Every Trick in the Book (15 page)

There were not many steps from the coffee room to our respective offices, yet before
any of us could get through the doors, Bentley appeared in the hall, wearing an elegantly
tailored teal suit. I marveled that she’d managed to find shoes in the exact same
color.

“Good morning, people,” she began in a commanding voice. “It is unfortunate that the
untimely demise of Melissa Plume has tainted an otherwise successful venture for this
agency; nevertheless, the book festival was a job well done. Congratulations to you
all.” She cleared her throat. “Today is a new day and we must get back to business.
Vicky, set up a meeting to fit everyone’s schedule in order to do a postfestival assessment.
And people, bring notes, comments, and suggestions.” With that pronouncement she walked
into her office.

I hurried after her, having been struck with a sudden inspiration. Bentley had many
contacts in the publishing world. Perhaps she knew Ruben Felden, and may even have
had dealings with him. If that were the case, Bentley might be able to help, and I
could focus on finding the woman Makayla saw arguing with Melissa.

“Excuse me, Bentley,” I called after her.

She turned at the threshold to her office. “Yes, Lila?”

“I wanted to ask you about an editor.”

“Come in, then.” She placed her briefcase on the desk, casting a mirror image of the
attaché on its glass surface. Sunlight from the arched window shimmered on the chrome
and glass in the office, warming the crispness of her Ansel Adams–inspired décor.
She waved her hand at the chair opposite the desk as she sat down.

I perched on the edge of the seat. “Do you know an editor by the name of Ruben Felden?”

“I’ve worked with his publishing house but have never dealt with him directly. Why
do you ask?” Abruptly she sat forward. “Ah, that’s Melissa Plume’s publishing house.
Is this related to what happened to her? Do you have some reason to believe Felden
is involved?”

“I’m not sure. I believe he’s what the police call a person of interest. Apparently
he bears some kind of serious grudge against Melissa. I was planning to see if he
could have been in Inspiration Valley this weekend, but then I thought about the connections
you have and—”

“Say no more.” Bentley stretched her palm out to me in the universal sign for stop.
“I’ll reach out to my contacts and get a complete dossier on Felden. If he had anything
to do with staining
my
agency’s reputation, he will answer for it.”

“Let’s not forget about seeking justice for Melissa Plume,” I added.

“Of course.” Bentley put her diamond-studded reading glasses on her nose and opened
her laptop.

Obviously dismissed, I ventured into my own office and sank into the leather desk
chair. I’d redecorated when I was promoted to agent, and this comfy seat was one of
the first purchases I made. It was the perfect place to read, to type
on the computer, to build up an author’s hopes or possibly shatter their dreams. At
this moment, however, I wasn’t considering an author who had queried me, but rather
one who had caused trouble—possibly of the fatal kind—for Melissa Plume. How could
I find out more about the green-eyed, freckled woman? Had the police gotten any leads
from the witnesses to the argument?

I punched in Sean’s number on my cell phone, feeling only a slight twinge of guilt
about interrupting him, and a shade more for ignoring the work on my desk.

“Hi, Sean,” I jumped in as soon as he said hello. “Sorry to bother you when you’re
at work, but I was wondering if you found out anything more about the angry woman
writer.”

“You’re not bothering me, Lila, although I can only talk for a minute.” Sean sighed
into the phone. “You’re supposed to leave the investigating to us, remember?”

“I know, but I can’t stop thinking about Melissa and her poor husband and son. I just
want to help.”

His tone softened. “You have a good heart. I can tell you that the witnesses we interviewed
last night gave us no more information than Makayla did about that woman. We’re currently
interviewing Ms. Plume’s list of clients to see if we can identify her.”

“Is Mr. Delaney still in Inspiration Valley?” A nugget of an idea was growing in my
mind. Perhaps Melissa’s husband would know who the disgruntled author might be.

“Yes, he’s still in town and is staying at the Magnolia B and B until he’s able to
make arrangements to ship his wife’s…body…home.”

