoholic,” I said resolutely. “I must
maintain my professionalism tonight.”

As I waited for him to return, I mingled about, joining a conversation with Miss Marple,
Rhett Butler, Scarlett O’Hara, and, of course, an Edgar Allan Poe. I had no idea who
these people were in their costumes as they discussed the future of e-publishing.
Actually, Rhett and Miss Marple did most of the talking while Scarlett concentrated
on her drink and Poe seemed more interested in studying the faces of the other revelers.
Rhett was emphatic that digital books would be the death of print books, but Miss
Marple maintained that not everyone wanted to read from a screen and there would always
be people who valued the look and feel of a beautifully bound book or an artistic
cover. “And don’t forget that a wall of book-lined shelves adds to the décor of any
room,” she declared with passion.

Poe, who had been silent throughout the conversation, suddenly blurted out, “What
a load of crap! Books aren’t written to serve as decoration! The very idea is an insult
to authors. Have you no clue of what we writers put into our work? How much of ourselves
is present in each and every word?” Anger tinged every word, and when I looked down
at his clenched fists, I saw that he held a black feather in his right hand.

I stood stock-still and tried to swallow with a mouth that had suddenly gone dry.
That voice!
This
Poe was Kirk Mason! Blood roared in my ears. Should I confront him or get Sean? It
was obvious that Mason didn’t recognize me in my Helen of Troy costume and my wig
of long blond corkscrew curls. Not wanting to spook him, I smiled at the group and
backed away, as if I was simply doing the party shuffle and planned to socialize with
another group.

As soon as I was some distance away, I turned and rushed toward the bar, almost running
right into Sean. “Whoa!” he
said as he tried to avoid spilling two tumblers of orange liquid garnished with black
straws and slices of lime. “I didn’t realize you were that thirsty.”

“I saw Kirk Mason. Over there!” I pointed in the direction of the group I had just
left, but they had already dispersed. Rhett and Scarlett were now laughing with Robin
Hood and Maid Marian, and Miss Marple was conversing with a vampiress whose white
face was a stark contrast to her black high-collared cape. Poe was nowhere to be seen.

I should correct myself. Poes were all over the room, but I couldn’t recognize the
one I believed to be Mason. “He was just here.” I described how I’d instantly recognized
his voice.

“We’ll find our man,” Sean assured me, handing me a drink. “Look closely at all the
Poes, and see if you can distinguish him from the others.”

I sipped the chilled mango-flavored beverage in my hand and scanned the characters
in the room. It was hopeless. Except for a rather diminutive Poe and an overtly rotund
one, they all looked alike. “I don’t know…” I muttered as I approached Miss Marple.

“Excuse me,” I said as I held out my hand. “Sorry to interrupt. I was standing with
you a few minutes ago. I’m Lila Wilkins, from Novel Idea.”

She nodded. “I remember. We were talking about e-books. I’m Shawna York, a soon-to-be-published
author.” She grinned. “And this is my editor, Melissa Plume.”

“Melissa?” I stared at my look-alike incredulously. Red-tipped fangs stuck out of
her mouth, starkly crimson against her colorless skin. “I would never have recognized
you. What a fantastic costume.”

“Thanks. I thought I’d take some artistic license and
dress up as a forty-year-old Bella from
Twilight
. By the time she reaches my age she’s bound to be a vampire.” She grinned wryly.
“You make a pretty good Helen, too.”

I smiled in acknowledgment. “Congratulations on your book, Shawna. I’d love to hear
more about it later, but at the moment I’m wondering if you know the real name of
the Edgar Allan Poe you were talking to a few minutes ago.”

“That obnoxious man?” She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

Sean joined us. “Did you see where he went by any chance?”

Both women looked up and stared at the Greek warrior in confusion.

“This is Officer Sean Griffiths of the Dunston Police Department,” I quickly explained.
“He’s my Paris tonight.”

Shawna smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Paris. I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice what
happened to that abrasive man. I left that group just after you did, Lila.”

