Every Trick in the Book (9 page)

THE NEXT MORNING WAS SO BEAUTIFUL THAT IT WAS
easy to forget about my encounter with Kirk Mason. The late October sun set the ocher
and paprika petals of the chrysanthemums in my garden afire and illuminated the lavender
asters until they glowed.

I had bought an old Radio Flyer wagon at my neighbor’s yard sale, lined it with hay,
and set it on my front porch. I then stuffed it with miniature gourds of all shapes
and sizes. The yellow, green, and creamy white vegetables looked terrific mixed in
with a dozen small pumpkins.

Now that my son was independent and living away from home, I wasn’t too interested
in decorating for Halloween. However, there were plenty of children in our little
subdivision who’d be ringing my doorbell in hopes of acquiring a few pieces of candy,
so I hung a wreath of black cats and witches on the front door just to show that I
welcomed
trick-or-treaters. In fact, I’d had to hold off buying bags of candy for fear I would
eat them all before the big night.

This year, Halloween fell on a Sunday. Because it was a school night, the neighborhood
committee had voted to send the kids around just after sunset. They could collect
their goodies, burn off some of the sugar they’d eaten, and be home at a reasonable
time. The elementary kids had to be at the bus stop at seven o’clock each morning,
so I knew their Halloween evening would be a low-key affair. I, for one, was glad.
After a three-day book festival, it would take every ounce of remaining energy to
drag myself off the sofa. It would be all too easy to ignore the doorbell and gorge
on snack-sized Milky Way bars, but I knew I wouldn’t let the children down.

I was getting ahead of myself, however. There were still two more festival days to
get through, and I was ready to face Day Two. Even though my sleep had initially been
riddled with anxiety thanks to Kirk Mason, I’d woken well before my alarm sounded
feeling surprisingly well rested. Lingering over my breakfast in a kitchen cheerful
enough to dispel the gloomiest of memories, I’d filled in the
Dunston Herald
crossword before putting on my favorite autumn work outfit. My camel-colored skirt,
espresso brown cashmere sweater, and polished leather boots made me feel chic and
youthful. Hopping on my scooter, I quickly indulged in one of my favorite fantasies
in which I starred as a wise and glamorous celebrity, known and admired by everyone
in the literary and publishing circle. It was easy to pretend that all the automobile
drivers were staring at me. The majority of them probably were casting curious glances
in my direction. After all, I was the only woman in her midforties zipping around
Inspiration Valley on a canary yellow Vespa.

I loved being able to fit in tiny parking spaces all over
town, but today, I didn’t try to get close to the old town hall. My heart was featherlight
and the world was bathed in vibrant color and I wanted to walk a few blocks. Between
the pumpkin banners hanging from each lamppost, the holiday-themed shop decorations,
and garden urns filled with the perky faces of orange and purple pansies, Inspiration
Valley was an autumn utopia. Leaves scuttled across my boots in a blur of red, brown,
and gold until I left them behind and jogged up the front steps and into the lobby
of the spacious stone building.

Vicky was already in her position at one of the check-in tables, a thermos of hot
tea and a banana stationed by her right hand.

“Good morning,” I said brightly, my voice bouncing around the cavernous lobby. “I’m
going to grab a cappuccino from Makayla. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.” She indicated her thermos. “I only drink noncaffeinated herbal teas.”

I nodded, though I couldn’t imagine achieving a state of mental acuity without a significant
jolt of caffeine first thing in the morning. “Danish? Bagel? Something to accompany
your banana?”

Vicky’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “Too many processed carbohydrates. I prefer
to begin my day with fruit and whole grains.” She gave her plum-colored cardigan a
prim tug and eyed me closely. “Are you all right after yesterday’s excitement?”

Not the noun I’d have chosen, but I wasn’t about to correct our formidable office
manager. “I am. One of today’s guest speakers, Sean Griffiths, is a police officer.
He’s agreed to remain in the building until the conference is over this afternoon.
I’ve already given him a thorough physical
description of Kirk Mason, and since Mason is rather hard to miss, Sean—I mean, Officer
Griffiths—is certain to spot him if he dares to make an appearance.”

