Every Trick in the Book (5 page)

“We’ll just have to strategically place our message boards and information signs to
keep people away from those areas.”

He nodded. “Good thinking. But we have to make sure people can’t get into those sections
of the building. They have minimal lighting and they’re not safe. We must consider
our liability.”

I gazed at the computer screen. The parts of the town hall we were using for the festival
were labeled and coded in various colors according to their usage. The restricted
wings appeared as ominous blocks of black. “It’ll be fine, Jude. And the Marlette
Robbins Center will be ready for next year’s festival.” Inspiration Valley had been
bequeathed the funds to build the Arts Center in honor of the late Marlette Robbins,
a former homeless man and posthumously published author.

I handed over the packet from Kirk Mason. “I wanted you to look at this. It’s definitely
not for me and is more your kind of thing. It was unsolicited, but it might be marketable.”

As he scanned the first page his eyes darkened. “This is a
bit twisted, but you’re right. It
is
up my alley. I might be able to sell it. What do you know about this Kirk Mason?”
He flipped through the pages in befuddlement, clearly searching for an actual synopsis.

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t locate a proposal or a query about this novel,
or any emails or correspondence of any kind from a Kirk Mason.”

“That’s strange.”

“I know. If you wanted to consider the manuscript, how are we supposed to contact
the author if we don’t know how?”

Jude shrugged and placed the proposal in his in-tray. “Well, Kirk Mason says he’ll
be at the festival.”

I sat back and tried to imagine what a writer of such dark material would look like.
I envisioned a tall, slim man with a hooked nose, dark, deep-set eyes, and pencil-thin
lips. He’d be dressed all in black and have a dagger tattooed on his neck. At the
pitch session, I’d have to sit across from him, listening to his scabrous voice as
he described his novel in chilling, graphic detail, his cold, piercing stare making
me want to look anywhere but at him. Involuntarily, I shuddered. “Then I hope this
author is scheduled for one of your pitch sessions and not mine!”

THE INSPIRATION VALLEY BOOK AND AUTHOR FESTIVAL
got under way Friday morning beneath a bank of low clouds, dark and heavy with rain.
The attendees didn’t seem to notice, and the buzz of excitement that traveled among
them reverberated through the lobby of the old town hall. In fact, the organized bustling
of the crowd combined with the hum of many voices reminded me of an energetic beehive.

I was stationed at one of the check-in tables, issuing badges and schedules to panel
speakers and other special guests. Vicky was seated at another table with Flora Meriweather,
the agent representing children’s and young adult books at Novel Idea, and I couldn’t
help but grin over their contrary appearance.

Flora, a plump, jovial middle-aged woman who favored bright colors and cheerful patterns,
was wearing a floral blouse and a mango-colored skirt. Her lipstick was the same tropical
hue, and she’d secured her hair beneath a lime green
headband. Her Peter Pan charm bracelet jingled merrily each time she handed one of
the writers a welcome packet. It took Flora twice as long as Vicky to complete the
check-in task, as she engaged each of the attendees in conversation, making fast friends
with every person in her line.

Vicky, on the other hand, kept her face as blank as a world-class poker player. She
ticked off names on a spreadsheet she’d created during her first hour of work at the
agency, answered questions in a clear-cut monotone that could have rivaled the loudspeaker
announcements heard at an airport, and sent people on their way. And even though her
attire resembled that of a Catholic school nun, from her shapeless black sweater down
to her square-toed orthopedic footwear, I was delighted to have her onboard.

The woman had transformed our office within hours of her arrival yesterday. She’d
appeared at the top of the stairs at two minutes to nine, thanked Jude for the flowers
on her desk, thanked me for welcoming her into the fold with an offering of Danishes
and coffee, placed her purse under her desk, and then tapped on a little gold watch.
“It’s nine o’clock. Time for work. There’s much to be done.”

Whenever I passed by her desk, I found her seated with perfect posture. And while
she rarely moved her body, her hands were like whirling dervishes over the keyboard.
Vicky could certainly multitask. I’d never seen an office manager who could calmly
answer the phone with one hand, type with another, and not lose focus on either job.
It was as if she had two minds.

By the end of Vicky’s first day on the job, the agents’ inboxes had been graced by
a fresh pile of well-written query letters, dozens of minute details relating to the
festival had
been addressed, and our break room had been cleaned and sterilized until it resembled
a hospital ward.

Now, sitting here in the lobby of town hall, I would have loved to be able to emulate
Vicky’s self-confidence. The reputation of our agency would be affected by the success
of this festival. Novel Idea would either gain more clients and esteem from this weekend,
or people would question whether a premier literary agency could really flourish this
far from New York City, the heart of the publishing world.

My boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, tobacco heiress and philanthropist, had left the
bustle of Manhattan and returned to her home state to open the foremost agency in
the South. So far, she’d made good on that goal, and we all hoped this festival would
finally prove to our doubters that we could operate from Tahiti and still be successful.
As long as we had the Internet and a group of ambitious agents, we’d continue to rival
any of the agencies from the Big Apple.

Just as this thought was passing through my mind, one of the guest speakers arrived
at my table and stared at me in awe. I returned the slack-jawed stare, for this woman
could have been my twin. Like me, she appeared to be in her midforties. Tall with
feminine curves, coffee brown eyes, and hair the color of roasted hazelnuts, the only
noticeable difference was that her skin was more peach-toned than mine. Remarkably,
we’d both paired a paprika-colored blouse with slacks. Mine were black and hers were
tan, and I’d chosen flats while she’d opted for heeled boots in highly polished leather,
but still, the overall resemblance was extraordinary.

“They say everyone has a double,” I said and held out my hand to her. She clasped
mine and shook her head in wonder.

