Buried in a Book (13 page)

“Hi there,” I said when she’d finished pouring. “That’s a pretty song.”

“It’s ‘In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening.’ Rosemary Clooney.” Flora poured two sugar packets into her tea. “A little before your time.”

Putting the query letter on the counter, I gave the stainless steel coffeepot a little shake. Empty. As I searched the cupboards for ground coffee and filters, Flora sat at the square table and sipped her tea.

“They’re in the freezer, dear,” she informed me.

Spying several one-pound bags of coffee bearing Espresso Yourself labels, I focused on prepping the coffee machine, set it to brew, and then took a chair opposite Flora. “I have a query letter to show you. I think it has potential.”

Flora accepted the letter and read it on the spot. I pictured the author, a middle school teacher in nearby Chapel Hill, standing in front of her class and waiting to call on a student. Did she experience a slight tingle? Did her sixth sense whisper that the woman in charge of selling the children’s books and young adult novels of this literary agency was, at this very moment, perusing her query? If she knew, would her palms go clammy? Would her hand tremble as she wrote vocabulary words on the dry-erase board? Would she suddenly have to sit down? I grinned to myself, imagining the teacher’s delight should Flora send her an email asking for the first three chapters of her manuscript.

Setting the paper down, Flora sighed. “It has potential, but it’s too big of a story for the young adult genre. If they
only traveled to one culture per book, that would be doable, but three? Too ambitious, I’m afraid.”

I was surprised by my disappointment. Trying not to sound defensive, I said, “Couldn’t you ask her to rewrite the book so that it focused on a single ancient civilization? She could turn this idea into a three-book series. I bet she’d jump at the chance to make those changes.”

Flora reached across the table and gave my hand a maternal pat. “You’ve got a good heart, honey, I can tell. But we get letters that are close to the target
all
the time. We’re looking for the ones that hit the bull’s-eye, that make our blood rush through our veins. When we read one of
those
letters, we hope and pray that we can get in touch with the author before some
other
agent does.” She fluttered her eyelashes and looked up at the ceiling. “Ah, the sensation is heavenly—that connection you make when a writer pitches a saleable idea
and
has the talent to back it up. It makes all the tough days worthwhile.”

I didn’t ask what she meant by “tough.” My first day on the job had been fairly traumatic already, and I wanted to concentrate on the positive aspects of becoming a literary agent. Still, Flora’s statement reminded me that she had disliked the man who died in this office Friday morning.

According to Big Ed from Catcher in the Rye, the soft-spoken, apple-cheeked woman across from me had tried to render Marlette even more invisible than he already was by getting him banished from the community park. I had to know just how much she’d resented his presence in Inspiration Valley.

My attempt to speak was abruptly interrupted by a shrill beeping, an indication that twelve cups of freshly brewed coffee was waiting to be had. I pushed back my chair and
filled the black-and-white
Dunston Herald
mug I’d brought from home, inhaling the tantalizing smell of the roasted arabica beans.

“It seems odd to be sitting at my desk, plowing through query letters as though nothing happened here on Friday,” I began, idly stirring cream into my coffee. “I know you felt sorry about Marlette’s death, and I don’t mean to sound callous, but won’t it be a relief that he won’t be showing up all the time?” Pasting on an exaggerated grimace, I carried my mug to the table. “He was odd and raggedy and had a bit of an odor problem.”

Flora took the bait immediately. “I
know
. Shameful! Some people should
not
be allowed to wander about willy-nilly, unbathed, muttering to themselves, scaring children and making their poor parents very, very nervous.”

“Did he do that?” I opened my eyes wide.

Spluttering, Flora put down her cup hard enough to cause the tea to slosh over the rim and puddle on the saucer. “He most
certainly
did! Skulking around the park, hiding scraps of paper in the purple martin house, drinking from the water fountain shaped like a dolphin—which is supposed to be for the
children
—and touching things around the play area. I could just
imagine
all the germs he left in his wake!”

Cheeks pink with indignation, Flora dabbed at the liquid pooled on her saucer with a napkin. The level of hostility in her voice startled me. I’d never imagined this jolly, picture-book-loving matron could harbor such resentment for a fellow human down on his luck.

