Off the Books

Book 5: A Novel Idea Mystery

by Lucy Arlington

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Literary agent and amateur sleuth Lila Wilkins is back to seal the deal in the New York Times bestselling Novel Idea Mystery series.
 
Lila is showcasing some of her biggest authors at a bridal expo. But when the joyous event turns deadly, she’ll have to figure out who penned the perfect crime...
 
The Novel Idea Literary Agency has planned a wedding-themed week for Inspiration Valley, celebrating not only North Carolina’s best vendors but also some of the agency’s most popular bridal books. The fact that Lila can use the event to plan her own impending nuptials is just the icing on the cake.
 
But wedding bells turn to warning bells when Lila finds a dead man facedown in the frosting. Soon it’s discovered that the victim was connected to several Novel Idea authors, all of whom quickly become suspects in the case. It’s up to Lila and her fellow agents to find the real killer before one of their clients winds up scribbling stories from behind bars...

Release date: February 2, 2016

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Praise for the New York Times bestselling Novel Idea mysteries

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Lucy Arlington

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Special Excerpt from Rest in Peach

Chapter 1

I loved wintertime in the quaint hamlet of Inspiration Valley, especially when it snowed, which wasn’t often. Our little village, with its neat clapboard cottages and brick-front businesses, was nestled deep in North Carolina’s Balsam Mountains, which protected us from the moist southern winds and kept us dry for most of the winter months. But today, snow was falling in big silver flakes, blanketing the ground like a loosely crocheted afghan and giving the Valley the magical appearance of a freshly shaken snow globe.

“Don’t worry, everyone. This snow isn’t going to damper our week,” my boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, founder and president of Novel Idea Literary Agency, declared from the driver’s seat. We were returning to the Valley after picking up a couple of authors from the airport located in nearby Dunston. Tomorrow was the opening day of our agency’s weeklong event, Booked for a Wedding, which was to feature a unique combination of literary and bridal events. “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor this darn snow will keep our agency from holding every single event this week. We fully intend to make sure the show goes on no matter what. Isn’t that right, Lila?” she added, throwing me a resolute look.

I nodded and turned toward the murmur of chuckles Bentley’s string of mangled clichés brought from the two authors in the backseat. Bentley was a keenly determined businesswoman. Leave it to her to think she could control everything about this week’s schedule, including Mother Nature.

“I can’t wait for things to get started,” said Jodi Lee, author of The Billionaire’s Bride. “What a brilliant idea to combine a bridal expo and books.” Her compliment brought a murmur of appreciation from Bentley, who loved it when someone recognized, and acknowledged, the brilliance behind her marketing schemes. And brilliant she was. When I joined Novel Idea Literary Agency a couple of years ago, I was intimidated by her authoritative presence. But since then, I’d come to admire her tenacious drive and sharp business instinct, which had helped scores of authors realize their dreams.

“Not me. I’m so nervous,” admitted Lynn Werner, my client who was a new author with the firm. “Especially for my presentation. I’ve never really talked in front of a crowd before, or read my work out loud to anyone.”

“You’ll be fine,” I assured her. “We’ll practice a few times before your talk.” I’d just signed her the previous summer for her novel, Murder and Marriage, which had been retitled Wed ’til Dead. I thought the snappy title was the perfect fit for her cleverly written cozy mystery. “Besides,” I told her, “everyone’s going to love it. I think it’ll be a big seller.”

“Think?” Bentley bellowed. “Novel Idea only represents successful books. Wed ’til Dead will be a bestseller. That’s what this week is all about, Lynn. Getting your name out there in front of readers’ eyes. That way, when your book does release, you’ll have a ready-made audience.”

Lynn quickly tucked a strand of brown hair under her stocking cap and let out a nervous sigh. I felt for her. Most authors experienced newbie jitters. It wasn’t easy putting your work out there for everyone’s judgment. And public appearances were just one more intimidating task for most writers. Mostly because, by nature, authors tended to be introverts. But it was a necessity of the business, especially for an unknown author like Lynn. She needed to build name recognition before her novel was released this spring.