“That’s good.” Vicky produced her camera from her purse. “Should Mr. Mason be foolish
enough to enter by the front door, I’ll be prepared to take his photograph and email
it directly to the police station.”

Vicky brandished the camera like it was a can of Mace, and I had to suppress a giggle.
Still, if I were forced to pick a winner in a duel between Vicky and Kirk Mason, I’d
choose my coworker. She seemed like the type to have a knife built into one of her
square-toed shoes just like an Ian Fleming character.

The scent of fresh baked goods lured me into the makeshift café area of the town hall,
and I was delighted to overhear Nell declare that she’d sold out of nearly all of
her stock yesterday. Makayla had had an equally profitable day.

“I’ve got to hang with writers more often!” the beautiful barista called out. “They
drink more coffee than any other population group. I’m going to tell Lila to host
one of these book festivals every month.”

“Forget it!” I told Makayla as I strode up to her booth. “I’m going to need a week’s
vacation after this.”

Makayla’s lovely face grew tight with concern. “I heard about your run-in with Mister
Crazy last night. Are you doing okay?”

I smiled. “I’ll be just fine the moment I take a sip of your new vanilla cappuccino.”

“Then I’d better make it a double.” Makayla began steaming milk. Over the hiss of
the espresso machine, she asked, “And when is your handsome policeman going to show
up and dazzle the crowd?”

“Sean’s got a morning panel. He’s been joking around all week about putting some of
the audience members in handcuffs. I couldn’t really tell if he was serious or not.”
I watched as Makayla sprinkled cinnamon over the cloud of white foam on top of my
cappuccino.

She handed me the drink and cocked her head to the side. “So have you two played around
with those cuffs?” Her jade green eyes were alight with mischief. “Does Sean accuse
you of shoplifting maybe? Or is it something more scandalous?”

I balled up a napkin and tossed it at her. “Stop it! You know perfectly well that
Sean and I haven’t slept together yet.”

“There’s always tonight after the costume party. With you and Sean dressed up as Paris
and Helen of Troy, you could do some serious role-playing.” Makayla gave me a saucy
wink. “Helen’s got to show Paris her gratitude for being whisked away by a handsome
lover. And after knocking back a few of the witches’ brew cocktails they’re serving
tonight, Helen might just end up handcuffed to a bedpost.”

Warmth rushed to my cheeks and I knew that they had turned a deep shade of pink. It’s
not as though I hadn’t thought about making love to Sean. I had. Plenty of times.
I knew my libido was more than ready, but my mind wasn’t quite there. We just hadn’t
spent enough time together to take things to the next level. I hoped Makayla wasn’t
right about the witches’ brew cocktails. Getting drunk and making out with my boyfriend
in public would hardly be professional behavior.

However, the idea of doing exactly that struck me the moment I saw Sean walk into
the lobby. His authoritative presence seemed to fill the vacuous hall. Even Vicky
wasn’t immune to his poise and rugged good looks. Sipping my
cappuccino, I wondered if Vicky would be put under the spell of Sean’s tropical sea
blue eyes. I was tempted to pull him aside and lose myself in those shades of cerulean
and cobalt, but I greeted him formally and led him to the courtroom, where his panel
was being held.

“You’ll be in the audience?” Sean asked. “After all, I want to look down from my lofty
perch and see the face that launched a thousand ships.”

I laughed. “Hold on to your Paris persona until tonight. This morning, you’re all
cop.”

His smile faded. “I’m afraid that’s a skin I never quite shed. And after yesterday,
my eyes are going to be on everyone. If that Mason creep shows up today, he’ll be
dealing with more than a woman armed with buckets.” Sean gestured at the table where
a private investigator, a crime scene tech, and a corrections officer waited to introduce
themselves to the crowd. “I know all those guys. It would only take a word from me
and Mr. Mason would be pinned to the floor, cuffed, and Mirandized before he could
say ‘boo.’”

I squeezed his arm. “I love it when you turn protective. Now get up there and educate
these writers on how to create a realistic law enforcement character.”

