Every Trick in the Book (6 page)

Calliope’s eyes glimmered. “It was such fun! I remember exactly what it felt like
to be one of them.” She put a hand over her heart, her jeweled rings twinkling. “I
remember that burning sensation in here. Night and day. I knew that I’d either publish…or
perish!”

We laughed over her theatricality. “And do you still think you have room to grow?
To learn new things, even though you’re already an international bestselling author?”

She smiled. “I never get tired of hearing people say that. But the answer to your
question is yes, I am absolutely open
to stepping out on a limb. That’s why I dearly want you to sell my latest project.
And that’s why you’re helping me find a new publisher who will allow me to break out
of my genre. History, romance, intrigue! It’s a winner.” When I failed to agree, Calliope
eyed me warily. “Don’t you think so?”

Summoning my courage, I said, “Right up until the last chapter. It’s a gem, Calliope,
and you know that’s not just lip service. I’m a true fan. And have been since long
before I was lucky enough to become your agent.” I paused. My next statement required
delicacy. “You mentioned some of this project’s best qualities. The lovers from different
social classes, the historic London setting, and the murder of a chambermaid blend
beautifully. But the out-of-body experience in the final chapter doesn’t. It appears
out of left field. It would be like Santa Claus delivering the State of the Union
address.”

Calliope shuffled a forkful of rice around on her plate, her mouth stretched into
a deep frown.

“We’ve discussed this before and I’m aware of your feelings on the subject,” I pushed
on. “I believe that last chapter will prevent this book from selling, and I know how
much you want this series to be a success. Calliope, if I didn’t truly care about
your work, I wouldn’t be saying any of this.” I reached across the table and touched
her hand. “Will you rewrite the ending?”

After a long moment of silence, Calliope squeezed my hand. “I trust you, Lila. I don’t
know why, since you’re a relatively green agent, but I do. I’ll revisit the finale.”

I could have hugged her, but instead I applauded her flexibility and told her I’d
be anxiously awaiting the revised version.

Calliope wanted to mull over her project on the way back to her car, so we parted
inside the grocery store.

Heading back to the festival, I was so buoyed by self-satisfaction that I barely noticed
the rain. By the time I showed up for my first pitch appointment, however, my suit
jacket was peppered with wet drops.

Just outside the former courtroom where Jude and I planned to host our pitch sessions,
I bumped into Vicky. She looked me up and down, made a noise that clearly expressed
she found me wanting, and then rummaged in her handbag for tissues and a compact.
I hastily wiped away the raccoon eyes created by my running mascara and applied some
fresh lipstick from my own purse.

The buzz from within the room tied my stomach into knots. “I’m nervous,” I confessed
to Vicky.

“Follow your instincts. You have good judgment. After all, you hired me, didn’t you?”

I could have sworn I saw her lips twitch with amusement, but there was no time for
further study. I took my place at one of two small tables set up at the front of the
room.

Jude caught my eye and winked. Standing, he cleared his throat. “Welcome, writers.”
His words silenced the chatter in the room. “I’m Jude Hudson, agent for thrillers
and suspense novels, and this is Lila Wilkins. She represents romantic and traditional
mysteries. We know you are all energized and maybe even a teeny bit anxious, but try
to stay calm and present us with your best pitch. I promise we’ll be kind.” Judging
by the worshipful stares he was receiving from the majority of the women in the audience,
he could have been talking about the nuances of tax law and they would have listened
attentively.

After Jude relayed instructions on how we would proceed, each of us called the first
name on our appointment schedules, and the pitch sessions were under way.

A slim woman in her midtwenties approached my table, papers vibrating in her hands
as rapidly as hummingbird wings.

“It’s okay. I know exactly how you feel,” I said gently. “Just breathe.”

The young woman gave me a grateful smile, took a seat, and told me her name. She then
took my advice, inhaled deeply, and presented her pitch.

“I’ve written a young adult trilogy similar to
The Hunger Games
. You’ve heard of the books by Suzanne Collins?”

I nodded, disappointed that she’d begun her pitch by concentrating on another author’s
work instead of pointing out the merits of her own.

“In my series, starting with
The Ring
, gladiator matches are fought between supernatural creatures. For example, goblins
fight dwarves, fairies battle trolls, et cetera. The winner of the games gets extra
magic for their race. It’s really fast-paced and I’ve done a ton of research on mythical
creatures. Anybody who likes J. R. R. Tolkien will love
The Ring
.”

The young woman’s idea wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was quite creative, but her pitch
was overly brief and too focused on name-dropping. Hers might have been the first
pitch I’d ever heard, but I didn’t need to be a veteran agent to recognize that I’d
been given no sense of voice from this writer. She hadn’t even mentioned the existence
of a main character. Tactfully, I thanked the woman, gave her advice on the information
she needed to include during future pitch appointments and queries, and wished her
the best of luck.

With the first pitch session out of the way, my initial anxiety abated. I leaned back
and took a deep breath. This was certainly more direct than dealing with written queries,
and it was important for me to be sensitive to the person sitting across the table,
but I felt a certain satisfaction in giving an immediate verbal response. I could
only hope that all the writers I’d meet today would be as receptive to my advice as
the first.

I looked around the room at the tense and nervous aspiring authors. Along the wall,
people were sitting and standing. Most were clutching papers, and although a few were
chatting to one another, the majority waited in silence. Jude was listening intently
to a woman wearing a maroon cape.