“Oh, don’t worry about a thing,” Jodi said, waving her mittened hand through the air. “You’ll get used to public speaking. Besides, book readers are some of the friendliest people around. You’re going to have a blast this week.”

I smiled appreciatively. Her kind words seemed to put Lynn at ease. Jodi, a bestselling romantic suspense author, was represented by my coworker, Flora Merriweather. Flora had sung her praises: “She’s the easiest client ever, always so positive and upbeat, easy to work with . . .” Now I could see what Flora meant. I’d only just met Jodi, but I already liked her sunny attitude. Even her choice in outerwear, a cheery pink puffy jacket topped off with pom-pom toboggan in fuchsia with purple snowflakes, was bright and cheerful.

“We’ve booked you both rooms at the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast,” I said, steering the conversation in a different direction. “I think you’ll both be comfortable there. It’s a lovely old Victorian on the edge of the village and the owner is such a gracious hostess.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Lynn replied. “I don’t remember it being open when I lived in the area.”

Bentley glanced in the rearview mirror. “When was that again?”

“It’s been about five years since I moved to the coast. I actually used to live in Dunston. I haven’t been back since I left.”

Bentley nodded, carefully maneuvering the vehicle over the snowy pavement as we turned onto Sweet Pea Road. “In that case, the Magnolia probably wasn’t open when you were here. Cora Scott—that’s the owner—only opened a couple of years ago after several years of remodeling. She put a substantial amount of money into it, too, but I think she’s making a good return on her investment. The place is constantly booked.”

“Is that it?” Jodi asked, pointing to a tall domed turret peeking above the trees. She followed up her question with a long “Awww” as we rounded the corner and pulled up to what we locals sometimes referred to as “The Grand Lady.”

“I can see where it gets its name,” Lynn commented, staring out at the pink and white exterior of the home. “It reminds me of the blossoms on the magnolia tree in my mother’s backyard. Such a gorgeous pink color. It’s exquisite.”

My thoughts traveled across the same lines, and I realized how lucky the town was that Cora had swooped in and rescued the place. In the 1970s, during the Illumination Valley days, when our town was a haven for nonconformists and freethinkers, the historic Victorian was occupied by a group who let the place fall into disrepair. Then, after a couple of decades as a multi-rental unit, it was left abandoned for several years. Luckily, Cora came onto the scene and painstakingly restored its original glory with three stories of repaired white spindle work, freshly painted gables and turrets, and new carved pillars on the expansive front porch. And that was just the outside!

We’d just started unloading luggage when the front door popped open and Cora Scott came bustling outside to greet us. “Welcome, welcome!” she called out, making her way down the small walk that connected the side carport to her front door. “I’m so glad you made it okay. Especially with this dreadful weather. How were the roads?” But before we could reply, she turned to our guests. “Let me help you with your bags. You two must be the authors I’ve heard so much about.”

“Excuse me,” I said, apologizing for my bad manners. “Cora, this is Lynn Werner and Jodi Lee. Ladies, this is Cora Scott, your charming hostess for the week.”

Cora’s deep brown eyes gleamed warmly as she shook their hands. A sturdily built woman, Cora had strong features that would have looked harsh on anyone else, but her sweet personality softened her face and made everyone around her feel instantly at ease. “Come in, come in,” she said, motioning for us to follow her toward the house. “I’ve got a pot of tea on. Just the thing to warm you.”

Once inside, she hung our coats in the front hall closet. Then she directed Bentley and me to the kitchen while she led the authors around the corner to where a small elevator was located. Cora had possessed the foresight to install it during renovations, knowing that two flights of stairs might not be easy for her guests to manage, especially with luggage.

I’d been in the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast a handful of times, but the magnificence of its intricate woodwork and ornate furnishings never ceased to impress me. Admittedly, though, there was a certain heaviness to it all that made me glad for the simpler lines of my sunny cottage on Walden Woods Circle. Still, as I followed Bentley’s determined footsteps toward the kitchen at the back of the house, it was hard to resist the urge to stop and ponder the magnificent details of the antique book stand that held the guest registry or the skilled needlepoint design on a nearby Rococo armchair.