Sadness squeezed my heart as I considered how difficult these few days must be for
the bereaved Mr. Delaney. “I’d better let you go, Sean. Thanks for sharing the information.”

After hanging up, I pondered how I could tactfully question Melissa’s husband when
the grief from his loss was so raw. Then it dawned on me—food. Food provided comfort,
bridged gaps, and healed hurts. I’d bring him lunch.

Having made that decision, I managed to get a couple of hours of work done, struggling
to stay focused while reading a manuscript about a romance and murder on a cruise
ship, but getting through it nonetheless. At half past eleven, I phoned Stella, the
proprietor of Magnolia Bed and Breakfast, to find out if Mr. Delaney was there.

“He sure is, hon,” she declared. “Poor man. Spends hours just sitting on the porch
and looking out at the front gate. I think he’s hoping against hope that his wife
is going to walk up that path. Bless his heart.”

Upon hearing this, I wasted no time in getting to Catcher in the Rye. While waiting
in line, I perused the menu on the board, trying to decide which sandwich would best
give the message of comfort and support. The Pavarotti—Genoa salami, prosciutto, provolone,
and roasted red peppers on toasted Italian—seemed a bit too intense. I briefly considered
the Van Gogh—turkey, sliced Brie, and apples with honey mustard on a French baguette—but
decided that the tanginess of the apples combined with the creaminess of the Brie
and the bite of the mustard wasn’t homey enough. Then I spotted the Mother Hubbard—a
grilled ham and cheese on whole wheat—and I knew I’d found the right one.

When I paid for my order, the cashier handed me a card with the name Elizabeth Bennet.
One of the delights of patronizing Big Ed’s sandwich shop was seeing which fictional
character I’d be assigned. Sometimes they weren’t flattering and I’d sneak up to the
pick-up counter in shame when Big Ed bellowed, “Miss Havisham” or “Nurse
Ratched.” I groaned aloud the day I’d received a card reading,
MEDUSA
, in bold block letters.

“Thanks,” I told the cashier with a smile. “
Pride and Prejudice
is one of my favorite novels.”

I mused over Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy’s happy ending as I watched Big Ed slather
grainy mustard on a sandwich. Wrapping it in wax paper, he shouted, “FRODO!”

A tiny gray-haired woman wearing a pink tracksuit stepped forward and reached up to
toss the card with her fantasy identity into the basket on the counter. “Thanks, Ed,”
she said, taking the bag he held out. “I hope you were heavy on the mustard.”

“You betcha, Winnie. The zing in that sandwich will have you zipping all the way to
your Curiosity Shop.” The portly sandwich maker winked at me. “And how are you today,
Mizz Bennet?”

“I am well, good sir,” I said in a formal British accent. “Pondering romance, as usual.
Speaking of which, did you get a chance to talk to Nell at the festival this weekend?
Her bakery kiosk was right next to yours.”

Big Ed blushed, his plump cheeks flushing a dark shade of red. “No, we were too busy.
Folks lined up all day long.” He busied himself with preparing my sandwich order.
“I’ll ask her out on a proper date when I’m ready.”

Watching Big Ed, I wondered why he didn’t just let Nell know how he felt about her.
If I’d learned anything over the past weekend it was that people don’t always know
how much time they have together. Logan Delaney had no idea that when he’d said good-bye
to his wife as she left for the book festival, he’d never see her again. What words
might he have spoken if he’d known?

I grabbed Big Ed’s arm and, quoting Jane Austen, implored,
“‘Why not seize the pleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!’”

He stared at me in astonishment as he handed me my lunch, and then, seeing that my
line was delivered in all seriousness, he paused to consider my words.

“You’re right.” He nodded solemnly. “I’ve wasted enough time makin’ up excuses. It’s
been easier to love her from a distance. There’s no risk in that, but I don’t want
to do that anymore. I want to love her up close and personal. Like Ms. Austen suggests,
I’m ready to seize me some pleasure.”

