Buried in a Book (7 page)

Makayla wasn’t kidding. She literally opened fire on me with an aluminum can of room deodorizer. She got my clothes, my shoes, my hair. I examined my reflection in the mirror and was pleased to find that I didn’t have bits of trash stuck to my shoulder-length nut brown hair. I swiveled this way and that, thinking that I needed to wear a longer blouse over my pencil skirt in the future, for even though I was tall, I was curvy. Perhaps too curvy for such a snug skirt. No wonder men I didn’t know were flirting with me! But now that I smelled like eau de Lysol, I doubted that even my coffee-colored eyes or Rubenesque figure would attract too many admirers. Heading back upstairs, I felt like a freshly disinfected hospital ward.

“Come find me at the end of the day, Ms. Pine-Sol!” Makayla called after me. “I’ll fix you something special to make you feel better.”

I paused on the landing. “Thank you, but I’m going to want something much stronger than coffee by the time
this
day is finally over.”

Returning to my sad little desk and the stack of query letters, I half expected one of the other agents to rush into
the lobby, demanding why I’d been absent for so long, but the office was eerily quiet.

I noticed the relaxing guitar music that had been playing earlier in the day had been turned off, but I was able to remedy the problem by flicking a wall switch located just inside the door of the electrical closet. A lovely melody ebbed from the overhead speakers, and the soothing harmonies created by flutes and cellos allowed me to concentrate on my work once more.

I read through thirty query letters, placed them all in the rejection folder, and then heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. For some reason, I felt compelled to hide the single flower I’d brought back with me. As my desk had no drawers and the tiny, delicate petals would be crushed in my purse, I slipped the bloom in between the pages of the first book I pulled from the shelves containing the works of Novel Idea clients. It was called
Can’t Take the Heat
.

Luella Ardor strode into the lobby as though she were on a catwalk in Milan. Pausing at my desk, she flipped a strand of glossy hair over one shoulder and smiled at me. “That’s by Calliope Sinclair, one of my most prolific authors. Borrow that book if you want, but be warned: You will
not
want to sleep alone after you’ve had a taste. Chapter three contains the most erotic sex scene I’ve ever come across. The heroine is in an elevator with two firemen and—”

“Thank you,” I interrupted hastily. Truth be told, I was rather interested in hearing the rest of that sentence, but Franklin had suddenly appeared in the lobby, and I didn’t want to be caught discussing a ménage à trois in his presence. I wanted his respect, and I suspected I’d earn it by acting like a professional and a former journalist, not like a tween swooning over a poster of a shirtless heartthrob.
Still, I couldn’t help exchanging a secretive smile with Luella as I slid the book into my bag.

“I’m off to lunch,” Franklin announced and then paused. “In the face of this morning’s unfortunate incident, Bentley probably forgot to mention that you may take an hour for lunch whenever you’d like. The main switchboard number has been set to voicemail since the last intern left, so it might as well stay that way for another sixty minutes.”

I looked back and forth between Franklin and Luella. “I’m expected to be the agency’s receptionist as well?”

Luella waved an elegant hand at me. “Don’t worry, darling. Our clients call us on our personal lines. The only calls you have to field will come from writers checking on their query status or members of the media who haven’t pleased Bentley enough to be given her direct number.” She fished a compact from her crocodile-skin clutch and examined her reflection. After licking her teeth with her tongue, she snapped the compact and smiled at me. “Honestly, the phone doesn’t ring much. Though after this morning…” She turned to Franklin. “I think we’d better let it go to voicemail for the remainder of the day, don’t you?”

Franklin nodded, recommended I try a sandwich shop on Lavender Lane called Catcher in the Rye, and disappeared downstairs. Luella followed on his heels, talking animatedly into a bejeweled cell phone as she walked.

One would imagine that having seen a dead man would ruin my appetite for the rest of the day, but judging from the growling coming from my lower belly, my body had made a quick recovery.

Catcher in the Rye was three blocks away, but the comforting aroma of baking bread was adrift on the breeze before I even stepped foot onto Lavender Lane. The café,
which had both indoor and outdoor eating sections, was already crowded. As I tried to get my bearings, a man ex-plained that I needed to order my food at the counter, pay for it, and wait to be assigned a name.

“I already have a name,” I told him. “I don’t get it.”