“Pam!” Bentley gushed as soon as we entered the kitchen. A thin, dark-haired woman rose from the kitchen seating area and grasped Bentley’s outstretched hands. They exchanged a series of cheeky air kisses and traded comments on how great each looked. Bentley adored Pamela Fox. Her popular erotic series, The Reluctant Brides of Babylon, had hit the top ten of the New York Times bestsellers list last year, which succeeded in propelling Pam to the top of Bentley’s list also.

We settled into the padded seating built into an octagon area formed by the large turret that ran up the back side of the house. The nook was surrounded by windows framed in pretty yellow and blue fleur-de-lis valances that matched the padding on the built-in benches. To me, this was the best feature of the home: a bright, sunny spot for guests to lounge with a cup of coffee. Much more comfortable than the adjacent formal dining area with its dark oak table and thick Oriental rug of burgundy and forest green.

“I hope you slept well last night,” Bentley said to Pam, serving herself from the antique tea set arranged in the middle of the table. I skipped the tea but snagged a roll.

“Everything has been just wonderful,” Pam said, cringing at the sound of hammering coming from the opposite side of the kitchen. “Except for that.”

“What is that?” Bentley asked, twisting her head to locate the source.

Pam covered her ears lightly. “Apparently the owner is having some shelving put up in the pantry. She mentioned it yesterday when I checked in; I just never expected it to start so early in the morning.”

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten o’clock here, but Pam arrived yesterday from California, which meant it was really only seven o’clock her time. Poor thing. I leaned in and raised my voice over the pounding. “The last of the authors just arrived,” I told her. “They’re getting settled but should be down in a minute. We wanted to make sure you’re introduced before we leave. But someone will be back around twelve thirty to pick you up for today’s meeting.” Bentley had set an organizational meeting for one o’clock at the James Joyce Pub. There would be over a dozen authors participating in the week’s events, so organizing and keeping track of everyone was going to be a challenge.

“I’m looking forward to meeting everyone,” Pam practically shouted. The noise coming from the pantry seemed to be growing louder. “There’s only a few of us here; where are the others staying?”

“At Bertram’s Hotel,” Bentley replied, her lips tight with annoyance. “It’s not as nice as this place, but it certainly might be quieter. Maybe we should consider moving you there.”

As if in response, the hammering suddenly ceased. Pam tipped back her head and chuckled. “Bertram’s Hotel? Like in the Agatha Christie book? No thanks! If I remember correctly, things didn’t go all that well for the guests at Bertram’s. So, I think I’ll stay here. At least we know there won’t be any dead bodies.” She pointed toward the pantry. “Unless Mr. Hammer Happy wakes me up again at some ungodly hour tomorrow.”

We all laughed. Just then Cora came into the kitchen with Lynn and Jodi on her heels. “Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. I’ll get some fresh tea.” She started rifling through the kitchen cabinets as Bentley made a round of introductions. Just as I’d hoped, the ladies seemed to get along well, instantly settling into a comfortable conversation about their hometowns and the books they liked to read. Vicky Crump, our ever-efficient office manager, had asked my opinion when she was setting up accommodations for everyone. During renovations, Cora had combined two of the bedrooms into a large living suite for herself, leaving three spacious en suite rooms to rent to guests, so I’d specifically asked that these three authors be placed together. I wanted Lynn to have the experience of being around more seasoned authors. It looked like I’d chosen the right mentors for her.

“I’ll have you know,” Cora started, setting the teakettle to boil on the stove, “I plan on attending all the events this week, even the wine tasting.” She let out a little giggle as she uncapped a glass jar and started measuring loose tea into a diffuser. “Good thing I got my tickets when I did; I hear all the events sold out.”

Bentley rubbed her hands together and smiled. “That’s right. Undoubtedly it will be another successful venture for our agency.”

