Every Trick in the Book (3 page)

MONDAY MORNING STARTED OFF CRISP AND BRIGHT
. Despite the sun, my hands were cold as I rode my yellow Vespa the short distance
to work, and I decided that I would need to pick up riding gloves for the cooler weather.
Parking the scooter, I walked to the office with determination. My day would be full,
starting with the interviewing of two hopefuls for the intern position. The job had
been advertised in the
Dunston Herald
last week but had generated only two responses. I’d decided to interview the applicants
back-to-back so I could compare the merits of each and hopefully hire one of them
by the end of the day. There was so much to do to prepare for the Book and Author
Festival that the agency desperately needed an extra pair of hands.

I smiled as I remembered how Bentley had hired me based on a quick phone interview.
She, too, had been desperate to recruit an intern at the time. Until I joined the
agency, Novel Idea had had a difficult time holding on to
their interns because of the demanding workload and the necessity that they be booklovers,
which was often not the case. I was determined to find someone who was a motivated
bibliophile.

When I entered the agency’s reception area, I was surprised to see one of Trey’s co-op
friends sitting on the leather couch. Doug looked very different from the last time
I’d seen him, however. His dark hair was short and tidy, and he wore a pair of pressed
khaki pants and a white collared shirt. If it wasn’t for his distinct bushy eyebrows
and pale blue eyes, I might not have recognized him as the same young man who hefted
bales of hemp, dressed in patched jeans, and tied his long hair in a ponytail with
a thin piece of leather.

As I approached, he stood and held out his hand. “Good morning, Ms. Wilkins. I’m a
bit early for my interview, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Interview? In my mind, I ran through the names on my appointment calendar. Doug Cooper
at nine, Vicky Crump at nine thirty. I hadn’t realized that Doug Cooper was Doug from
Red Fox Mountain and tried to cover up my surprise by shaking his hand enthusiastically.
“Well, it’s good that you’re punctual. Give me a few minutes. I’ll call you in when
I’m ready.”

In my office, I hung up my jacket and pulled out the interview file. Doug’s résumé
didn’t mention the co-op as an employer, but he did give Jasper Gyles, the co-op leader,
as a reference. Doug had one year of college under his belt, had done odd jobs at
fast-food stores in Dunston, and listed his most recent employment as farming. Uncertain
how he would fit into the agency, much less have an eye for sifting through queries,
I wondered why he hoped to work here and why he was leaving the co-op. Seeing him
cleaned up,
however, gave me hope that one day soon Trey might also choose to withdraw from Red
Fox.

Doug appeared bright-eyed and eager as he sat across the desk from me. I leaned back
in my chair and studied him. “Why did you apply for this job, Doug?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he was not quite used to the shortness
of it. “I decided it was time to make a change,” he replied. “I’m done with the hippie
thing, and the direction that the co-op is taking just doesn’t mesh with me anymore.
I want to go back to college, but since I was kicked out a few years ago I kind of
have to prove myself to be accepted back. So I thought, since you’re Trey’s mom, you
might give me a chance.”

Dismayed at his expectation that our tenuous connection would land him a job, I hoped
that he at least was an avid reader. “What kind of books do you like to read?” I asked.

“Well, not much, really. Do I have to read books to work here? I thought the job would
be like an assistant or something, a gofer, get your coffee and stuff.”

I strived to make my tone kind. “Why would you think that? Did you read the job description
in the advertisement?”

He shrugged.

“This is a literary agency, Doug, and it’s our job to sell books to publishers, so
yes, you have to read books to work here. You need to know what makes a book good,
what will sell and what won’t. We represent writers, and the intern is most often
the first person to decide whether a query ever reaches an agent’s desk.”

“Oh.” He slouched in his chair. “I guess I’m not really a good fit for this job, then.
I just thought…” Sighing, he stood up. “I’m sorry, Ms. Wilkins. I shouldn’t have wasted
your time.”

