Every Trick in the Book (16 page)

“It won’t be easy,” I told him honestly. “You’ll want to hide in your room and sob,
but you can’t. Not until Silas is in bed asleep. You’ll want to drink too much and
eat too little. Stay inside on the most beautiful, sunny days. But you can’t. You
need to take Silas to the park and out for ice cream and to a grief counselor. And
you’ll discover that by living for your son, by getting up every morning and making
him pancakes or eggs, by pouring him orange juice, and by packing his lunch for school,
that you want to live.” I smiled. “All along you’ll think that you’re saving your
son, but in truth, your son will be saving you.”

Logan had polished off his entire lunch. His cheeks weren’t quite as drawn and his
eyes were much more focused and alert. “Could I contact you for help? It sounds like
you know what’s around the corner for Silas and me.”

“Call or email anytime.” I handed him my business card. “And I didn’t come just to
bring you a sandwich. I want to help the authorities track down the monster who did
this to Melissa.” I paused, wondering if Logan was ready to field questions. “I heard
that you also work in the publishing industry. Were you and Melissa with the same
company?”

“No. I work for a much smaller house. We put out textbooks and books printed specifically
for libraries.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Of the two of us, Melissa
definitely had the more exciting job.”

He’d given me the perfect segue. “Did she talk to you about her authors?”

“Sure. Melissa and I always tucked Silas into bed and then we’d go back to the kitchen
and have a glass of wine
and talk.” His fingers trembled and he laced them tightly together. “It was my favorite
time of the day.”

It might seem callous, but I ignored his anguish and continued. “There was a woman
at the book festival, an author, who was seen arguing with Melissa. She may have even
threatened your wife. This woman had green eyes and was heavily freckled and rather
busty. She was very angry and it seemed as though she and your wife knew each other.”

“What a piece of work,” Logan said with disapproval. “Her name’s Coralee Silver and
she’s one of Melissa’s paranormal authors. Melissa’s focus has always been on books
about family. Whether the family was insanely dysfunctional, living on a remote island,
comprised of same-sex parents, or made up of vampires, it didn’t matter to my wife.
She was always on the lookout for a well-written story about what makes a family and
what holds one together through life’s peaks and valleys.”

“And Coralee wrote such a tale?”

He nodded. “Yes. The manuscript Melissa purchased was about two Wiccans raising an
abandoned werewolf cub. I know that sounds crazy, but it was a cool story. Melissa
used to read me chapters from some of her authors’ books while we drank wine after
dinner.” A shadow crossed his face, but he mustered up the courage to continue. “During
the last round of revisions, Coralee added a bunch of really violent scenes to the
novel. They were way too graphic for the target audience and Melissa insisted she
remove them. Coralee wouldn’t budge. She claimed that the blood and gore was an important
part of the Wiccan/werewolf family bonding process and that Melissa was trying to
stifle her creativity.”

“That’s it?” I was shocked. “Melissa merely asked Coralee to remove a few scenes to
ensure the book was saleable and Coralee wouldn’t do it? Wow. I guess the situation
had escalated by the time the two met here at the festival.”

“I imagine so, because Melissa repeatedly warned Coralee that she was in breach of
contract. The deadline had come and gone and Coralee refused to alter the manuscript,
so right before Melissa left New York for here, she told Coralee the deal was off.
The contract was canceled and my wife put the project out of her mind.”

I thought of the thousands of authors who would kill to have been in Coralee’s shoes.
She had a contract, an advance, a great editor, and a reputable publishing house,
and she threw it all away because she insisted on keeping scenes that hadn’t been
in the original manuscript. “What an idiot,” I murmured.

Logan’s expression had changed again. His eyes were brimming over with anger and he’d
crushed the empty water bottle between his hands. “Do you think she had something
to do with my wife’s death?”

“If she did, you’ll know soon enough. The police had no idea who Coralee was, but
they will in a few seconds. Now they can track her down and question her, thanks to
you.” Rummaging in my purse, I located my cell phone and quickly called Sean.

