Buried in a Book
Authors: Lucy Arlington
Writer’s Block
Back in Novel Idea’s reception area, I smelled Marlette before I saw him. Once again, that stale scent of unwashed flesh and clothing permeated the space, despite the aromas created by my tray of hot drinks. The espresso and steamed milk failed to mask the distasteful odor.
“Mr. Marlette.” I put the beverages down on the coffee table and cast a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I was surprised to see that he was leaning against the sofa with his face resting against one of the back pillows. He had clearly fallen asleep. “Sir. You can’t rest here.”
When he didn’t respond, I sighed in exasperation and decided to deliver Zach’s beverage before it grew tepid. I couldn’t just shoo Marlette away. Bentley had stated that he often came to the office twice a day. If he was going to be a regular fixture in my life, I wanted to lay down some ground rules with him. And truth be told, I was dying to read his query letter.
I gave Zach his double espresso and then quickly returned to the front, hoping Marlette had awakened, but he hadn’t moved an inch since I’d left the room. His head was still resting against the cushion, and his shoulders were slumped forward as though he were in a deep slumber. Yet something was wrong about his posture. Then I realized exactly what was amiss.
Marlette’s shoulders were not gently rising and falling with each breath. They weren’t moving at all.
IN A BOOK
Lucy Arlington
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BURIED IN A BOOK
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Excerpt from
Every Trick in the Book
by Lucy Arlington copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Julia Green.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
EISBN: 9781101571903
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PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
To aspiring writers of all ages.
The world needs more stories.
Don’t give up on yours.
I THOUGHT I’D BE WRITING ARTICLES ABOUT CHURCH
bazaars and Girl Scout cookie sales until I retired, so you can imagine my surprise when, at forty-five years of age, I was handed my very first pink slip.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. I tend to embellish otherwise uninteresting stories. There was no pink slip. In fact, no one gave me anything until I started to cry, and then my editor, who’d been cantankerous and impossible to please since the day I submitted my first article for the Features section, unceremoniously tossed a box of tissues on my lap.
“It’s nothing personal, Wilkins,” he said, squirming un-comfortably in the face of my tears. “Budget cuts across the board. I’ve gotta let a dozen people go today.”
“But what will I do?” I asked. “I’ve given this newspaper twenty years of my life! The
Dunston Herald
owes me
something
!”
My editor shrugged. “How about a glowing reference?
But only if you leave without pilfering office supplies or lighting a fire in your trash can.”
I rose from my seat. “I’m not that desperate for a box of paper clips, thank you.”
I walked back to my cubicle with as much dignity as I could muster and began to take down the yellowed clippings of my best articles. When I pulled the thumbtacks from the corners of my son’s graduation photo, I was nearly paralyzed by fear. Trey would be a freshman at UNC Wilmington in the fall, and I’d only paid for his first semester. Without my job, how would I cover the cost of another three and a half years of college? And knowing Trey’s subpar work ethic, I’d need funds for five or six years of higher education.
This was not the time to panic. I needed work, and I needed it right away. Surely there was a job out there for an experienced writer. I reached for today’s paper and rapidly flipped to the Classifieds section. It only took a few minutes to realize that unless I was a registered nurse or could drive an eighteen-wheeler, I was out of luck.
Then, an ad I remembered seeing before caught my eye.
Help Wanted:
Intern for the Novel Idea Literary Agency. Help us sign the next bestselling author. Read and answer queries, attend conferences, edit manuscripts. Excellent communication skills required. Competitive salary. Suitable candidate must be available to travel. After a successful three-month internship, candidate will be promoted to junior agent.
It sounded perfect. I called, and after a five-minute phone interview with the agency’s terse and commanding president, a Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, I was told to report
to her office tomorrow, nine o’clock sharp, prepared to put in a full day’s work.
So I walked out of the squat concrete building that housed the
Dunston Herald
that Thursday afternoon for the last time, not in tears, but smiling like an inmate released from prison. Instead of indulging in a midlife crisis, I was embarking on a new adventure. Who knew what this change of direction could mean? My head was filled with glorious possibilities. Fame, fortune, and romance featured prominently.
If I became a full-fledged literary agent, I would get paid to read! Every day, I’d be the first to sample the work of scores of author hopefuls. I envisioned my name in the acknowledgments section of dozens of fabulous books. This image was quickly replaced by the dedication page in an international bestseller.
To Lila Wilkins. I couldn’t have come this far without you!
Delving deeper into fantasy, I created more interesting dedications, penned by the next John Grisham or Jodi Picoult.
To Lila Wilkins, agent and friend. For Lila, with gratitude.
Or this one by J.K. Rowling, whom I convinced to write a standalone about Harry Potter’s children:
Lovely Lila, you are a treasure!
I should have known that something was amiss. The Novel Idea Literary Agency ran an ad for an intern position every few months, but I was foolish enough to believe the job kept coming open because it had yet to be filled by the right person. I was also foolish enough to believe that person was me.
I was so giddy by the time I got home to the little house I shared with Trey that I wasn’t even annoyed to find the
kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, potato chip crumbs scattered across the rug and sofa in the living room, and a pair of mud-encrusted socks at the top of the stairs. Trey had left a note saying he’d be out late. He was going to the movies and then to a party at his best friend’s house. He suggested I not wait up for him.
I didn’t. I was starting a new life tomorrow, and I needed my beauty sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING,
I decided to take the train into Inspiration Valley. The Inspiration Express was more expensive than driving my car from Dunston, but it was faster, and I wanted to read through the information I had Googled about the Novel Idea Literary Agency during the commute. Not only that, but riding the railroad is far more poetic than fighting traffic, especially since the gleaming silver train was transporting me to my new life.