I SAW LOGAN DELANEY BEFORE HE SAW ME. THEN AGAIN
, I’m not sure he was seeing much of anything. Stella hadn’t been exaggerating when
she said that the grieving husband hadn’t moved from the B and B’s front porch. Despite
the chill in the air, he was seated in a rocking chair in the far corner, dressed
in a wrinkled button-down shirt and jeans. Even as I passed through the gate at the
end of the brick path leading up to the porch, Logan just rocked and stared, his gaze
passing through me as if I were a ghost.

Walking softly, as though a loud footfall would spook him, I maneuvered around an
enormous urn overflowing with mums, pansies, and trailing ivy and took the chair next
to his. A small glass table separated the two rockers, and I set the bag from Catcher
in the Rye on its surface and unpacked Logan’s lunch. I spread out a napkin to serve
as a placemat, peeled back the paper from the grilled ham and
cheese, and opened a bag of potato chips. I then twisted off the cap from a bottle
of water and cleared my throat.

“Mr. Delaney, I’m Lila Wilkins.” I willed him to look at me, but he didn’t move a
muscle. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I met Melissa this past weekend
and I thought she was lovely. I liked her from the get-go.”

There was a twitch of Logan’s mouth, as if the mention of his wife’s name had the
power to lift him from a near-catatonic state.

“I know there’s not much anyone can offer you by way of comfort, but I wanted to tell
you that she seemed like a woman who was happy with her life. She was full of laughter
and quick-witted remarks and she inspired all the writers who were lucky enough to
hear her speak.”

Logan’s rocker fell silent. He turned and swallowed hard, finally letting his eyes
drift over my face. “You could be her sister,” he whispered, his voice scratchy and
raw.

I nodded. “Except that she was younger and more stylish than me. And I didn’t know
her well, but I know she loved you and she loved Silas.”

Hearing his son’s name, Logan’s stiff posture collapsed. “How will I tell him?” he
croaked. “What kind of life will he have without her? She was a wonderful mother.
And my best friend. Silas and I…we adored her. I can’t go on without her.” He took
a shaky breath. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will,” I assured him. “And you’ll start by eating this lunch. You
and I are going to be part of a larger team working to find the person who did this
to her. After that, you’ll head home and hold Silas in your arms for a really long
time.”

Logan looked at the food blankly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re numb all over. You want to be beyond feeling hunger
and cold because she is. But you can’t, Logan.” I spoke as gently as I could. “Silas
needs you.” I reached over, drew one of Logan’s hands to the table, and placed half
a sandwich on his palm. I slowly closed his fingers over the sandwich. “Take one bite.
That’s all I ask. And in exchange I’ll tell you what it’s like to raise a child alone.”

Logan lifted the food to his mouth, but his lips refused to part.

“Think of your son and eat.”

I could see that Logan was on the brink of something. If he relented and took a bite,
he’d be sacrificing the cocoon of denial he’d wrapped around himself. The agony would
wash over him in wave after wave and he’d have no defense against the searing grief.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he opened his mouth, tore off a hunk of sandwich,
and began to chew.

It was all I could do not to break down and cry, but I steeled myself and began to
talk. “Trey was about Silas’s age when my husband walked out. He’d had an affair,
I’d caught him in the act, and he decided that his best course of action was to clean
out our bank accounts and disappear.”

Logan had already eaten half of the sandwich. His right hand grasped the water bottle
and he drank deeply.

“We never saw him again, and not only did I have to explain to Trey that he suddenly
had no father, but I had to hold myself together in order for my son to feel safe
and secure.” I sighed. It was still unpleasant to think back on those first six months
of single parenthood. “Trey had nightmares for a whole year after that. He acted out.
He broke things and tested limits and cried when he thought no one was looking.”

Starting in on the second half of his sandwich, Logan met my eyes and nodded. He was
taking in every word.