“The mystery woman with the green eyes and freckles?” I didn’t even bother with a
hello. I knew Sean would understand as soon as he heard that I was with Melissa’s
husband. “Her name is Coralee Silver.” As succinctly as possible, I explained the
connection between the irate author and the murdered editor.

“Please assure Mr. Delaney that we’ll act on this information immediately,” Sean stated,
the excitement over a fresh lead evident in his voice. “And, Lila?”

Fearing that I was about to receive a harsh reprimand for interfering in a police
investigation, I winced a bit and said, “Yes?”

“You’re amazing. I don’t know if you’ve been told that enough. If
I’ve
told you that enough. If you were here, I would show you just how grateful I am.”

I could sense Sean’s desire coming right through my phone speaker. It was like a burst
of hot air. I would have loved to return the sentiment, to tell him how much I wanted
to see him, to touch him, and to feel his lips brush against mine, but Logan’s tortured
face stopped the words in my throat. “I’ll tell Mr. Delaney that you’ll be in touch,”
I replied as casually as I could. “As for the rest of your statement, I’d be glad
to discuss that with you in person.
Soon
.”

BACK AT NOVEL
Idea, I addressed the onslaught of queries sitting in my email’s inbox. I was surprised
to see the number of subject lines reading “requested material,” and wondered if word
had spread among the writers present at the book festival that one could bypass Gatekeeper
Vicky and reach any agent in our office simply by typing that magical phrase in the
subject line.

Still, I recalled being interested in several pitches during my Friday session, including
a wonderful romantic suspense and two cozy mystery series, and I couldn’t wait to
read those. However, I had over a dozen unsolicited queries to wade through first.

I did my best to respond to queries within four weeks, but
this group had been sitting there for nearly six now and I wanted to get back to the
authors today if possible. With my door closed and Handel playing from the free music
station on my computer, I pushed all thoughts of Melissa Plume’s death aside and devoted
my full attention to the queries.

Before I knew it, I’d sent fifteen rejection emails and two requests for the first
fifty pages. I had made suggestions on eight of the rejection letters, recommending
that the author increase or decrease the word count, clarify the project’s hook, or
paint his or her protagonist in a more engaging light. The other rejections elicited
no comments. The projects felt flat and unexciting to me, and there was no way to
verbalize that sentiment kindly, so those authors would receive a form rejection letter
without a personalized note. Who knows? Another agent might fall in love with those
queries, but I didn’t feel a spark. So much of my job revolves around gut instincts—a
sense of connection to the author’s story. The best queries leave me hungry for more.
The worst leave me completely unmoved.

I hit send on the last of the emails and then glanced at the clock, surprised to see
that it was half past three.

“Coffee break!” I announced to the books on my shelves and headed downstairs.

Espresso Yourself was buzzing with the murmur of satisfied customers along with a
group of artists who were boisterously hanging a new collection of paintings on the
walls. They were large canvases and were distinctly modern in style. One painting,
which was nearly as tall as Makayla, had been covered with a cherry red wash. A black
square adorned the bottom half of the panel, and the work was entitled, “Jazz.” I
didn’t get it, but then again, my knowledge of abstract art could fit inside a thimble.

“Not your cup of tea?” Makayla teased softly as I approached the counter. “I saw you
tilting your head this way and that and frowning. Take a look at the one on the back
wall. It’s called ‘Icarus.’ I like it.”

I turned to take in another oversize canvas made up of swirls of blue, black, white,
and gold and recalled the story of the boy with wax wings who’d flown too close to
the sun and had ended up drowning in the sea as a result. “I can picture wings and
waves. Sunlight and water. A range of emotions, too. The gold is like the freedom
he must have felt during flight and the black is the fear that must have engulfed
him as he began to fall.” I shook my head in wonder. “There’s so much going on in
a few paint strokes. I don’t like it as much as my lady at the fountain painting,
but it’s still amazing.”

While Makayla fixed my latte, I filled her in on my lunchtime visit with Logan Delaney.
I figured she had a right to know the identity of the mysterious green-eyed woman
since she’d witnessed the fight between Melissa and Coralee. I was in the middle of
explaining how Coralee was in breach of contract when a young man around Trey’s age
started shouting and pointing out the window.