I needn’t have worried. Sean and the other professionals were captivating. As he’d
hinted to me earlier in the week, he did handcuff several volunteers from the audience.
He then allowed other attendees to unlock their fellow writers. Some volunteers practiced
reading pretend criminals their rights. Sean allowed people to try on his loaded utility
belt, minus his sidearm, so they could see why most cops walked with a noticeable
swagger.

It was a good thing that I’d given this panel a ninety-minute allotment, because once
Sean and the other men had
conducted a variety of demonstrations and answered dozens of insightful questions,
it was time to empty the room for the next panel. However, it was obvious that the
writers were reluctant to leave. At least ten participants still had unanswered questions,
so Sean and the rest of the guest speakers promised to continue their Q&A session
at the tables near the Sixpence Bakery kiosk.

Swallowed by the tide of chattering writers, I drifted out to the food area and noticed
Melissa Plume waiting in line at Nell’s kiosk. She looked up from the enticing array
of pastries and our eyes met. With a little wave, she beckoned me over.

“We’re not matching today,” I said.

Glancing down at her black turtleneck dress, patent leather pumps, and leopard print
scarf, she shook her head. “I should have called you to coordinate. I love your outfit.
I bet I’d have a great time raiding your closet.” She excused herself while she paid
Nell for an apple and raisin turnover and then asked if I’d like anything to eat.

“No, thanks. I’m posing as Helen of Troy this evening and I don’t think I can channel
the world’s most beautiful woman after consuming both a vanilla cappuccino and a chocolate
hazelnut croissant.”

Melissa immediately ordered the croissant and passed it to me. “Have you ever seen
renderings of Helen on a Greek amphora? She’s as curvy as the road leading into this
town. My kind of girl.”

We settled at a two-top table and discussed how the festival was going so far. Melissa
loved the town’s B and B and assured me she’d return every year if given the chance.
“This place is heavenly. I expected some one-horse town with a pancake house and a
barbeque joint, but the food is
sophisticated and delicious, the shops are filled with hip, artsy items, and the scenery
is breathtaking. I haven’t seen this much color since the city’s Pride Parade.”

I laughed and tucked into my croissant. “I detect a hint of a Southern accent—are
you from the South?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m from Dunston. I used to work there before I met my
husband and moved to New York. I was trying to get my book published, actually, and
that’s how we met.”

Impressed, I asked, “What was your book about?”

“Oh, it was an exposé sort of thing that never got published. It focused on my work
with kids in the foster system. My husband was a lowly editor then, to whom I naïvely
sent the manuscript. Something about my proposal got to him, and while he was in Raleigh
on personal business, he took the time to swing over to Dunston to tell me his publishing
house didn’t want the book. Over lunch, it became clear that he was mighty interested
in me.” A dimple appeared in her left cheek as she smiled at the memory. “And the
rest is history.” She sat back in her chair and glanced around. “I just can’t believe
I spent so many years living within a train ride of this little paradise and never
knew it. But back then, the only people who talked about this place were flaky, free-spirit
types who were searching for their past-life identities or the secret voice of Mother
Earth. Not exactly reliable spokespeople, if you know what I mean.”

As we enjoyed our treats, we watched the attendees milling about, their faces flushed
with animation. A woman in a multihued poncho with fuchsia lipstick and a loud voice
reminded me of Calliope. Wiping chocolate from my fingers with a paper napkin, I asked
Melissa if she would mind my
pitching Calliope’s new series in the middle of our coffee break.

“This is the first time I’ve relaxed in years,” my look-alike gushed in reply. “You
could ask me to donate a kidney and I’d say yes, so pitch away!”

I was so familiar with Calliope’s work that the story line unfurled like a flower
opening its petals to the sun. Melissa took bites of her turnover as I spoke and then
held up a finger to stop me.

“I’m not the acquiring editor for historical suspense, but I am absolutely positive
that my friend Kate would adore this series. Let me call her right now.”

It was hard to say no to such an opportunity, and I was certainly passionate about
my client’s project, but it was a Saturday. Would Melissa’s fellow editor be annoyed
to receive a work-related call over the weekend, and if so, would it hurt Calliope’s
chances? I voiced my concern to Melissa even as she was dialing Kate’s number.

“Trust me. Our husbands are out playing golf together and she’s stuck at home with
the twins. She’d love to talk shop.”