Played by the Book

Book 4: A Novel Idea Mystery

by Lucy Arlington

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The New York Times bestselling Novel Idea Mysteries make their return with Lila Wilkins, literary agent and “murder magnet,” planning a book signing garden party. But things aren’t coming up roses when she has to weed out a dangerous killer…

The owner of the Novel Idea Literary Agency is thrilled when former local boy and popular television show host Damian York returns to Inspiration Valley, North Carolina, to launch his new gardening book. But Lila is less than excited about the hubbub when she sees her mounting to-do list. Between planning York’s gala and sprucing up her yard for another event, she’s spread too thin—especially after she finds a skull buried in her flowerbeds.

As Lila’s macabre discovery leads to other secrets hidden in Inspiration Valley’s past, a member of the local garden club is found slumped over her prize roses—murdered. Now it’s up to Lila to dig through old mysteries and new clues to unearth a murderer before someone else is found pushing up daisies…

Release date: February 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

I was completely engrossed in reading my latest proposal, a cozy mystery set in a charming English hamlet, when a couple of specks of dirt fell across my paper. I looked up just in time to see a blue ceramic pot coming down fast.

“Dead,” Bentley bemoaned, setting the pot down with a thud on my desk and sliding it under my nose. “Dead as a doornail,” she added for emphasis.

I brushed away the stray soil and examined what looked like a brown stick with a pair of shriveled leaves. “Did you water it?”

My esteemed boss, Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, founder and president of Novel Idea Literary Agency, hardly ever looked perplexed. Even though she now resided in North Carolina, Bentley maintained her Manhattan façade. At this moment, however, she stared down at me with a strange, quizzical expression. Then, she took the diamond-studded readers that dangled on a bejeweled chain around her neck and placed them on the end of her nose, giving the plant another inspection.

I cleared my throat. “Water?” I asked again.

“Well, of course I watered it,” she replied indignantly.

I stuck my finger in the soil. Dry as a bone. “And, what year was that?”

Her eyes shifted a bit before she started backtracking. “The problem is that plants need a lot of nurturing and I’m just not the nurturing type. Unlike you—you’re a nurturer. And, you have a green thumb.” She pointed out the rhododendron that I’d received from my son, Trey, last Mother’s Day. The vine was practically taking over the top of my file credenza.

“Anyone can grow a rhododendron,” I said, wondering what it was she had in mind this time. In the course of my employment I’d carried out my share of minion duties: fetching her coffee, catering to her most demanding authors, and unpacking hundreds of boxes of books. Was she going to add nursing a dead stick to that list? “They grow like weeds,” I continued, hoping to distract her. “Which, speaking of weeds, you wouldn’t think much of my gardening skills if you saw my flower beds. They’re a mess.”

She folded her arms and stared down her regal nose at me with a stern look. “That simply won’t do, Lila! You’ll need to whip them into shape right away.”

I did a double take. “Huh?” The truth be known, I’d intended to create a charming English garden after moving into my little cottage. But after a nearly fatal encounter with a murderous woman in that garden only two months ago, I got the shivers every time I even thought about touching the very trowel or rake that had been brandished against me. Was Bentley, in her own way, suggesting I move on from that trauma? I looked at her imperious posture and suspected a less nurturing motive. I asked hesitantly, “Why’s that?”

“Didn’t Franklin tell you?”

Franklin was Novel Idea’s nonfiction agent. A mild-mannered, older gentleman whom I’d grown quite fond of over the past year. “Tell me what?”

“Well, you know Damian York’s book, Perfect Outdoor Spaces?”

I nodded. Of course I knew about it. Perfect Outdoor Spaces had been the main focus of our status meetings for the entire past month. Its author, Damian York, was one of Franklin’s newest and most promising clients. As the host of a popular public television series, he was quickly becoming a rising star in the home and garden entertainment industry. Not only that, but Damian was a homegrown celebrity, born and raised in nearby in Dunston, which is partly the reason he chose Novel Idea Literary Agency to represent the first in his series of gardening books. Lucky for us that he did. Perfect Outdoor Spaces was destined to be a bestseller.