To some, Bentley came off as overconfident, brash even, but in my mind, she’d earned the right to pat herself on the back. Before Bentley arrived, the town’s businesses had all but dried up during a hard-hitting recession. When she relocated her literary agency from New York to our humble village, it sparked renewed interest in the area. Soon all the businesses jumped on the bandwagon, changing the town’s name to Inspiration Valley and adopting literary-themed names for many of the small shops. Now our agency’s events drew crowds from all over the country.

Just then the racket started up again, pulling me from my thoughts. “Oh my goodness,” Cora said. “I didn’t realize just how much noise this project would make. Let me ask him to take a little break while we enjoy some tea.”

“No more for us,” Bentley said, standing and glancing at her watch. “We’ve got to get over to the Arts Center and make sure things are on track there.” We were holding most of the events at the Marlette Robbins Center for Fine Arts, a large facility recently built on the edge of town.

Cora nodded, but still headed off, I assumed to talk to the Hammer Man. I stood and pushed in my chair, resisting the urge to grab another roll for the road, and started following Bentley toward the door. At the last minute, she turned back to the table of authors and donned her business face. “Please know that every single agent at Novel Idea is here to assist you in any way—”

A metallic jingling sound interrupted the start of her spiel. We turned to see Cora leading a handsome middle-aged man our way. He was clad in jeans and a fitted T-shirt and wore a leather tool belt strapped around his waist. As he approached, his friendly smile faded and his eyes narrowed. I turned to see the object of his sudden switch in attitude and saw Lynn staring back with a wide-eyed expression. “Chuck?” she said, a slight tremble to her lower lip.

“Hello, Lynn. It’s been a while.”

My head ping-ponged between the two of them. This must be someone Lynn knew from when she lived in the area, but judging from the look on her face, she certainly wasn’t happy to see the guy.

“Oh, so you two already know each other,” Cora gushed. “Everyone else, this is Chuck Richards. Chuck’s helping me redo the butler’s pantry. It’s one of those projects I never got to when I renovated the rest of the kitchen.” She swept her hand around the room’s antique white cabinetry, granite counters, and state-of-the-art appliances with pride. Who could blame her? She’d done a marvelous job updating, while still maintaining much of the original integrity of the room. Her expression suddenly sobered. “But I am so sorry for the timing. I just hate it that everyone has to endure the noisiness. But Chuck was supposed to have started a couple of days before you all arrived. And”—she offered an apologetic shrug to us while tipping her head at him—“he promised the project wouldn’t take more than a day, two tops.”

Chuck shook his head. “I never promise. I estimate. And my previous job took longer than expected. And, actually, it’s looking like yours will now take two or three days.” He raised his palms upward. “Sorry, ladies, but you’ll just have to put up with the noise a little longer.”

Bentley eyed him pointedly. “I tell you what . . . uh, Chuck. The authors will be out this afternoon at a meeting, so you can make all the noise you want then. But it just won’t do to have them constantly disturbed by this racket for the next couple of days. They’ll need to be well rested and on top of their game for all the events. You could work out a schedule over, say, the next four days around their events so that—”

“I don’t really have time to work out a schedule around your events,” Chuck said, folding his arms across his chest and leveling his gaze on Bentley. “I’ve got other jobs this week and I’m trying to wrap things up because I’ve got a trip planned.” He sighed. “And last week, I took on a contract to do maintenance for the Arts Center. I’m a busy man.”

Bentley cast a furtive look Cora’s way. “Can’t this project wait for a while?”

Chuck shifted and gave her a hard glare. I knew Bentley was just being . . . well, Bentley. She knew no boundaries when it came to making things right for her authors and probably didn’t realize how officious her comments were sounding. Or, maybe she did. It would be just like Bentley to think she could change the handyman’s and Cora’s schedules to better suit her authors.

Cora answered with a shake of her head. “I’m afraid I’m booked solid for the next two months. I wouldn’t know when to get it done.”