“You’ll find something more suitable, I’m sure. And I’ll keep your résumé on hand
in case we need extra help at the Book and Author Festival at the end of the week,
okay?” As I showed him out the door, I touched his arm. “You certainly clean up well.
You look very professional.”

He beamed at that and descended the stairs with a light tread. I was disappointed,
however. Now all my hopes for hiring an intern rested on Vicky Crump.

Her résumé looked promising. Ten years as a court clerk and a librarian for twelve
before that. At precisely nine twenty-five, I heard her footsteps on the stairs and
went to the reception area to greet her.

A petite woman entered the agency. Barely five feet tall, she wore a navy pleated
skirt with the hem just above her knees, a white blouse, and a navy cardigan. Her
silky white hair was parted at the side and held back with a bobby pin.

When she saw me, her eyes lit up behind her blue-rimmed glasses. “Hello. I’m Vicky
Crump,” she announced with a strong, confident voice that made me want to stand a
little taller. “I’m here for a job interview.”

“Hi, Vicky. I’m Lila Wilkins.” I waved my arm in the direction of my office. “Please
come in.”

She lowered herself into the visitor’s chair and placed her purse on her lap, waiting
expectantly. She sat with ramrod straightness and met my gaze directly. Feeling as
though I was back in a grade school classroom, I hastily perused her résumé to refresh
my memory, but before I could say anything, she spoke.

“You’ll probably ask me why I haven’t worked for the last four years.”

I nodded. “As a matter of fact, that was going to be my first question.”

“I retired four years ago, same time as my husband, and we thought we’d have years
of travel ahead of us. But my husband died last year and my days have become…quiet.”
She seemed to find the word distasteful. “While I can bide my time with gardening
and bridge club—Franklin, who I believe is one of the agents here, plays bridge there,
too—it just isn’t fulfilling enough. There’s still a lot of life left in me.” She
smiled, revealing a row of perfectly shaped white teeth. “I’ve lived in Inspiration
Valley for the better part of my adult life, and I’ve been watching this agency since
it was established. I’ve also read most of the authors represented by Novel Idea,
and I think I can be of some use to you.”

“Really? You’re that familiar with our clients?” If this were true, then she certainly
had the background for the position.

“Oh yes!” Her enthusiasm sounded like a bark. “One of my favorites is Calliope Sinclair.
Her romances are just divine. And I love Meteor Granger’s spy thrillers. I can’t put
them down and have lost many a night’s sleep devouring his books.”

“Well, your reading interests are certainly an advantage.” I reached for the file
containing sample query letters. “You are aware that this job is for an intern position?”

She pushed her glasses up. “Yes, I am. But I’m wondering if you’d entertain a proposal.
I know this seems forward of me…”

Uncertain what to expect, I put the query file down and nodded. “What kind of proposal?”

She folded her hands and placed them on the desk, and I suddenly wondered who was
in charge of this interview. “I’m sixty-nine years young and have no aspirations to
be a literary agent. But I
love
books. And I love the idea of
being a part of bringing them to life. I’ve seen the newspaper ads looking for an
intern pop up again and again, and I believe you haven’t found the right person for
the job. And when I called here, there was only a general voicemail. No one answers
the phones? No one greets guests?”

“Well…” I said, feeling like I was failing some kind of test. “That’s the intern’s
job and that’s why we placed an ad—”

Vicky plowed on. “I think what this place needs is consistency in the clerical tasks.
You need a receptionist and someone to manage all the paperwork. I’d still do the
intern’s job of vetting the queries and mailing out rejection letters and such, but
I could do so much more than that.” She cleared her throat. “For a slightly higher
salary, of course.”

I gawked at the tiny older woman who possessed all the authority and charisma of Napoleon.
“I think your idea has merit, but I can’t really make that decision. Let me run it
by Ms. Burlington-Duke and we’ll see what develops.” I opened the folder and passed
her a sheet of paper. “I received this on Friday. Our guidelines stipulate that one
should only submit a query letter and no manuscript unless requested to do so. How
would you respond to this?”

