Buried in a Book (19 page)

I shook my head, unable to visualize Marlette as a man who preyed on innocent teenagers. I felt queasy all of a sudden and could only manage to whisper, “What happened next?”

“Just so you know, I don’t think he did it. From all
reports, that girl got her kicks by manipulating people. I never interviewed her. I wasn’t even told her name, seeing how she was still a minor and her parents wanted to protect her identity. But by all accounts, Marlette Robbins was as straitlaced as they come, an impeccable Southern gentleman. Nobody could believe he was capable of such an act.”

I felt anger on Marlette’s behalf. “And yet he was fired!”

“Yeah. I don’t know what that girl’s motivation was, but she sure ruined his reputation, even though he was never officially charged.”

The story chilled me, but I chitchatted a bit longer with Jan and then thanked her and hung up.

I sat back in my chair and wondered if the accusations against Marlette were true. Had I completely misjudged him? If he
was
capable of violence against women, perhaps he’d done something unforgivable to another woman, and in return, she’d made him pay the ultimate price.

But if Jan was right and he hadn’t harmed that girl, then why had she accused him? What did she have against him?

A shiver shot up my spine. If the girl
had
told the truth, she’d never received justice. Maybe she had meted it out herself, twenty-five years later.

I DIDN’T HAVE TIME THAT AFTERNOON TO PHONE
Crabtree University’s English Department to find out if any of the faculty remembered Marlette. Bentley called me into her office and, after telling me that she was pleased to see that I’d been fulfilling my daily quotas, informed me that she was increasing my workload.

“You’re the first intern I actually expect to make it through the three month trial period,” she said, looking at me over the rim of her reading glasses. This pair was coral-colored and matched her blouse and handbag perfectly. Her white slacks had a knife-sharp crease, and I marveled over the height of her silver heels. My boss was the most coiffed woman I’d ever known. I felt downright dowdy in her presence and vowed to make my wardrobe more chic when I became a full-fledged agent.

I smiled at her. “I’m determined to have my own clients one day.”

“Good for you. We need a fresh dose of ambition around here. Therefore, you’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve decided to award you more responsibility.” She handed me several file folders. “A Novel Idea is going green. That means we’ll no longer be mailing paper copies of royalty statements. Instead, each author will receive an electronic version sent via email. I’d like you to design a template for each of these publishers and then fill in the royalty information for the authors in those folders.” Bentley tented her hands on the desk and stared at me intently. “Authors don’t like us to be tardy when sending out their royalty statements. For some of our clients, royalty checks cover their everyday expenses. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I nodded. “Trust me, I know all about the stress of unpaid bills.” Picking up the folders, I stood up. “Do these take precedence over the queries and proposals?”

Bentley waved at me absently, her attention now focused on her computer screen. “I’m sure you’ll be able to manage both. You seem like an extremely capable individual, Lila.”

Recognizing this as a dismissal, I headed back to my office feeling a surge of pride. I had proved myself. I
was
going to be more than an intern by the end of the summer; I could feel it in my bones.

Between the queries, critiques, mailings, and creating the royalty statement templates, the rest of the workday flew by. I managed to leave a message for the current English Department Chair of Crabtree University, but no one returned my call that day or the following morning. I wondered if the professors kept regular office hours during the summer, but I didn’t have the time to review the online course listings or figure out who would be on campus. I had to focus on the
pile of royalty statements if Novel Idea’s clients were to be paid before the end of the week.

Finally, late on Tuesday morning, I decided I could spare two minutes at the tail end of a coffee break to call the university’s switchboard. Luckily, the operator transferred me to a helpful receptionist who informed me that the only member of the English Department who had taught at Crabtree during Marlette’s tenure was giving a lecture called “Shakespeare’s Soothsayers” that very evening. I was delighted to learn that nonstudents were welcome to attend and planned to ask my mother if she’d like to accompany me.

Feeling as though I’d made excellent headway at work and was on the cusp of learning something significant about Marlette’s past, I decided to devote part of my lunch hour to continuing the investigation. Taking the drawing of Sue Ann that Iris had helped me find, I struck out for the Secret Garden, thinking that with all the walking I now did, I’d soon be in the best shape of my life.

As I left my office and headed for the stairs, my cell phone rang.

“Guess what?” exclaimed my real estate agent. “Someone’s asked to see your house for the
third
time! I think they plan to make an offer.”

“That would really be great,” I said, stepping out the front door into the powerful midday sun. “I don’t know how much longer I can ask my mother to drive me to work and back. I feel like a little kid. If this goes on, she’s going to be packing my lunches and slipping notes into the brown bag like she did when I was a girl.”

Ginny made a cooing noise. “Your mama sounds so sweet. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you some good news, considering the last time I called you it was to report that
awful vandalism.” She paused. “Did the police ever find out who did that?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Water under the bridge,” Ginny declared brightly. “Gotta run, but I’ll be in touch.”

During our brief conversation, my feet had automatically carried me to the fountain in the center of town. I sat down on the damp cement and fished a penny out of my purse.

“This wish is for my house to sell quickly,” I told the closest muse. She ignored me, her marble gaze studiously fixed on the scroll in her hands. Examining the plaque at her feet, I said, “Clio, Muse of History, let me look back on this summer as a time filled with positive changes.” Closing my eyes, I sent the offering into the shallow water and watched the coin wobble to the bottom. Impulsively, I reached out and touched Clio’s wet cheek before heading off to the Secret Garden.