I wondered if Flora was capable of killing someone simply because she disliked having to bear witness to the unpleasant face of homelessness, but when she spoke next, the true nature of her repulsion became clear.

“Why would a person constantly creep about where children are playing unless that person was
sick
?” she hissed, not really addressing me any longer, but an invisible enemy only she could see.

That’s when I remembered Big Ed telling me that Flora believed Marlette to be a pedophile. If she was convinced of this fact, it was no surprise that she viewed him with malice.

Deciding to test the depth of Flora’s enmity toward Marlette, I said, “We have our share of homeless in Dunston as well. I don’t think any of them are pedophiles, but I do wish those poor people could all get the help they need. Whether that means rehabilitation into society, medical care, or counseling, it bothers me that they’re left to wander around like half-starved zombies.” I hesitated. Was I laying it on too thick? “What do you think, Flora? Should these folks be rounded up and sent to a facility somewhere so the rest of us don’t have to see them?”

Flora frowned, considering my question. Finally, she shook her head. “No, dear. A town should take care of its people. Inspiration Valley doesn’t seem to have any programs in place for”—she struggled to find the least offensive word—“these lost souls. I don’t hate them, Lila. Don’t think that of me. I just don’t want the children to be subjected to scary-looking adults. They have so little time in this life in which they can enjoy their innocence. That’s why I do what I do.” She gazed into the middle distance and smiled dreamily. “Beautiful picture books, faraway places, magic, adventure. That’s what a childhood should be about. Not ugly things like war or abuse or homelessness.”

I nodded, amazed that Flora could be so naïve at her age. Or perhaps it wasn’t naïveté at all. Maybe Flora’s innocence
had been stolen from her and she lived her life trying to preserve it for other children. Her words made me think of Trey, and I suddenly wished that his childhood had been as untainted as Flora’s vision. Doesn’t every mother hope for that?

“Perhaps this author can create that for a young adult audience,” I suggested softly, pushing the teacher’s query letter closer to Flora’s hand.

She picked it up and flashed me a quick smile. “Okay, Lila. I’ll give her a chance.” Humming again, Flora washed her teacup in the sink and left the room.

In my office, I sat down on my creaky old chair. Cradling my mug, I slowly swiveled around and replayed my conversation with Flora. She was a bit of an odd duck, but she was certainly no murderer.

I spun the chair back to face the desk, and my eyes fell on the laptop that I’d pushed aside to make room for the stack of queries. Jude had mentioned emails this morning, as had Bentley on Friday. How many might be sitting there waiting to be read? I turned the computer on and waited for it to boot up.

Twenty minutes later, having had to interrupt Bentley once to ask for my assigned password, I accessed the agency’s main email account. Jude was right. There were hundreds of email queries in the inbox. Three hundred and seventy-two to be exact. And Bentley had forwarded me the day’s two proposals to read through. The remaining hours of the morning flew by as I fielded phone calls and read query letters, discarding each one into a virtual rejection file.

Finally, I looked up from the screen and rubbed my eyes. I was blushing from the query I had just finished reading.
It was for a novel in the erotica genre about a sea captain who gets shipwrecked on an island populated by salacious women. Although the letter was well written, the author’s graphic descriptions made me squirm in my seat. Not being familiar with erotica, I was uncertain if this query was atypical for the genre. It was addressed to Ms. Luella Ardor, and I wondered if I should pass it on to her. I hesitated a few minutes but eventually forwarded it to her email address.

My stomach growled, and glancing at the clock on the computer screen, I saw that it was already half past noon. Making sure Marlette’s notebook was in my bag, I headed for Espresso Yourself.

In the café, I stepped behind a gray-haired lady in a pink velour pantsuit who was waiting at the counter. Makayla handed her a takeout cup and then saw me. “Grab that table in the corner,” she said, smiling. “I’ll bring you something.”

