Buried in a Book (14 page)

I closed the notebook and put it back in my bag. While gathering together the debris from our lunch, I pondered Marlette’s ramblings. Would they help us find his murderer? Was Sue Ann a key to the mystery? I tossed the trash into the bin and put the dishes on the corner of the counter. I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye to Makayla, so I stared out the window and waited for her to finish with her customers.

A woman with a twin stroller jogged past, and then a robust young man on a bicycle pulled up outside the pharmacy. A man hustled down the sidewalk, glancing furtively
back at our building. As his head turned, I realized he was Franklin.

Makayla, having come to the window, watched with me as he made his way into the park and disappeared beyond the fountain.

“Now
there’s
a man you might want to investigate,” she said.

I looked at her incredulously. “Franklin? Why?”

“That man carries a secret like a Hollywood starlet toting a dog in a Chanel bag. Every day he heads out at lunchtime and is gone for
exactly
forty-five minutes. And he never reveals anything personal about himself, no matter what I ask him.” She shook her head. “He looks over his shoulder too much, just like he did today.”

I was bewildered. Franklin seemed like such a sweet, ordinary guy.

“Girl, you’re gonna have to hand that over to the police.” Makayla gestured at Marlette’s journal, which was sticking out from inside my bag.

“I know.” I clutched the straps tightly. “But you said yourself they’re not going to spend much time on Marlette’s murder. It seems a shame for them to have it and then just file it away.”

“So make a copy for yourself. You’ve still got a few minutes before you get back to the grind, right?”

“Smart
and
gorgeous,” I told her, waving good-bye.

The first thing I did when I got back upstairs was to follow Makayla’s advice by making a photocopy of Marlette’s journal. I stapled the pages together and stuck the bundle in the bottom of my bag. The original went into a large brown envelope with Sean Griffiths’s name on the front.

I left the door to my office open, hoping to catch Franklin when he returned from lunch so I could casually ask him where he’d been. In the meantime, I dialed the cell phone number on Sean’s card. Unfortunately, I only got through to voicemail.

Just as I was leaving a message, Franklin walked past without a glance in my direction. Shoot. A missed opportunity.

The rest of the afternoon flew by. I managed to get through both proposals and a good chunk of the email queries. I now had three letters in the possibilities folder, but I decided to give them a second read in the morning before passing them on to the appropriate agents.

Satisfied with a good day’s work, I tidied my desk and prepared to leave. Flora popped her head in my open door on her way out.

“Toodle-loo, my dear. I hope you had a productive day.”

“I did, thanks.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked with her. “Did you have a chance to follow up on that query?”

“Indeed, I did. The author and I are having an email conversation.” She smiled. “She was thrilled to hear from me and responded to my email within seconds. She is very receptive to my recommendations. I just love it when an author understands the need for flexibility.”

I held the door open for her. “Well, it was kind of you to spend extra time on it.”

“Oh, I think something good might come out of this.” She touched my arm. “Thanks to you.”

Basking in her praise, I watched Flora walk to the parking lot. Her vehemence this morning about the homeless
seemed so contradictory to this round, kind lady to whom I just wished a good night.

Unbidden, three words popped into my head. Purple martin house. I suddenly remembered our conversation from this morning and what she’d said about Marlette, that he’d put bits of paper in the purple martin house at the children’s park. Right then I decided to take a detour on my way home. I had just enough time to make a quick stop at the park before my Monday evening appointments. But I didn’t want to sleuth alone, so I dashed back to Espresso Yourself to find Makayla locking up for the night.

“Would you like to do some investigating with me?” I asked her.

She grinned. “Free as a bird. What are we doing? Breaking into a bank vault? Getting our hands on secret files?” Glancing down at her fuchsia T-shirt and white jeans, she smirked. “I’m not dressed in my best cat burglar outfit.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Neither am I. Fortunately, we’re going to a public place to see if Marlette hid something in plain sight. It won’t take long. Follow me.”

The playground was on Dogwood, north of the town center. It was fairly new with brightly colored wood and plastic climbing equipment set in pea gravel, a flock of bird-shaped spring riders, and swings. Benches surrounded the perimeter, close enough for parents to keep watch.

At each corner of the park stood a tall pole with a birdhouse on it. One was a pink replica of the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast across the street, including an intricate gingerbread trim and a little front porch. Another looked like a log cabin. A small Noah’s ark stood at the top of the third pole, and on the fourth was a miniature white apartment
house with three rows of three round holes on each side. That, I knew, was the purple martin house, having had one at my childhood home. How I loved nesting season, when the birdhouse was filled with chirping and the bustle of the mother bird flying in and out with food in her beak. I wondered if this house had any martins residing within. I needed to see if there was anything from Marlette inside, but I didn’t want to risk disturbing a nest.

A bench stood close to the house, and I figured if I stood on the armrest I’d just be able to peer into the closest hole.

“Can I hold your hand while I climb up here?” I asked Makayla.

She nodded. “Sure. If anybody asks, I’ll tell them you’re practicing lines for a play.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Which play?”

Makayla shrugged. “How about
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
?”

Grinning, I paused for a moment to look around. Two little redheaded boys who appeared to be twins were taking turns climbing up a ladder and going down a slide with their mother standing nearby. A blond, curly-haired girl of about three with her thumb in her mouth sat on one of the spring rider birds—a big green hummingbird—staring at a jean-clad teenager talking on a cell phone. A boy of about seven was sitting on the ground in the corner by the Noah’s ark birdhouse, making intricate roadways in the gravel for his collection of cars. His concentration on his task reminded me of Trey laying out the tracks for his Thomas the Tank Engine collection. Somehow, it didn’t seem all that long ago.