Bentley lowered her voice and spoke deliberately. “You’re going to help Franklin host a signing for Damian’s book during Inspiration Valley’s Annual Garden Walk.”

I leaned back in my chair and drew in my breath. “Isn’t that just two weeks away?” Flyers for the garden walk were plastered in the front window of every business in town. I was kind of flattered that she’d ask me to help a senior agent plan a signing for such an important client, even though it was on short notice. I could see her point, though. The garden walk was the perfect venue for an author like Damian York. I’d already planned on attending the walk and was hoping to talk my boyfriend, police detective Sean Griffiths, into taking a day off from work to accompany me. So, it really wasn’t that big of a deal to line up a simple signing.

Bentley smiled slyly. “Which should be plenty of time for you and Franklin to put together a dinner event.”

I lurched forward. “A book signing and a dinner event?” Sure, I’d planned many events like these, but never two at once and with so little time.

Bentley had taken to pacing in front of my desk, her well-manicured hands gesturing as she talked. She had that intense look she often assumed when she was scheming a new plan. “Yes, of course you’d have to plan a dinner event. Half of his book features outside dining areas.” Her eyes lit up. “I can just imagine how you’ll set it up. An afternoon signing, perhaps set in a garden, followed by a meet and greet dinner where Damian can interact with . . . oh, let’s say . . . a hundred of his biggest fans.”

“A hundred?” I croaked. I’d retrieved a legal pad from my top drawer and was frantically jotting down her expectations.

She continued on, her wide-leg trousers flowing gracefully as she paced. As usual, Bentley looked cool, fresh, and perfectly put together. The outfit she was wearing probably cost more than I earned in a month. “Yes, I can see it now. It’ll be the perfect fusion between rustic and elegant—earthy tablescapes and candlelight . . . well, you can figure out the details,” she finished with a final wave of her slim hand. “Just make it fabulous. Oh, and of course, you and Franklin will need to coordinate all your plans with this year’s garden walk chairwoman, Alice Peabody.”

I jotted down the name.

Bentley continued, “She’s the president of Inspiration Valley’s garden club, the Dirty Dozen. She’ll be coming by to look at your gardens the first part of next week.”

“What?”

“That’s why you need to get that garden of yours into tip-top shape; you’re garden number thirteen on this year’s garden walk. The original entrant had some sort of family emergency and had to withdraw from the lineup.”

I could feel my eyes bugging out. “But . . .”

Bentley wagged her finger at me. “No buts, Lila. We need the garden club to help facilitate this event. In this business it’s all about paying it forward. You scratch their back and they’ll scratch yours.”

Oh yeah, well, my back isn’t itchy, I thought, struggling to maintain a civil attitude. This was not part of my job description. I’d happily weed through thousands of queries, prune hundreds of manuscripts, and nurture several promising new authors; but keeping a real garden trim and neat? Well, that was asking too much.

I held my breath for a few counts and then released it slowly, relenting to the fact that I was stuck. Once Bentley set her mind to something there was no dissuading her. So, instead of arguing, I simply nodded in agreement.

It’s true that Bentley could be a taskmaster, but despite my sometimes overly demanding boss, I loved my job as Novel Idea’s newest literary agent. After being laid off from the Dunston Herald—a daunting situation for a forty-five-year-old divorcée with a son heading to college—I’d taken a chance and responded to the agency’s help wanted ad. After cutting my teeth on a few hundred query letters, and bringing The Alexandria Society, a blockbuster novel written by Marlette Robbins, to the agency, Bentley had offered me my dream position. I’d been assigned to mysteries, from cozy and romantic suspense to hard-boiled and soft-boiled, which gave me the daily thrill of traipsing through manuscripts looking for the next bestseller. Sometimes I just couldn’t believe my luck. After all, what other job would pay me to travel in my mind’s eye to exotic locations, meet captivating characters, and ride the roller coaster of fast-paced plots with twists and turns so unexpected that they kept me spellbound until the last page?