Surprisingly for this time of day, the coffee shop was quiet. A woman in a flowered skirt sat at one table with a laptop in front of her, a man holding the hand of a little boy was on his way out, and the pink pantsuit lady was adding sugar to her coffee. I settled down at the table by the window and examined the book Makayla had set there to claim her seat. It was Muriel Barbery’s
Elegance of the Hedgehog
. The thought of the warmhearted barista escaping to a bourgeois Paris apartment during her breaks made me smile. I pushed the novel to the edge of the table and pulled out Marlette’s journal.

“Girl, I’m glad you’re finally here. I was getting mighty peckish.” Makayla placed two plates containing bagels spread with cream cheese on the table along with two coffee cups. “A latte and a whole grain bagel with spinach and artichoke cream cheese. It’s our newest flavor. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s wonderful. Thanks.” The cream cheese, which was streaked with dark green spinach and had little chunks of artichoke throughout, smelled heavenly. “What do I owe you?”

“Lunch is on me today. I needed an official cream cheese tester, and you’re it.” She took a bite and chewed. “Hm. Not bad.”

I picked up my bagel and crunched into it. It was delicious. The salty artichoke blended with the piquant spinach bits just enough to compliment the creaminess of the cheese. “Oh, this is good. Tastes like that dip everyone serves at parties in a pumpernickel loaf.” I took another bite. “I’m surprised you’re not busier right now.”

“We’re not really a lunch place. Bagels are all we have to offer. Most people go to Catcher in the Rye for sandwiches. Me and Ed, we have a good arrangement. I give people their morning jolt, he stokes their fires at noon, and then I’m here for an afternoon pick-me-up.” She waved her hand at the journal. “Is that Marlette’s? I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”

“Yes. It’s like a folio of art and stream of consciousness writing. I’ve only read the first entry, but I flipped through enough pages to realize that it’s no ordinary diary.” I opened the journal, inhaling the scents of the forest. “Can you smell that?”

“I can. It’s like being in the woods.” Makayla pulled the journal closer and inspected the drawings. “Wow, he was a gifted artist. People would have paid good money for these drawings.”

“I know.” I turned the page. “Read the first entry. If we can figure out who this Sue Ann is, we might be able to uncover the mystery of Marlette. Do you think she’s a wife
or girlfriend? A daughter, maybe? Do you know if he had any family?”

Makayla shook her head. “I don’t know a thing about him. Just that he flitted about town like a leaf and smelled like a box of overripe fruit. And that I saw him climbing the stairs up to Novel Idea practically every day.” She bent her head down to examine the first page.

I sat quietly while she read. This café was perfectly situated for Makayla to take notice of the people visiting or working at the agency. Maybe she had insights on my suspects. “What about Jude? Or Zach? Do you know anything about them?”

Makayla’s jungle green eyes went wide. “You think they could’ve had something to do with Marlette’s death?”

I shrugged. “I’m not discounting any possibility at this point.”

“All I know is that Zach gets jacked up on double espresso every morning, and Jude could charm the habit off a nun.”

Between bites of our bagels and sips of coffee, we skimmed through the pages of Marlette’s book, being careful not to drop crumbs on it. There were more pencil drawings of woodland creatures and sketches of flowers, including a very detailed one of the milkweed he’d given me on Friday. But most of the pages were filled with writing: Marlette’s unfiltered thoughts penned in his scratchy penmanship and ink spots blotting the paper randomly.

“This is so hard to read,” Makayla said, turning to a particularly dense and blotchy page. “His writing is so small, and the sentences run on and on. Whoa, check
this
!” She pivoted the book to face me.

A sketch of a girl stared out from the paper; she was a
pretty young teenager, her braided hair hung over her shoulders and her rosebud mouth puckered. At first glance she was the embodiment of youthful naïveté, but a subtle shrewdness glimmered in her eyes. Marlette had captured an expression of arrogance underlying her innocence, and the longer I looked at her, the more uncomfortable I became. Underneath the face he’d written two lines:

“Oh my gosh, it’s her. It’s Sue Ann.” I stared at the sketch. What did Marlette mean about letting her in? I felt a flutter of memory stir. Something about the face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite—

The café door was thrust open, severing my train of thought. Three men wearing suits entered, their boisterous laughter charging the atmosphere.

“I’ll be right back,” Makayla said as she went to take their orders.