Every Trick in the Book (4 page)

She nodded. “Sure, hon. There’s a shaker on that little stand where the milk jug and
sugar packets are.”

“I couldn’t find it,” he answered. “Just cinnamon.”

“I’m sorry,” she told him with genuine regret. “I think I’m fresh out. Can I get you
anything else?”

He grinned mischievously. “How about your phone number?”

Makayla pretended to swat him with a dish towel. “Shame on you, George McAllister!
Go buy a dozen roses for your sweet wife.”

The man saluted her. “Already did. The love of my life
made me a rib roast for supper, so the least I could do was bring her flowers.”

Makayla and I exchanged smiles.

“So has Sean shown up at your door with a bouquet lately?” she asked once George had
left.

“He hasn’t stepped foot in my new house yet,” I complained. “It’s not his fault. More
night shifts. And I’m so wiped by the end of the day that I’d be terrible company.
One glass of wine and I’m snoring on the sofa.”

Coming out from behind the counter, Makayla began wiping off the tiny circular tables
nestled in the narrow eatery. “Are you ready for the festival?”

I shrugged. “On paper, sure, but I’m worried about having booked four hours’ worth
of pitch appointments. I’ve never listened to a pitch in my life. I’m going to be
more nervous than the writers.”

“I seriously doubt that, my friend. Most of those poor souls will be shaking so hard
you’ll think they had one of my triple espressos.” She came over to my table and mimed
pulling on a baseball mitt and adopting a pitcher’s stance. “Do you want me to toss
a pitch at you? I’ve got a wicked fastball.”

It was hard to take my friend seriously as she raised her left leg, pivoted her body,
and pretended to throw a speedball at my coffee cup.

“You’re too confident,” I scolded her. “You’re supposed to be more jittery. You’re
a writer who’d do anything to impress me and you know that I’m going to be listening
to dozens of people before and after you. Your idea has to be dazzling and well presented
or you’ll have blown your chance. See? Give me jittery.”

“Okay.” Makayla sat down opposite me and laced her hands together. She glanced anxiously
around the café and
then drew in a deep breath. “My book is a paranormal romance set in a coffee shop.
Mena Lewis is a shy, hardworking barista by day and a dangerous, untamed shape-shifter
by night. She keeps to herself because she doesn’t want to hurt anyone. One day, she’s
attacked in the forest surrounding her town by a strange, nightmarish creature and
is rescued by a handsome but secretive park ranger. He heals her and, during a full
moon, witnesses her change into a snarling cougar. He seems amazingly unfazed by her
transformation, and Mena wonders if she might have finally made a human connection.
But as she gives her heart to him, Mena doesn’t know if the hot ranger is a hero or
a shifter even more dangerous than herself. The end!”

I sat back, impressed. “You came up with that out of the blue?”

Makayla shrugged. “I could tell you dozens of ideas. They’re swimming around in my
head like a school of fish, but that’s all they’ll ever be. Ideas. I can’t turn them
into a book. I just don’t have it in me.”

“Too bad,” I said.

“Listen, Lila. You’re going to be hearing from folks who’ve poured a piece of themselves
into page after loving page.” She gestured at her little library in the corner. “I
don’t know how anyone does it. To have that kind of devotion, to sit there day after
day and lasso the things churning around in your mind into organized thoughts. Can
you imagine how those people feel when they finish that last sentence? And so many
of them won’t ever see their books for sale in a store.”

“That’s what makes these pitch sessions so tough,” I said. “I know that these writers
have devoted a huge part of themselves to their projects and yet I’ll have to turn
down dozens of them.”

“You’ll find the right words when the time comes. I just know you will.” Suddenly,
she grabbed my arm and beamed. “I forgot to thank you for making sure I was picked
to handle the beverage service for the festival. My piggy bank is about to get a whole
lot fatter.”

I squeezed her shoulder. “I simply put your name in the suggestion box, so to speak.
Anyway, I can’t survive this weekend without you and your lattes.”

“There’ll be good food, too. Big Ed is going to set up a Catcher in the Rye kiosk,
and the Sixpence Bakery booth will be there to handle all the sugar cravings.” Makayla
lowered her voice to a whisper. “I snuck over to the bakery before I opened to get
myself one of Nell’s cherry cheese Danishes. Lord have mercy, but that is no ordinary
pastry. It’s a tiny glimpse of heaven, I swear.”

“I’ll pick some up tomorrow to celebrate Vicky’s first day on the job. But for now,
I’ve got to tackle the six proposals stacked on my desk. See you later.”

Wishing me luck, Makayla returned to her position behind the counter and began taking
orders from the group of college-aged students who’d entered Espresso Yourself in
a wave of laughter, raised voices, and tinny music emitting from the earbuds of more
than one iPod. They were all dressed in collegiate sweatshirts, jeans, and boat shoes.

I’d noticed an unusual number of college students hanging around Inspiration Valley
over the last few months. It hadn’t seemed odd for so many of the older teens to be
present in the summer, because many of them held food service jobs and worked as camp
counselors, but today was a weekday at the end of October. Why weren’t these kids
in class?

Berating myself for having become suspicious of
anything out of the ordinary, I decided that the students were probably on a midsemester
break or had just finished a series of grueling midterm exams and had come to our
idyllic town to shop in the hip boutiques, eat delicious food, or hike the beautiful
mountain trails.

Back in my office, I picked up the first proposal in the tidy stack on the center
of my desk and began to read. Within a few sentences, I was transported to an old
house in New England. In a cobwebbed attic, a young woman knelt in front of an antique
steamer trunk and was on the verge of setting free an evil that had lain dormant since
the witch trials of Salem. Unfortunately, the suspense that grabbed me in the opening
scene gave way to forty pages of dull backstory.