“There’s a giant banana across the street!” he shrieked and then burst into a peal
of unsettling, high-pitched laughter. He was slight of build and dressed in a flannel
shirt, jeans, and a knit ski hat whose flaps covered his ears. The blue and green
flaps tapered into tails of braided yarn that dangled past the boy’s shoulders. He
tugged on them, repeatedly drawing attention to the “banana” out the window.

Scowling over having my narrative interrupted, I realized that he was gesturing at
my scooter. Makayla and I exchanged perplexed looks, and she murmured, “Do you think
he’s drunk?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. If so, he’s going to need a double shot of espresso or he’ll be
seeing an entire fruit basket on the train ride back to Dunston.”

“I wanna peel the big banana!” the boy declared, heading for the door.

A young woman with a collection of star tattoos on her neck grabbed her friend by
the arm. “Dude, that’s a Vespa.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Get a grip. I
just want to grab a café au lait and then we’re out of here.”

Makayla frowned. “I’ve never wanted to shoo off customers before, but these kids have
been crowding my space for the last few weeks and they’ve all been raucous as magpies
and messy as pigeons.”

Studying the group of older teens, who appeared to be yet another wave of college
students skipping classes, I remembered Trey telling me that Jasper had been charging
coeds to meditate at the co-op. A couple of these kids were wearing caps embroidered
with the Red Fox Mountain Co-op logo. Had they just come from there?

“I think I’ll drop in on Trey tonight,” I told Makayla. “Bring him some supper and
see exactly what’s changed up on Red Fox Mountain.”

“Good,” Makayla answered, handing me a steaming hot pumpkin spice latte. “And if you
could find a way to magically send these kids back to a college campus until they’re
thirty-year-old yuppies in business suits that would be super. Because they are crappy
tippers.”

WITH THE LATE
afternoon sun glaring in my eyes, I rode my scooter up the steep path toward the
Red Fox Mountain Co-op. Scents of tree sap, pine, and fecund soil drifted past
me, and I felt a tinge of remorse at disturbing the peaceful forest with my noisy
little Vespa. It didn’t last long, however, for at the top, the road leveled and the
engine, not having to work so hard, rumbled quieter. Ahead, the wooden sign affixed
to the willow branch arch proclaimed,
Welcome to The Red Fox Mountain Co-op.
I passed under it, emerging into a wide, flat clearing.

A red Honda Civic was parked near the chain-link fence surrounding the goat paddock.
I pulled my Vespa in behind it and removed my helmet. It had been a few months since
I’d been on the property, and at first glance the co-op appeared to be relatively
unchanged. The grass on the circular plateau was neatly mowed, and the cluster of
cabins to the right and the large barn behind the goat paddock were still unpainted.
On the other side of the chain-link fence a few white goats bleated, their brown faces
and floppy ears as charming as ever.

But as I continued to look around, I saw differences, too. No longer was there an
old-fashioned push mower leaning against the fence. Instead, a shiny green riding
mower stood by a shed. A new building had been erected behind the cabins with cream-colored
aluminum siding and shiny glass windows. The most telling improvement, however, was
the electrical poles and wires running up the mountain into the new structure. The
co-op had prided itself on being solar- and human-powered, so this was an indication
that something had changed in their basic philosophy.

On the porch of one of the cabins, two women sat in green Adirondack chairs with baskets
of woven hemp at their feet. I waved at them, struck by another change—the weavers
used to sit on crude stools. One raised her hand while the other sipped from a mug
as she stared at me suspiciously.

Cabin windows glowed with interior lights. In the waning sun, the air became chilly.
People wearing jackets and sweaters appeared from various parts of the property and
headed toward individual cabins. I noticed that no one was setting the outdoor picnic
tables for supper and wondered if the new building had been erected so the co-op members
could enjoy meals inside during the colder months.

I looked for Trey among the residents but didn’t see him. When I glanced at the barn,
thinking it might be milking time, he appeared at its door and began to shoo goats
into the paddock. He saw me and waved, called out a hello, and continued to herd the
goats outside.