Bentley made her way to my office door. “Oh, and Lila, be prepared to discuss your plans at Monday’s status meeting. We’re all here to help you in any way we can. Have a good weekend,” she added as she breezed out of my office.

I shoved aside the dead plant she’d left behind and collapsed on top of my desk. “Impossible,” I muttered. I sat there for a second, my mind reeling with doubt. How could I possibly pull together an event of such magnitude in two weeks? Not to mention, tame my unruly flower beds. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.

A quote from Mark Twain popped into my head. “There are thousands of excuses for every failure, but never a good reason.” I sat up and repeated the quote out loud, drawing inspiration from Twain’s wisely spoken words before snatching up my legal pad and heading to find Franklin.

I was in such a hurry, I didn’t bother to look before entering the hallway and ran smack-dab into one of the other agents, Jude Hudson. “Oops! Sorry,” I said, stumbling backward.

He reached out to steady me, placing his hands on my shoulders. The unexpected contact kicked my heart rate into high gear as his sculpted arms revealed themselves under his snug and immaculately tailored shirt. Much to my annoyance, I still hadn’t been able to shake the spark left over from a kiss that we’d foolishly shared during my first month at the agency.

“No problem. Running into you is always a pleasure,” he said playfully, keeping his hands in place and holding me at arm’s length. As always, his eyes kind of shimmered when in close proximity to any woman (how did he do that?) but this time those sparkly chocolate brown eyes studied me with concern. “You look stressed.”

“Bentley just dumped a load of work in my lap,” I replied, shaking off his hands and reminding myself that I was a one-man type of girl, and that man was definitely Sean.

A swatch of dark wavy hair fell over his forehead as he lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I can help with?”

“There might be.” I was touched that he’d offered. “I’ll be discussing it at Monday’s status meeting. I may need to delegate a few tasks for a meet and greet dinner I’ll be planning for Damian York.”

“Count me in,” he said, throwing me a wink. Then with a mischievous grin, he reached down and snatched up my left hand. “I see there’s no ring on that finger yet. If Griffiths doesn’t put one there soon, I might just take care of it myself.”

“Give it a break, Jude!” I said, ripping my hand away and stomping down the hallway. I knew he was only kidding, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Truth be told, his words hit on a nerve. It’d been a couple of months since I’d overheard Sean ask Trey for his permission for my hand in marriage—a wonderfully romantic gesture that sent me into an immediate tizzy. Ever since, I’d fantasized about my dream wedding—a literary-themed wedding: simple glass candle votives arranged on stacks of vintage books, copies of Browning’s love poems splayed open for guests to read, and my treasured copy of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice prominently displayed next to the wedding cake. Why, I’d practically planned the whole wedding in my mind, everything from my bouquet—roses much like those that must have grown in the Capulets’ garden where Romeo stole away to speak to Juliet—to my dress, which of course would be a 1920s flapper-inspired gown, reminiscent of The Great Gatsby. The only problem was, Sean still hadn’t popped the question. To make matters worse, Sean’s new promotion from officer to detective was keeping him so busy we’d barely had any time together, which was just going to get worse now that Bentley had given me all this extra work.

I knocked on Franklin’s door harder than necessary and walked straight in, not even waiting for his invitation.

“Bentley talked to you?” he asked with a sheepish look.

I nodded, walking over to his wall that displayed all his clients’ framed book covers. I located Damian York’s cover, which showed a table set for two in a romantic English garden, with candles flickering inside hurricane glass and paper lanterns strung on overhead branches. For one wistful second, I thought of how such a table would be a perfect setting for a proposal, then I snapped back to reality. “Yes, Bentley talked to me.” I pointed up to Damian’s framed cover. “She wants a signing for Perfect Outdoor Spaces followed by a dinner for a hundred of his fans.” I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling. “‘Rustic but elegant,’ I think she said. And, of course, she wants everything to be fabulous,” I added, waving my hands in a mock gesture.