I reread the author’s original query letter and wasn’t convinced that the idea was
marketable. The writing certainly wasn’t.

This didn’t mean that I would respond to the author with a firm rejection. Instead,
I emailed her a short note saying that while I loved the beginning of her book, she
would need to completely rewrite the remainder before submitting it to me again.

This done, I reached for the next proposal. It was so riddled with spelling and grammatical
errors that it took me forever to read the first chapter. When the font size shrank
and the spacing went from double to single, beginning with chapter two, I gave up.

“This was your big chance and you couldn’t be bothered to send me your best work.”
I reprimanded the author as though he were sitting in my office. “With computers able
to spell and grammar check, there is no excuse for such a sloppy submission.”

The email I sent out to this author was short and direct.
I wouldn’t be offering him a second chance. I explained that his project was not for
me, recommended that he revise his work before querying another agency, and wished
him luck finding representation.

Shaking my head in puzzlement over the behavior of some aspiring writers, I pulled
the third proposal in front of me and began to read:

I let the paper fall from my hands, unwilling to read more. This story was not for
me. It was too dark and I had a hunch that the narrative would eventually become too
graphic for my tastes. I also wasn’t sure what I’d been reading. It wasn’t a proper
proposal. There wasn’t a single line explaining what the book was about, nor was there
a letter accompanying the document. The author had sent an entire chapter without
preamble and without following any of the guidelines listed so clearly on the agency’s
website. The only note in the personal voice of the author was one line at the beginning
that read:

The whole thing was bizarre.

Despite my lack of interest in the work, this author, Kirk Mason, illustrated a measure
of talent. I decided to hand the packet over to Jude Hudson. He represented thrillers
and was always on the lookout for a fresh voice. This voice was unique enough to give
me chills.

Unfortunately, when I flipped through my file to see if I could locate the original
query letter from Kirk Mason, all
I found was the large brown envelope the chapter had arrived in, stamped and addressed
to the agency, but not to a specific agent. No letter. Curious, I turned to my laptop
and searched through my list of sent messages, looking for the email in which I’d
requested more material from Mr. Mason. My email didn’t contain a single correspondence
from someone by the name of Kirk Mason.

Setting the packet aside, I read through the rest of the proposals and liked the last
one well enough to request the entire manuscript. It was a cozy mystery set in an
isolated mountain town and featured a women’s sewing circle. All five of the book’s
heroines were married to members of the local police force. When their husbands failed
to solve crimes in a timely fashion, the women secretly took over, only to give credit
to the men in the end. I loved the humor and pluck of these women and couldn’t wait
to read more about their exploits.

After tidying up my desk and sending a few confirmation emails to festival guest speakers
and volunteers, I picked up the writing sample by Kirk Mason and headed down the hall
to Jude’s office. Perhaps the author had meant to query Jude all along and somehow
part of his first chapter had ended up on my desk. Things had been rather disorganized
as of late. Without an intern, we were all trying to divvy up the incoming queries,
and they hadn’t always ended up where they belonged.

Jude had his feet propped on top of his desk and was studying an image on his computer
screen with such concentration that he didn’t hear me enter. Even though I’d been
working with him for months, I couldn’t help but pause on his threshold and stare.
He had the appearance of a classic film star—a rugged jaw, warm brown eyes framed
by long lashes, and waves of dark hair. His lean, muscular body
looked good in the tailored suits and cashmere sweaters he favored, and his full lips
begged to be kissed.

I’d kissed him over the summer, and though we’d generated enough heat to cause a five-alarm
fire, it had been a mistake. Jude loved women. He loved to flirt with women, chase
women, and woo women, but I wanted a man who only had eyes for me. If my heart interpreted
the signals correctly, that man was police officer Sean Griffiths.

Jude turned his head and smiled. My pulse raced a little faster, but I called forth
the memory of my last dinner date with Sean, and my coworker’s allure instantly dimmed.

“Hi,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I was just admiring the festival page on
our website. Good job.”

I shrugged at his praise. “That’s the handiwork of our web designer. I can’t take
the credit.” I lowered myself into his guest chair. “It does look sharp, though, doesn’t
it?”

“Don’t be so modest. It was your concept, your design. Mandy just did the technical
stuff to get it on the Internet.”

“Thanks.” I grinned. “We’ve processed over two hundred registrations through the website
and more by mail. I think the convention is going to be a great success. Based on
the emails I’ve received, both the young adult fantasy panel and the one featuring
members of area law enforcement are going to be standing room only.”

Jude’s eyes twinkled. “Isn’t your boyfriend participating in that session? You’ll
have to make sure not to schedule any of your pitch interviews then.”

“Very funny.” I had, in fact, cleared my calendar for that hour, because I really
wanted to see Sean in action. The other participants would include the DA’s assistant,
a coroner, and a private investigator. The session promised to provide a plethora
of information for mystery writers.

Jude leaned forward and clicked his computer mouse. “I’m excited about the festival,
too.” He turned his monitor toward me. “I just wish the Marlette Robbins Center for
the Arts could have been ready in time. It would be a much better venue than the old
town hall. Look at the layout of the building. This entire wing”—he indicated to the
right of the screen and then again to the left—“and this one are both closed to the
public. They branch out from the central area where we’re holding our sessions, and
I’m hoping that the wooden barriers we erected will deter attendees from poking around
in those spaces. They’re littered with construction debris. A total lawsuit waiting
to happen.”