When I arrived at the nursery, I was met by the clamor of a large group of children. According to a sour-faced employee who had escaped outdoors to organize a shipment of petunias, a group of campers from the community center’s nature camp was spending part of the day learning how to grow a vegetable garden. Each child had been given a small terra-cotta pot to paint and plastic bags containing seeds and potting soil. It made me smile to see the eager campers decorating their pots with jolly round tomato men and stick-figure bean ladies. Addison was busy showing the children how to bury their seeds in the dirt. It was clearly not the best time to ask her to identify another plant for me.

Glancing at my watch, I knew that my lunch hour was nearly half over. After all, I had to hoof it back to the office and grab something to eat from Espresso Yourself if I was
going to survive the rest of the day, but it was difficult not to linger. The laughter and high-pitched voices of the kids carried me back to a time over ten years ago. Suddenly, I was transported to my kitchen in Dunston. There I was, an old apron tied around my waist, busy painting homemade wooden toolboxes with Trey’s Cub Scout pack. I wondered what he was doing right now. Bathing a goat? Picking berries?

A voice interrupted my musing. “Can I help you?”

I surfaced from my reverie and noticed that a middle-aged man wearing a green apron was giving me an amused stare.

“Sorry, I zoned out for a minute there.”

He grinned. “Happens to the best of us. You might want to pick up a ginger plant. Or maybe a potted rosemary or Siberian ginseng. All three are proven memory boosters.”

“I just might.” Removing Marlette’s drawing from my purse, I unfolded it, surreptitiously reading the garden center employee’s nametag at the same time. “Do you recognize this flower, Martin?”

He handled the sheaf of paper with care and scrutinized the dried plant for a long moment. “It’s a peony. We don’t have many bushes left in stock, as most folks planted theirs back in April. We’ll get a bunch more in September, but let’s see if we can find a match.”

Following Martin to the flowering vines and shrubbery section, we examined several bushes. The tags wrapped around the stalks showed fuchsia blooms called Beautiful Señorita, a bright red variety called Barrington Belle, or Candy Heart, a delicate and pale pink.

“It looks like there’s yellow paint on the inside petals of your pressed flower,” Martin remarked, eyeing the page once
again. “None of our plants have a corn yellow middle with white petals, but we sell a wonderful book on the flowering bushes of North Carolina. It has full-color plates.”

Thanking the helpful gentleman, I spent twenty dollars on the book, even though I probably could have researched peony varieties on the Internet for free. Still, I didn’t feel like I could keep visiting the garden center without buying something, and I didn’t want to carry a Siberian ginseng plant all the way back to Novel Idea, so I purchased the reference book.

On the way out, I noticed a lemon yellow Vespa scooter parked by the front door. It had a black leather seat, chrome embellishments, and a small
For Sale
sign taped to the top case.

I forgot all about my mystery flower. I forgot all about work. Hesitating only for a moment, I ran my fingers along the seat, letting them trail upward, caressing the handlebars and coming to a rest on one of the side mirrors. I caught my reflection in the glass and had to laugh. I looked like a woman in love. If not love, it was certainly a serious crush.

Rushing back inside, I found Martin watering a display of cheerful marigolds. Their golden hue made my heart beat faster. I
had
to have that scooter!

“Could you tell me who owns the Vespa parked out front?”

“That’s Addison’s,” Martin replied. “We call it Big Bird, she calls it Banana Split, and her folks call it risky. Lucky for our gal, her big brother just bought her a beautiful, brand-new Volvo and asked her to sell the scooter.”

I’d name it Sunshine, I thought, envisioning myself driving the Vespa down the road leading to my mother’s. In my fantasy, the rain-parched flowers growing in the grassy
meadows along the street burst into bloom as I whipped past, a scarf trailing out behind me, the wind curving around my shiny black helmet. My arms and legs were bronzed by the sun, and I was wearing tight capri pants and a pair of high-heeled boots. Drivers didn’t mind my reduced speed limit. In fact, they were simply happy to be able to catch a glimpse of the woman on the scooter who looked as though she should be motoring through the narrow lanes of Paris or Rome. Perhaps they’d think I was a movie star, hiding out in Inspiration Valley to recover from the stress of shooting my latest blockbuster.

“Ma’am? I think I lost you again,” Martin teased.

I blushed, feeling foolish for getting caught in a second round of daydreaming. I wrote down my phone number and handed it to Martin. “Would you give this to Addison and tell her I am
very
interested in the scooter?”

He nodded, tucking the scrap of paper in his apron pocket. “Sure thing. Have a nice day.”

I hurried out of the garden center and back to the center of town. By the time I entered the blessed air-conditioning inside Espresso Yourself, I was hot, sweaty, hungry, and thirsty.

Makayla glanced up from the milk she was steaming, saw me sag against the counter, and laughed. “Don’t you know better than to run around in the midday heat? Sit on down. I know just what you need.”

Moments later, I was served an iced cappuccino, which tasted utterly divine. I took several refreshing sips and then uttered a gratified sigh. “You’re a little like my mother, Makayla. Both of you seem to have a gift when it comes to knowing what people really need. Now how about lunch? Any bagels left?”

Makayla shook her head. “I’ve got nothing but sugary treats, and those are just going to make you thirsty all over again.” She examined the gardening book poking out of my purse. “You working on a green thumb?”

“No. I’m hoping to discover a clue.” I quickly showed her the drawing and the newspaper article.

She scanned over the lines and then stared at Marlette’s portrait of Sue Ann. “Tell me she doesn’t give you the creeps,” Makayla said with a frown. “Those eyes…another picture showing those smug, hostile eyes. This girl probably got up every morning and set about planning to mess up somebody’s day. I’ve seen that look before. She thinks she’s better than everyone. Thinks she’s owed something. Is only happy when another person is full of grief.”