“Big Ed’ll call a fictional name when your sandwich is ready.” The friendly local grinned at me. “Everyone’s given a random name by the cashier. Big Ed is a creative fellow, you’ll see. Enjoy!”

I had no time to make sense of that last bit, as I had the daunting task of selecting a sandwich from the dozens listed on an enormous chalkboard mounted above the cashier’s station. I was tempted by the Van Gogh—turkey, sliced Brie, and apples with honey mustard on a French baguette—and by the Pavarotti—Genoa salami, prosciutto, provolone, and roasted red peppers on toasted Italian bread—but I went with the Hamlet, which was a tasty combination of Black Forest ham, sliced Havarti, tomatoes, and a Dijon mayo on rye.

After I’d ordered and paid, feeling guilty for choosing crinkle-cut potato chips instead of a side of sliced carrots or fruit salad, the cashier handed me a laminated card. “What’s this?” I asked.

“Your name,” the woman answered and called for the next person in line to step forward.

I smiled. I’d been given a card bearing the name and photograph of Eliza Doolittle. I loved
My Fair Lady
. Somehow, having been given this card made me stand with a more upright posture. With a slight tilt of the chin, I inexplicably felt more hopeful that I was capable of unraveling the mystery behind Marlette’s demise.

“Who did you get?” I asked the man who’d been so helpful when I first entered the sandwich shop.

The man frowned unhappily. “One that I don’t like. I always feel like a five-year-old child whenever Big Ed calls out this name and I have to step forward. For once, I’d like to get Sinbad the Sailor or James Bond. But no, I’m stuck with—”

“RUMPELSTILTSKIN!” the portly server behind the counter bellowed, and the man next to me slunk forward to collect his lunch.

“Better luck next time, Mr. Hodges!” Big Ed smiled merrily as the man tossed the card bearing his fairy tale identity in a basket. He then caught my eye. “And you must be Eliza Doolittle.”

“I’s very pleased ta meetchya, I’m sure,” I said in my best Cockney accent and performed a small curtsy as Big Ed placed my order on the counter.

Big Ed threw his head back and roared, his second chin wobbling with mirth. In his late sixties, the owner and sandwich artist was completely bald with the exception of a crescent of gray hair hugging the base of his large head. “I sure like it when folks play along. Are you visiting our lovely town on this fine day?”

“No. I just started working at Novel Idea,” I said with a hint of pride.

Reaching over the counter to give me a sympathetic pat on the hand, Big Ed said, “I heard what happened over there this morning. A terrible thing. Poor Marlette. He just drifted around this place like a tumbleweed, but he was a harmless old fool, despite what Flora might have told you.”

Big Ed wrapped a tuna salad on whole wheat in a sheet of wax paper and shouted, “PIPPI LONGSTOCKING!”

An elderly woman wearing thick glasses shuffled up to the counter. “I
was
a redhead, once upon a time.”

“And you’re still as hot as a chili pepper.” Big Ed winked as his customer accepted her sandwich with a delighted grin.

I liked Big Ed. Opening my bag of chips, I leaned against the counter as though I had all the time in the world to chat. “Was there animosity between Flora and Marlette?”

Big Ed spooned hot meatballs onto a hoagie. “I should think so. Flora called the cops on Marlette a few times. He liked to hang around the Wonderland Playground. It’s where all the moms take their kids to play, and Flora thought it was creepy that Marlette would sit on a bench and watch them for hours on end.” He topped the meatballs with shredded Romano cheese and garnished the mound with a sprinkle of fresh oregano.

“MICHELANGELO!”

A man wearing coveralls dotted with paint splatters appeared at the counter. “You’re giving me too much credit, Big Ed. I just paint houses, my man.”

“You never know, Bobby.” Big Ed smiled and began to assemble another sandwich. Glancing at me, he continued his story. “Flora accused Marlette of acting like a pedophile. She tried to get the parents riled up to the point of having Marlette banned from the park as a public nuisance or something ridiculous like that.”

He placed the next order on the counter. “WALT DISNEY!”

I was entirely focused on Big Ed’s story, but the name made me raise my brows. I was surprised that Big Ed had chosen Mickey Mouse’s creator to appear on one of his cards.

“What?” Big Ed gestured at the middle-aged woman collecting her sandwich as if he’d read my mind. “You don’t
consider Walt here an inspiration? He’s one of the most inspirational people in history.”