Bentley drew in her breath and took a step forward. As quickly as I could, I stepped in and grabbed hold of her arm, while glancing at my watch. “You wanted to stop by the Arts Center to check on the other agents’ progress before heading over to the pub for the meeting, right?” It would be prudent to get her out of there before she said something even more offensive. I gently coaxed her away from Chuck before she could even switch gears to answer me. “Thank you for the tea, Cora. No need to see us out. We can manage just fine.” I cast a waning smile at Chuck as we passed by on our way to the front hall closet to retrieve our coats.

Bundled up and back outside again, Bentley turned to me. “Why’d you usher me out like that, Lila? I had something more I wanted to say to that arrogant jerk in there.”

No doubt. But telling her that she couldn’t boss around someone else’s hired help would only aggravate the situation. So instead I said, “With this snow and all, I know you didn’t want to be late to the Arts Center, right?”

Bentley stood a little straighter. “Absolutely.”

“Then we’d better get a move on.”

“I guess you’re right,” Bentley relented. “Besides, if a little extra noise is the only problem we have this week, then we’ll be in good shape.”

Chapter 2

By one o’clock that afternoon we were gathered in the James Joyce Pub, a cozy, wood-paneled bar and grill located just down the street from the agency. The other agents and I often came here for business lunches, finding it easier to hash out contract details or divvy up assignments for upcoming author events over a pitcher of ale and a hearty bowl of Irish stew.

Today, I was seated at a table with my friend and fellow agent Flora Merriweather, who was raving about the shepherd’s pie. “You should really try this, Lila. The crust is just so flaky, and the meat . . .” She took a quick bite and rolled her eyes. “Mmm . . . so tender.”

Next to her, Jodi nodded in agreement. “It is divine. Does everyone in this town cook this well? The rolls Cora served with tea this morning were out of this world.”

“I’d say,” agreed Pam. “If I keep eating like this, I’m not going to fit into my jeans by the end of the week.”

I squinted at her slim figure and sighed, wondering if she seriously ever had to worry about her weight. “I believe Cora orders those from the Sixpence Bakery. Nell, the owner, makes wonderful baked goods. But Cora is a good cook in her own right; she’s . . .” My voice trailed off as I noticed that Lynn was only picking at her food. She’d hardly said a word since we’d arrived. “Is your food okay, Lynn?”

Her head popped up. “What?” Then, noticing that everyone was staring, she sighed and put down her fork. “I’m sorry to be such a downer. I have something on my mind, that’s all.”

I wanted to ask if that something, or rather someone, was the handyman whom she’d seemed to recognize earlier that morning, but Bentley’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me. If I can have your attention, please. Welcome, authors, to Inspiration Valley and to Novel Idea’s exclusive event, Booked for a Wedding. I’m proud to announce that, thanks to my hardworking agents, this week’s events are completely sold out!”

A round of applause erupted across the room. Bentley glanced over the rims of her bejeweled reading glasses and signaled toward our sports and screenplay agent, Zach Cohen, who stood and scooped up a thick stack of papers. “I’m sending around an itinerary of this week’s events,” Bentley continued. “Please take note of your assignments.”

I smiled and accepted my copy of the itinerary from Zach and glanced over the schedule. The sheer number of vendor booths and events scheduled for this week was dizzying. Thank goodness, the other agents and I had been able to convince Bentley to bring in an expert organization to help us coordinate this venture. Not that convincing Bentley was an easy task. True to her nature, she’d wanted the agency to take on the entire expo alone, but after a lot of arguing, and a threatened mutiny, Bentley wised up and hired Southern Belles Bridal Company, a professional wedding exposition group out of Raleigh. Their people brought with them their own nationally based exhibitors and a professional setup team to help transform the Marlette Robbins Center into a professional venue. However, the best part of the package was the ability to add our own local flavor to the event. In addition to the plethora of national vendors and keynote speakers, Southern Belles Bridal sent one of their reps, Ms. Lambert, to act as a local liaison for our own business community.