Franklin shook his head. “Oh my, she’s been scheming again. I’m sorry, Lila. I should have warned you.”

I looked across the desk at my friend. Franklin Stafford was one of the sweetest men I knew, the definition of the term “Southern gentleman.” I could never be angry with him. “It’s okay.” I sighed. “If we divide and conquer, I think it’ll be doable.”

He seemed relieved. “I have to admit, I’m not the best at planning dinner events.”

I took out my legal pad and started adding to my notes. “Okay, then. I’ll handle the dinner if you want to take on the book signing. Bentley has a garden venue in mind.”

Franklin nodded. “She told me as much. I was thinking the Secret Garden.” The Secret Garden, in keeping with Inspiration Valley’s literary theme, was the perfect name for the local nursery, which was located on Sweetbay Road just past the railway station. Its enchanting acres were surrounded by a hand-stacked stone wall covered in trumpet vines. Patrons entered through carved wooden doors under a double-arched gate covered with pastel climbing roses and made their way around the nursery’s beautifully orchestrated settings on pea-gravel pathways defined with colorful beds of perennials.

I jotted it down. “Perfect! That would work for both the signing and the dinner. I could arrange to have a large tent brought in and set up in the gardens. It would be a lovely location.”

“We should do flowers on every table,” he added.

“Wildflowers, perhaps.” Field lilies, hibiscus, and mallow popped into mind, but I couldn’t quite picture them all together. I made a note to check with Damian to see which flowers would suit both the book and the occasion. Or perhaps my friend Addison Eckhart, manager of the Secret Garden, would give me some advice.

“Yes, and we’ll use some of the repurposed containers that he suggests in his book.” Franklin’s voice rose an octave as he described his ideas. “I like the idea of tinted mason jars or vintage boxes and tins. It adds a sort of an earthy charm, don’t you think?”

I started to reply, but he jumped back in with more ideas. “Oh, and I saw in his book that Damian likes to fill small metal buckets with a mixture of herb plants and place them on the table where guests can clip fresh herbs if they want. Isn’t that clever? As for the other containers, we could pop by Beyond and Back to see what they have.”

Beyond and Back was a new home décor store that sold gently used home decorating items. “Good idea,” I agreed, then went on, tapping my pen excitedly as another thought came to mind. “You know, I bet we could get How Green Was My Valley to cater the event with a fresh-from-the-garden menu.”

“Damian would love that,” Franklin agreed. “His book features several ideas for hosting garden-to-table dinner events featuring in-season vegetables.”

I sat up a little straighter, making a note to read the book right away and check out some of those menus. “Speaking of Damian, when’s he coming into town?”

Franklin’s face brightened. “I’ll be picking him up tomorrow. I reserved a room for him at the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast.”

“Good, that’s the best place in town.” It wasn’t always that way, though. Mother had told me that when she first moved to the area, called Illumination Valley at the time, the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast was nothing more than a dilapidated old Victorian, close to ruin. Not much more than a hangout for freethinkers and New Agers. Illumination Valley had practically dried up during a hard-hitting recession. That’s when Bentley came onto the scene, establishing her agency in the center of town. The success of the agency soon carried the town out of its slump. Then, jumping on the bandwagon, the town reinvented itself, changed its name to Inspiration Valley, and adopted literary-like themes for many of its small businesses.

Franklin nodded. “I’m anxious for you to meet him. He’s simply . . .” A hint of red showed in his cheeks. “Simply bigger than life.”

I couldn’t help but smile at Franklin’s enthusiasm over his client, wondering if it was only a professional interest or something more personal. He must have realized his description of Damian was a bit overzealous, because his eyes grew wide and he suddenly took interest in tidying up his desk. A while back, I’d stumbled upon a secret Franklin had worked hard to keep from his friends and coworkers. And, while I’d discovered the truth about Franklin’s love life, I’d never talked about it with anyone, including him, out of respect for his privacy.

When he finally spoke again, his tone was all business. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to do most of the initial planning for this event on your own, Lila.”

My brows shot up. It was unlike Franklin to skirt responsibility.