“You’ll have some trouble finding him in this sea of Poes,” Melissa mused, glancing
around.

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve got that right.”

The speakers crackled and Bentley’s voice filled the room. “May I have your attention,
please?”

All eyes turned to the front. An elegant Queen Guinevere stood at the microphone,
her green velvet gown and floral head wreath belying the professional garb she usually
wore at the office.

“Welcome to the first annual Inspiration Valley Book and Author Festival. I’m Bentley
Burlington-Duke, owner and founder of Novel Idea Literary Agency, the main sponsor
of this event. I must say, I am overwhelmed with the success of the festival. Attendance
is beyond our
expectations, and I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as well as acquiring useful
information and contacts.”

People began clapping, and Bentley waited for the clamor to quiet down before continuing.
“The festival offers something for everyone, and tonight’s masquerade party is a wonderful
bridge between the workshops and sessions for authors that were held yesterday and
today, and tomorrow’s classes on book repair, preservation, and illustration. In the
vendors’ hall I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to authors and editors, librarians
and bibliophiles, and, most important of all, readers.”

A thunder of applause interrupted her once again. She held up her hand. “I won’t keep
you from your revelry too much longer, but I’d like to thank my agents and all of
our helpers who transformed this town hall into a Halloween ballroom. They did a marvelous
job. In a few minutes, the tapas stations will be open, and afterward, our local band,
the Valley Warblers, will entertain you. Enjoy yourselves tonight.”

Throughout Bentley’s speech, I kept glancing around, feeling as if I were in a magical
library in which characters in the books had stepped out from the pages. The enchantment
was marred, however, by my uneasy awareness that Kirk Mason was one of the black-shrouded
individuals in this very room and I couldn’t recognize him.

Dinner was a delicious romp through different taste experiences. The tapas stations
set up by the Nine Muses Restaurant presented a fantastic feast. I filled my plate
with shrimp satay and a dollop of peanut sauce, a quinoa salad with tomatoes and a
hint of cilantro, sliced sirloin with capers and onions, little fresh spring rolls
with fresh vegetables, and grouper in a tantalizing curry sauce. I relaxed
my no-alcohol resolve to complement the meal with a dry, crisp Riesling, and for dessert
I simply could not resist a chocolate orange pot de crème.

After dinner, Sean and I went from table to table under the pretense of chatting with
the guests, but we had no luck finding Kirk Mason. Even as we spun on the dance floor,
we both kept a lookout for the sinister man, noting every Edgar Allan Poe who passed
by. Still, Mason eluded us.

As the evening drew to a close, the last dance was announced. The Valley Warblers,
who were surprisingly good at jazzy numbers, crooned out Nat King Cole’s “The Party’s
Over.” Sean took me in his arms, and I molded into his embrace. For a brief time the
synchronized swaying of our bodies allowed me to forget about Kirk Mason, Edgar Allan
Poe, and everything else. There was just my Greek warrior.

The dance ended all too soon. Almost instantaneously, it seemed, we were saying good-bye
to the partygoers, blowing out candles, and taking down decorations. The hall had
to be ready for tomorrow’s workshops, and although the maintenance staff would do
the cleanup, the decorations were the responsibility of the agency.

I gathered the pumpkin candles into a box. Sean started taking down the bat and cat
streamers. Still humming “The Party’s Over,” I began daydreaming about what might
transpire later when Sean took me home.

However, I was startled out of my reverie by Vicky, who was dressed like Virginia
Woolf. At her side was Franklin, looking remarkably like an older Sherlock Holmes.

“Lila, did you move those barriers to the restricted section?” Vicky stuck her hands
in the pockets of her long sweater and eyed me accusingly.

“The hallway where Kirk Mason came after me? No way.” I put down the box I was holding.
“Why?”

Alerted by our conversation, Sean came over. “What’s up?”

“The barriers have been pushed aside. I know for a fact they were in place when I
draped those cobwebs over the doorway earlier.”