Crunching on a potato chip, I nodded in agreement. “Some of my happiest memories are of taking my son to Disney World, but back to Marlette. I only met him today, and I could tell he wasn’t a child predator. Why did Flora go out of her way to try to get him banished from the park?”

Big Ed shrugged. “I’m not going to trash-talk your coworker, Eliza. Let’s just say that Flora has an image of how things should be. Comes from reading nothing but kids’ books, I guess, but her idea of a children’s park did not include a vagrant, so she spent a great deal of time trying to make him disappear.”

“She wanted the children’s park to be like those green and lovely places from a Tasha Tudor or Beatrix Potter book,” I murmured. “Talk about preserving one’s fantasy.”

Big Ed didn’t answer, and I realized that I’d lingered at the counter long enough. After wishing him a good day, I found a shady spot on the patio, unwrapped my Hamlet, and pulled the romance novel entitled
Can’t Take the Heat
from my bag.

I examined the pair of bare-chested firemen on the cover and hoped I’d have enough time to read through chapter three before my lunch hour was over.

THE FIFTIETH QUERY
fluttered to the table. Another one for the rejection folder. Another form letter to mail out. I’d only placed three in the possibilities file. Stretching my back, I glanced in dismay at the two remaining piles, having placed the letters in stacks of twenty-five to better track my progress. It was almost six o’clock, and I didn’t see any possible
way to meet my quota of one hundred queries even though I’d already read and made comments on the two proposal packets for today. Would Bentley fire me for not having read all the queries?

“Hey, Lila, time to call it quits.” Zach, who’d suddenly appeared in front of me, snapped his fingers and pointed to the stairs. “It’s the weekend, baby!”

“But I haven’t finished my quota.”

He stared at the piles of paper. “Don’t worry about that. Finish up at home. You don’t want to be sitting in the office on a Friday night, do you?”

“No.” And I had a mission before catching the seven o’clock train back to Dunston. Franklin had told me that the previous intern, Addison Eckhart, was now employed at the town’s garden center. I wanted to talk to her about Marlette and his mysterious query letters. Having phoned the Secret Garden, I discovered that Addison would be working until eight tonight. “You’re right. I can do these at home.” I gathered up the remaining queries.

“Atta girl. See you Monday.” He bounded down the stairs.

I tidied my workspace, hoping Bentley would see fit to give me a proper desk on Monday, and put the unread queries into my bag. I looked around. Should I just leave? Everyone except Franklin was already gone. I knocked on his door.

“I’m going now,” I said, as it swung open.

Franklin looked up from his desk. “Sure, sure. Have a good weekend.”

“Who locks up? And what if I get here on Monday before anyone else? Do you think I should have a key?”

“Well, the last person to leave usually locks the door, and we all have keys.” He scratched his head. “Ask Bentley about
that on Monday.” He smiled. “Just don’t get here before eight. That’s when she arrives, and she’s always the first.”

Before heading out the door, I checked in my bag to make sure that Marlette’s flower was still tucked between the pages of
Can’t Take the Heat
.

The Secret Garden was on Sweetbay Road, just past the railway station. Walking along the cobblestoned High Street, I turned right at the fountain, making my way toward Walden Woods Circle. I loved walking past these charming cottages, left over from the town’s Illumination days, when they served as spacious rental units for a contemplative retreat site. As part of Inspiration Valley’s refurbishment, these cabins were renovated and sold as private homes. Painted in an assortment of pastel colors, their tiny gardens were enclosed with white picket fences, and although there was an element of sameness about the neighborhood, each home had its unique character.

My heart went aflutter when I saw a
For Sale
sign in front of a creamy yellow house with blue shutters. Its garden was filled with abundant hydrangea bushes ready to bloom, and the path leading toward the house was made up of stepping-stones in the shapes of leaves. I wondered if I could afford this endearing cottage and jotted down the phone number of Ruthie Watson, whose name was listed on the Sherlock Homes Realty sign in bold blue letters.

When the picket fences ended, I turned onto Sweetbay and found myself walking next to an old stone wall covered with trumpet vines. It led to the entrance of the Secret Garden, an arched double gate with pink and white roses climbing up trellises on either side. The wooden doors stood open, revealing pathways leading to various sections—trees, shrubs, garden plants, supplies. For a moment, I felt like
Frances Hodgson Burnett’s heroine, Mary Lennox. Gazing around the blooming paradise, I whispered, “‘She liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place.’”