“I’ll be spending most of tomorrow with Damian and Ruthie Watson from Sherlock Holmes Realty. Damian is moving back to the area and is looking for a large piece of land to build a home. He wants me along for a second opinion.”

“Really? But what about filming his show? Doesn’t he do that on the West Coast?”

Franklin’s voice was tinged with excitement as he began to explain. “That’s just the thing. He’s planning on building a home that will showcase his design ideas. It’ll be like a live-in set for his show. In fact, Damian says that if he finds the perfect spot, he may be able to talk the network into doing a spin-off show that features the construction of his new home and the expansive gardens that will surround it.”

“What a great concept,” I commented, thinking of all the possibilities for Novel Idea and the Valley’s art community. “Ruthie will find him the perfect place. She’s the agent who helped me buy my cottage.” I remembered that tumultuous time like it was yesterday. Trey and I had been living in nearby Dunston at the time when a combination of events—me losing my job and Trey, along with several rowdy buddies, causing a boatload of damage to Dunston High School’s football field—forced me into selling my home. Luckily, my mother let us move in with her. Finally, after I landed my job at Novel Idea Agency, I was able to pay off my debt and save enough for a down payment on my dream home—a charming butter yellow cottage with periwinkle shutters.

“That’s right. You’re over in Walden Woods Circle—a lovely location,” Franklin complimented me. Although, thinking of my cottage and my unsightly flower gardens brought on a whole new level of anxiety. Now that Bentley had added me to the garden walk, I was going to have to face down my garden with its tangled mess of weeds, overgrown perennials, and the attention-starved primroses. I started rubbing at a kink that was forming in my neck.

Franklin must have picked up on my stress. “Don’t worry, Lila. I know this seems overwhelming now, but it’ll all come together in the end. It always does.”

I nodded, still working on my neck. For some reason, I had an uneasy feeling. Perhaps I was just leery of this current disruption to the prosaic rhythm my life had assumed over the past couple of months. The monotony of late was a welcome change from my first year in Inspiration Valley, which had been tainted with more violence than I’d ever experienced while living in Dunston.

I shuddered at the memories, although those days were behind me. Thankfully, ever since the deathly events at this spring’s Taste of the Town, my steady and uneventful routine had brought back a sense of harmony to my life. Except for the fact that my relationship with Sean was in some sort of weird funk, things were on the upswing: After a successful freshman year at UNC Wilmington, my son, Trey, was on task, working hard this summer as a barista at Espresso Yourself; my wacky mother, the Amazing Althea, local clairvoyant and tarot reader, was behaving herself; my best friend, Makayla, was hopelessly in love; and my professional life had never been more stimulating or rewarding.

I sighed and put on a smile. My apprehensiveness was silly and completely unfounded. “You’re right, Franklin,” I said, trying to relax. “This event will be like a walk in the park . . . or should I say garden.” I giggled. “After all, it’s just a signing and dinner. What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter 2

Still, my uneasiness grew. Even as I headed back to my office to wrap up my work for the day, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had settled over me. Instead of dwelling on it, I busied myself with the manuscript I’d started on before Bentley’s interruption. It was the first of a proposed English cozy mystery series. It featured a feisty female pub owner who, after ferreting out a local murderer, served up a little justice with her whiskey and beer. The author had done such a lovely job of describing the quaint English hamlet and developing its quirky inhabitants that I never wanted the story to end. That’s the thing I love most about a well-crafted story: The story line and characters stay with me even after the last page.

In this case, the author’s talent had given me a much needed reprieve from my current worries. So much so, I’d decided the uneasiness I was feeling was all in my imagination. I was just stressed after being caught off guard by the extra workload, a problem which could be easily solved.

I glanced over at my desk phone. It was time to call in the big guns.

“Hello, Mama. Are you busy this evening?”

“Of course not, hon. You and I have plans.”

I searched my brain. “We do?” I knew we’d discussed trying out the new Italian restaurant in town, Machiavelli’s, but I didn’t recall setting a date.