“I’m Melissa Plume.” Her voice was lower in timbre than
mine. “Senior editor for Doubleday Books.” She handed me a business card, which I
slipped in my purse without looking at it.

Handing her a packet, I smiled and told her my name. “And we have books in common,
too. I don’t suppose pepperoni is your favorite pizza topping.”

Returning my smile, she said, “Anchovies. Still, we could fool my husband, if not
my mother. How’d you like to fly up to New York and pretend to be me whenever I need
to tell an author that their series has been canceled?”

I waved away the offer. “No, thank you. I have to deliver plenty of rejections as
it is. That’s why this festival is going to be so much fun for me. At this stage,
the place is teeming with possibility. The writers are determined, eager, hopeful.
They’re like marathon runners poised at the starting line, their adrenaline pumping,
their hearts filled with expectation.” I stopped, knowing that I was getting carried
away. “I wish it could always feel like this.”

“The serious writers won’t give up, no matter how many rejections they get,” Melissa
said, gazing at the crowd. “They take classes, join critique groups, and edit their
books again and again until someone like you believes they are ready. It might take
them ten years to get published, and their first book might tank. But the real writers,
the ones whose veins run with ink, who talk to characters in the shower, who’d make
the perfect material witness because of their powers of observation, those people
never give up. They can’t. Writing is an addiction. If they stop, they dry up and
wither away.”

“I hope that speech is part of your lecture.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’ve got a whole notebook of such inspirational gems. See you in
there.”

Once all of the morning’s panelists and guest speakers had checked in, I waded through
the clusters of aspiring writers milling around the Espresso Yourself and Sixpence
Bakery kiosks. Makayla, who was steaming milk in a stainless steel pitcher, called
me over and handed me a caramel latte without skipping a beat. I told her we’d catch
up later and forced myself not to be tempted by the sight and smell of chocolate croissants,
pecan twists, cinnamon buns, triple berry muffins, and apple strudel that Nell was
selling with the alacrity of a newspaper boy with a dramatic headline.

Walking around the room with my latte, I double-checked the signage and was reassured
that the rooms designated for the panels were easy to find. Vicky had me pose with
a few of the attendees as she snapped some photos.

“I want to post a bunch on the agency’s website,” she explained. “Good PR.”

I decided to sit in on “Crafting Your Nonfiction Proposal,” which was being mediated
by my coworker Franklin Stafford.

The room was packed. I had to settle for a seat in the last row, and my heart swelled
with pride when Franklin switched his microphone on and introduced five of his clients.
Under his guidance, the published authors shared stories of how they’d become published.
Their narratives were heartfelt and humorous, and it was clear that all of the writers
had faced challenges on the road to publication. The allotted hour elapsed before
anyone was prepared to leave.

After attending Melissa Plume’s insightful lecture on the future of the publishing
industry, I rounded out my morning by serving as a mediator on my own panel: “Cozy,
Soft-Boiled, or Romantic Suspense: Identify Your Mystery Genre.”

I’d invited four authors to sit at the table in front of the room and discuss which
elements helped classify their novels as a particular genre. The most engaging speaker
turned out to be Calliope Sinclair. Flamboyant as ever, the author of dozens of bestselling
romance novels was a local hero. She was the small-town North Carolina girl who’d
made it big, and her love of the craft shone through every piece of advice and anecdote.
Dressed in a voluminous royal purple muumuu, turquoise leggings, and an emerald green
scarf, Calliope was as showy as a peacock, but she responded to questions from the
audience with a passionate sincerity that stole the show. The other authors didn’t
seem to mind. Being far more reserved than Calliope, they were certainly happy to
let her represent them all.

At the end of the panel, I sidled up to Calliope and asked if I could treat her to
lunch.

“We really need to talk about your current project.” I was determined to convince
her that she’d have to revamp the final chapter of her book if I stood any chance
of selling it.

Calliope consulted a diamond-encrusted watch. “All right, but I’d rather not wait
in line for one of Big Ed’s sandwiches. I have a facial this afternoon and don’t want
to be late.” She put her hands to her cheeks. “My skin always gets
so
dry in the fall.”

Knowing I would likely regret asking, since Calliope had expensive taste and I tried
to keep my business expenses within budget, I said, “Where would you like to go?”

“Let’s walk over to How Green Was My Valley. They’re featuring Indian dishes on their
hot food bar and I simply
adore
lamb rogan josh over a mound of basmati rice.”

It was a relief to leave the din inside town hall and step out into the brisk air.
We made our way to the organic
grocery store, passing storefronts decorated with fluttering ghosts, black cats with
electric yellow eyes, jack-o’-lanterns of all shapes and sizes, and glow-in-the-dark
skeletons. Usually, Calliope didn’t like to walk anywhere, especially under the threat
of rain, but she was in an especially good mood. She pointed at an Elvira costume
displayed in the window of a trendy boutique with delight.

“I haven’t bought an outfit for tomorrow night’s Halloween dinner dance. What do you
think? Should I try it on?”

I struggled for the right reply. Calliope couldn’t fit one leg in the black latex
dress, let alone two. “Why don’t we eat first? I don’t want you to miss your facial.”

Diverted, Calliope increased her pace. In the grocery store we were welcomed by the
scent of warm apple cider. A clerk handed us samples and we sipped the cinnamon-spiced
brew as we perused the hot food bar. Later, after we’d both made a dent in our lunches,
I swallowed a mouthful of fiery chicken curry and put down my fork.

“You were amazing during the panel.” I’d learned to begin conversations with Calliope
with a compliment. “You kindled the writers’ dreams, yet tempered them just enough
with a dose of reality.”