She leaned forward and read aloud:

Vicky adjusted her glasses and sat back. “I would reply by saying, ‘I recommend you
reread our agency guidelines and send us a properly crafted query letter.’” She grinned
as if I’d asked her a ridiculously easy question.

I chuckled. “Perfect response, Vicky.” Turning to the bookshelves, I pulled out three
large tomes and placed them on the desk. “These are reference books containing guidelines
as to what makes a good query. I hope you will read them because I think you’d be
perfect for the intern position. Will you accept the job whether it becomes a permanent
office manager position or not?”

Her eyes sparkled and she nodded. “Yes, I shall!” She reached for the first volume.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Wilkins, not a single line of subpar material will get past me.”

“And if a pushy aspiring author shows up here and demands to see one of our agents
without an appointment?” I asked teasingly. “What will you do then?”

Vicky rose from her chair, tugged on the hem of her cardigan, and answered without
a trace of humor. “They will have their knuckles rapped.”

I DON’T KNOW
how Vicky did it, but two days after she had a single phone conversation with my
boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, the reception area at the top of the stairs was rearranged
to accommodate a new desk, a file cabinet, and a leather swivel chair with adjustable
back and seat cushions. Seconds after the furniture deliverymen left on Wednesday
morning, a man from Dunston’s largest office supply store arrived and installed a
complicated telephone system with a headset attachment, a PC with an enormous screen,
and a fax machine at Vicky’s new station.

Delighted by the prospect of turning over the query letter screening to Vicky, I headed
down to Espresso Yourself to tell my friend Makayla about the new reception area in
Novel Idea.

“She may be small of stature, but she’s capable of wiping out an entire drug cartel
with a stern look,” I told Makayla before taking a sip of my caramel latte.

Makayla laughed, a sound that reminded me of wind chimes, and her jade green eyes
glimmered. “I’d better not screw up her order, then.” She slid the latest Tana French
novel across the counter to me. “You can read this before I put it out in my lending
library. I finished it three days ago and scenes are still echoing in my mind. Lord,
but that woman can write!”

“That’s high praise coming from you,” I said, glancing at the pair of bookshelves
in the corner of the coffee shop where Makayla and her customers traded gently used
novels.

The beautiful barista had a shaved head, and her silken, chocolate-colored skin made
her appear ageless. She could have been gracing the catwalks of Paris or Milan, but
she loved her little coffee shop and glowed with contentment from the moment she brewed
the first pot until she locked the doors at the end of the day. A bibliophile and
art lover, Makayla supported local artists by inviting them to display their wares
in her shop. I had my eye on a watercolor of an old woman perched on the edge of the
town’s Fountain of the Nine Muses, her bare feet submerged in the water and her wrinkled
face glowing with childish delight, and I planned to buy it as soon as I made another
deal.

Makayla caught me staring at the painting. “I know how much you want to bring that
home, girl. You can get it on layaway. The artist is a friend of mine.”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. Seeing it every day inspires me to work harder. I’ve
got to convince Calliope to cut the out-of-body experience from the end of her latest
novel or it won’t sell. The entire chapter is just wrong, but she doesn’t want to
hear that. She wants me to tell her the book is perfect and send it out to the publishing
houses.”

Makayla handed a cappuccino to an attractive man in a seersucker suit, thanked him,
and then turned back to me. “Sounds like she’s itching to delve into the supernatural,
but isn’t this book historical romance?”

“Yes, it’s Elizabethan. And it’s wonderful until the main character suddenly dies
and begins to narrate the last chapter in first person as she’s looking down at her
own corpse. Calliope insists she’ll return to her body in the beginning of the next
book and that her heroine can only realize that she’s in love with her sworn enemy
by temporarily dying, but I disagree. There’s got to be another way for her character
to have an epiphany without an out-of-body experience.”

Makayla was about to offer her opinion when the customer she’d just served returned
to the counter. “Do you have any nutmeg?”