“Yes, I knew that you would be needin’ me, so I cleared the whole evening. It was in the cards.”

Aw . . . I should have seen that coming. My mother, the Amazing Althea, made her living by reading palms and tarot cards. And not a bad living, at that. Although I’m not sure if her clients referred to her as “amazing” because of her fortune-telling or her baking skills, because every person who came by her home for a reading was treated to a slice of her famous banana bread. Althea’s banana bread had become legendary in these parts.

“So, what is it we’re doing?” she asked.

I sat back, enjoying the moment. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Don’t get ornery with me, Lila Wilkins! You know darn well the cards don’t tell me everything.”

I stifled a chuckle and got on with the reason I’d called. “Actually, I need a favor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can you take your truck by the Secret Garden and pick up a few items for me? I’ll throw in a pizza and beverage of your choice.” I needed to strike a bargain because there was very little I could haul on my Vespa. My sporty yellow Vespa scooter was great for jaunting back and forth to work and easy on my gas budget, but not always the most practical mode of transportation, especially when it came to things like grocery shopping. Although, I’d been known to use packing twine laced through the bars of the rear seat rack to haul home sizable purchases from the monthly artisan fair.

“Well, if you’re planning on invitin’ my ol’ friend Jim Beam, then we’ve got a deal.” My mother had enjoyed an ongoing relationship with Mr. Jim Beam for as long as I could remember. I was just sure her veins flowed with the stuff by now.

I finished the conversation by giving her a list of things I needed and agreeing to meet at my place around six o’clock. That would give me enough time to run by and pick up her “friend” and still get home in plenty of time to change and call in a pizza order.

Sean was next. I dialed his cell, but had to leave a message. He’d been hard to reach lately. Since major crime incidents had been on a decrease, his sergeant had allocated Sean’s time to assisting the specialized narcotics unit. Narcotic trafficking was on the rise in Dunston due to an uptick in gang activity. The city’s department was dedicating half its force to trying to get the situation in check before things spiraled out of control. As a result, Sean had been working a lot of overtime. I couldn’t even recall when we’d last had an evening together.

Frustrated that he wasn’t available—yet again!—I gathered my stuff, took one last glance at the dead plant Bentley had left behind, and flipped off my office light. On the way down the agency’s back stairs, I decided to take a detour by Espresso Yourself.

Walking into Espresso Yourself was like walking into a feast for the senses. The first thing that always hit me was the spicy blend of coffee, cinnamon, and chocolate. Then my eyes would alight on all the artistic creations displayed on the walls and shelves, their textures and colors stealing away my imagination. All that, combined with the soft whirring of the espresso machine, piped-in acoustic guitar music, and the sound of the owner’s—Makayla’s—melodic laugh were enough to abate my strongest worries. I could already feel my shoulders relaxing.

As Makayla greeted me from behind the counter, I noticed her chocolate-colored skin was practically glowing. Probably the effects of a blossoming relationship with the local bookstore owner, Jay Coleman. He’d wooed her last spring by slipping anonymous love poems into her tip jar. Then he finally revealed himself as her secret admirer in the most romantic gesture I’d ever witnessed. It started with a single violinist and a rose at Espresso Yourself and ended in a dozen roses, and that many or more musicians later, at the Nine Muses fountain, where Jay serenaded her with a touching rendition of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” They’d been seeing each other ever since, and I’d never seen my friend happier.

She gave me a once-over, shook her head, then turned back to her machine. “You’ve been working too hard, I can tell. Looks like you’ve had a bad day,” she said over her shoulder. “Let me get your usual.”

I sidled up to the counter. “Thanks, I could use a boost, but make it a small cup. I won’t be here long. I really came by just to ask Trey a quick question.”

“Sure, let me get your coffee and then I’ll get him. He’s in the back working on today’s dishes.”

I laughed. “He does dishes?”

She glanced back over her shoulder again, her fern green eyes twinkling. “He’s a wonderful worker, Lila. I just don’t know what I ever did without him.”

I beamed.