As if on cue, the pub’s door swung open and Ms. Lambert rushed in on a wintery blast of cold air, brushing snow from the faux-fur trim of her maxi coat. She shot Bentley an apologetic look and immediately headed for an empty chair at the head table. Jude Hudson, our agent representing thrillers and quite the lady thriller himself, immediately stood and pulled out her chair.

Bentley cleared her throat and continued, “Tomorrow is opening day and will commence with a meet and greet reception. There will be vendor booths set up throughout the Arts Center. We’ll also have a table near the entrance stocked with your books for customers to purchase. Each one of you will have your own table, which our agents have already set up with everything you’ll need to sign books as well as plenty of promotional materials to hand out to prospective readers. Remember, people, this is your chance to connect with your readers and sell your books.” She paused for a second to shuffle papers. “In the queue for tomorrow’s schedule is a reading from renowned author and local psychologist Dr. Sloan Meyers. She’ll be reading from her blockbuster hit, Strong Women: Strong Marriages.”

Everyone began clapping, their eyes drawn to the table where Dr. Meyers sat with Franklin Stafford, our nonfiction agent. He had several authors to keep track of this week, including a popular author of wedding craft books and a woman who’d written a top seller about budget-friendly weddings.

Bentley adjusted her glasses and continued, “Then, on Tuesday night, the main attraction will be our display of unique wedding cake creations from both local and statewide bakers.”

“Yes, that’s right.” All eyes turned to Ms. Lambert, who’d stood and was now addressing the room in her sweet southern drawl. “And everyone in attendance will have a chance to taste these marvelous creations, too.”

Bentley took a couple of steps forward, removed her readers, and leveled her gaze on the woman. “Thank you, Ms. Lambert,” she said tightly. “Everyone, this is Ms. Trudy Lambert. She’s the local coordinator from Southern Belles Bridal Company. Her organization is responsible for the wonderful setup you’ll see later at the Marlette Robbins Center for Fine Arts.” Bentley paused politely while everyone clapped for Ms. Lambert. “And right before the cake display and tasting”—she nodded toward the coordinator, who took the hint and sat back down—“patrons will be treated to a reading from one of our newest clients, Lynn Werner.” Bentley pointed our way. “Ms. Werner is a promising writer of cozy mysteries. We thought her reading would appropriately accompany Tuesday’s cake theme, since the murder victim in her mystery was found facedown in a wedding cake.”

A chorus of spirited laughter broke across the room along with an enthusiastic round of clapping. Poor Lynn, not used to so much attention, shrank back in her chair, her face flushing. But she didn’t have to endure the scrutiny for long, because a series of sharp yaps and high-pitched whimpers sounded from the other side of the pub’s front door. Zach hurried over to investigate, opening the door and allowing a little brown and white dog to dart inside.

“Zach!” Bentley started to admonish, but stopped when the dog came to her side and pawed at her legs, whimpering and shivering. I held my breath, thinking surely Bentley would be upset that the pooch was pawing her designer trousers, but instead my usually fastidious boss bent over and rubbed her hand between the dog’s fluffy ears. “Well, who do we have here?” she cooed. And then, “Oh my goodness, you’re so cold. You poor thing.” I watched in amazement as she squatted down lower, repositioned her readers on her nose, and leaned in to examine the dog’s ID tag. “Olive. What a cute name.”

Olive? That sounded familiar. Then I remembered that I’d seen this dog last summer at the pet shop down the street. Of course, it was just a puppy then, but how many Cavalier King Charles spaniels named Olive could there be in this town?

“Lila!” Bentley called out. “Go find this cutie pie’s owner. This sweet little thing shouldn’t be out in this snowy weather. We’ll keep her here until you get back.”

Cutie pie? Sweet little thing? That was a shocker. Bentley never used endearments. Who’d have thought our can’t-keep-a-houseplant-watered, all-business boss would ever have a soft spot for animals? And a dog inside a restaurant? I wasn’t sure how that was going to go over with the James Joyce Pub people. I shot a furtive glance at Flora, but she simply shrugged and offered to have the wa