I put down my bag, took off my shoes, grasped Makayla’s hand, and climbed onto the bench. Standing on my toes, I stretched up and was able to see into the holes on one side.
There were bits of twigs and grass within, but nothing else. I twisted to look in the holes on another side.

“What are you doing?” a small voice inquired.

Startled, I lost my balance and only managed to land on my feet because of Makayla’s firm grip. The boy stood by the bench, a yellow Corvette in his hand.

“Are you putting a note in there for the Flower Man?” he asked.

Makayla and I exchanged excited glances.

“Do you mean the man with the long gray beard and coat?” I pantomimed a beard growing from my own chin.

The boy nodded. “He picks flowers even though my mom says that’s bad. And he hides notes in there.” He pointed to the purple martin house.

“That’s what I’m looking for now,” I said. “Did you see him put one in there recently?”

“Aiden! Come here!” The mother with the twins started walking toward us.

“Aw, Mom, I’m just talking to the ladies.” He rolled his eyes. “She always thinks somebody’s gonna take me or try to give me candy.”

Makayla smiled at him. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of chocolate-covered coffee beans at the moment.”

Having reached us, his mother grabbed hold of her little boy’s arm. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

I reached out my hand. “I’m Lila Wilkins, ma’am, and I didn’t mean any harm.” Makayla also introduced herself.

“Hello,” the woman said, barely making eye contact. “Sorry to act overprotective, but we’ve seen our share of weirdos around here. Come with me, Aiden.” She pulled him toward the entrance. “We have to go home for supper. Dylan, Daniel, time to go!”

“But
Mom
, I gotta get my cars!” Aiden yanked free and ran to his toys, hastily dumping them into a bucket. “Bye!” he shouted, waving at us.

Disappointed that I couldn’t ask him, or his mother for that matter, more questions about Marlette, I climbed back on the bench and inspected the rest of the purple martin house. But there was nothing inside except for nesting materials. The twigs and fluff and grass that once kept helpless baby birds safe and warm now served no purpose and were merely debris.

I climbed down dispiritedly, reflecting on how the emptiness of the birdhouse resembled that of Marlette’s little home in the woods.

“Don’t worry,” Makayla said, seeing I was in need of a pep talk. “Tomorrow’s another day. Who knows what clues are just waiting to be found?”

“I hope there’s at least one, because at this point I am striking out as a detective.”

She took my arm in hers. “But you make a fabulous park bench acrobat.”

This earned her a laugh, but as we left the park, I carried the image of the vacant birdhouse with me. More than ever, I was determined to find out what happened to Marlette and to deliver a measure of justice to the person known to the children as the Flower Man.

AS THE WEEK PROGRESSED, MY DAYS AT A NOVEL IDEA
began to take on a regular rhythm. I was grateful for this, since the past two weeks had contained more drama than I cared to replicate.

On Friday morning my mother drove me to work, the way she’d done the previous few days.

“This is a nice little routine we got goin’, isn’t it?” She said as she pulled up in front of Espresso Yourself. “Me takin’ you to work, then stoppin’ in town for what I need, and I get back home in time to get my banana bread in the oven and prepare for my first client.”

“It works well for now. Thanks, Mom.” I watched her drive off and headed into Espresso Yourself. There was a line at the counter, but Makayla greeted me as I walked through the door.

“I saw your mama’s darling turquoise truck outside,” she said, holding out a cup. “Here’s your latte.” She then lowered
her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Much as I’d love to, I’m way too busy to look at any of Marlette’s journal today. Got a nice little catering order to fill and inventory to do.”

Each morning, if Makayla had time, we’d examine an intriguing piece of writing or drawing from Marlette’s journal. I had taken the photocopies I’d made of the original and placed them in a three-ring binder. The cover featured a print of monarch butterflies and blue hummingbirds hovering over the uplifted face of a gold chrysanthemum. The nature theme reminded me of Marlette. Still, I missed the pine-scented pages and the texture of the dried flowers and scraps of paper he’d pasted into his diary.

“No worries. Next time,” I said. “I have a pile of work to do, too.”

I had just turned my computer on when a young police officer appeared at my door.

“Are you Lila Wilkins? I was told to pick up a book or journal from you.”

“Oh, I thought Officer Griffiths was coming to get it.” I tried not to show my disappointment. From my desk drawer I removed the envelope containing the enigmatic book and handed it to the policeman. He dropped it into an evidence bag, his movements conducted without the slightest hint of care. I held back a complaint about his indelicate treatment of Marlette’s most precious possession.

But then I remembered that not everyone understands what it means to reveal one’s most intimate thoughts through lines of writing or meticulously detailed sketches. Not everyone is aware of how many emotions can be tucked away in the cursive loops and curves of a proper name. They don’t know how a few scant lines of pen or pencil can represent a childhood memory, a strange and wondrous dream, or a
desperate hope for the future. These feelings and so many more existed in Marlette’s journal, and though I studied it each night before bed, I’d made no further progress in extracting a tangible clue.

Marlette was never far from my thoughts, but I have to admit that I quickly became too busy to devote as much time to his journal as I’d have liked. The queries and proposals kept pouring in. The moment I felt I’d made headway on electronic queries, the mailman would jog up the stairs, whistling to announce his presence, and I’d end up with a sack load of letters. They’d populate the corner of my desk, their colorful stamps and return address labels staring at me hopefully, then accusingly, then angrily as the hours passed.

“This must be how the post office feels when the kids start mailing off their letters to the North Pole,” I murmured as I scrutinized the dozens of paper cuts on my thumb and forefinger and resolved to pick up a letter opener over the weekend. Thank goodness I didn’t have to lick the endless envelopes filled with rejection letters I mailed out each day. If it hadn’t been for self-stick envelopes, I would have had to use a sponge.