I caught the eye of a man who made me suck in a quick breath. His appearance reminded
me of my imagined Kirk Mason. Tall and thin, the man wore jet-black pants and a blazer
over a black turtleneck. His beard had been trimmed into a pencil-thin goatee, and
his raven hair was short and spiky. A silver ring pierced both of his thick, dark
eyebrows. It was eerie how closely he matched the image my mind had created for him.
It was entirely possible that he was Mason. After all, the aspiring author had registered
for the festival.

The man in black stood with one shoulder leaning against the wall near Jude’s table.
His cold ebony eyes bored into mine. I quickly glanced away and called the next name
on my list.

Ten pitches later, I felt as if I’d been participating in a bizarre form of speed
dating. The stories presented to me had all jumbled together in my mind, and the writers’
faces had become a blur. I’d been regaled with clichéd tales of romance and murder
and had yet to hear a pitch worthy of consideration. Heaving a big sigh, I scanned
the remaining
hopefuls in the room while calling my next person, one Ashley Buckland.

The sinister man in black narrowed his eyes, causing his eyebrow rings to glitter,
and pushed away from the wall. Good Lord, he was coming to pitch his novel to
me
. I struggled to compose myself and straightened my papers. But then he veered away
from me at the last moment, leaving a cloying, musky scent in his wake, and sat down
in a vacant chair not far from Jude’s table. Jude, having just had a rotund, bald
man push himself out of the seat across from him, turned and winked at me.

“Hello, I’m Ashley Buckland.”

A pleasant voice drew my attention back to my own table, and I looked up to see a
gentleman of average height with short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses standing
by me. “Please, sit,” I said, gesturing to the seat at the other side of the table.

He cleared his throat and chuckled. “I guess you don’t usually get a man pitching
a cozy, do you?”

I didn’t feel inclined to tell him that today was the first time I’d had anyone pitch
anything to me, so I said, “I think a man can have a unique voice and perspective
in a genre primarily written by females. Please, tell me your story.”

He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hands and placed it on the table. “I’ve written
a humorous cozy about a group of househusbands who call themselves Men at Home. My
main character, Will, is a relatively new stay-at-home dad, so he is invited to join
these guys who, like him, have left the nine-to-five world to raise their kids while
their wives are in the corporate rat race. They get together once a week at a playgroup
for their kids to swap recipes and advice. When Will’s former boss gets murdered,
Will becomes the
chief suspect. The Men at Home band together to try and discover the real murderer,
in between loading up the Crock-Pot, carting babies around in strollers, and folding
laundry.”

“That’s definitely a unique approach,” I said. “And I could see it having a certain
appeal to both the typical cozy reader and to men who don’t normally pick up the genre.
Do you envision yourself writing more than one title?”

“Oh yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. As he described his ideas for the second, third,
and even fourth book, I realized this could be a winner. Of course, I cautioned myself,
it would depend on the quality of the writing.

When he finished, I handed him my card. “Email me your first three chapters along
with your query, and put ‘Requested material for Lila Wilkins’ in the subject line.
That way our assistant knows to forward it directly to me.” I smiled at him. “I hope
to hear from you soon.”

Reenergized after that pitch, I felt that maybe something good would come out of this
very long afternoon after all. I glanced around the room and called the next name
on my list, T. J. West, the last appointment before a much-needed break. As the name
left my tongue, I wondered if T. J. was a male or female.

Jude was deep in discussion with a young woman whose vibrant red hair was tied back
in a ponytail. The creepy guy in black still sat near Jude’s table, staring intently
at me. By the door, a woman stood chatting with a man with brown hair and glasses.
When I called out for T. J., that man turned in my direction, but my eyes instinctively
darted back to the man in black. At that moment he rose and walked to my table while
at the same time, the man with the glasses was also approaching me. I knew I should
have been focusing
on him, because in all likelihood he was T. J. West, but I kept my attention on the
sinister-looking man, who stopped at my table and placed a large raven feather in
front of me without saying a word. Then he turned and left the room.

I picked up the feather, wondering what on earth it could mean. The barbs radiating
from the vein were silky smooth and glossy in their blackness, and even the downy
afterfeathers at the base of the shaft were black. I had no idea why that disquieting
man would give this to me, as I had never seen him before today, and made a note to
ask Jude if he knew anything about him.

T. J. West turned out to be a pseudonym, and the writer was unwilling to give me his
actual name. His pitch was for a cozy based in a small lakeside town and featured
a widow who ran a bed and breakfast. His depiction of the town and description of
the protagonist were strong, but I have to admit that the writer didn’t have my full
attention because I could not keep my eyes off the black feather. What did the creepy
guy mean by leaving that plume on my table?

I returned my focus to the man’s voice. After all, he should be given as much consideration
as the others who preceded him.

“So the clue that my widow is convinced will help her solve the murder,” he was saying,
“is something that the murderer left in the victim’s arms. A child’s much-loved teddy
bear.”

I sat up. “A teddy bear? I don’t think cozy fans would like that. Children are untouchable
in a cozy, unless they serve as cute or humorous minor characters.”

“But it’s the key to the murderer’s motivation. She kills the woman because—”

At that moment a cold, wet drop fell on my forehead.
Two more fell onto my appointment schedule, blurring some of the names. T. J. West
directed his eyes upward and a fat droplet splashed onto the lens of his glasses.
“The ceiling is leaking!” he exclaimed.

I looked up. Sure enough, drops of rain were collecting at a crack directly over our
table. Another plopped on me, this time on my nose. I shoved the table out from under
the leak and handed one of my cards to the man. “If you take out the teddy bear, you
can email me the first three chapters, with ‘Requested material’ in the subject line.”

He took the card. “But—”

“I like your setting and your protagonist. However, before you send me your proposal,
check our agency guidelines on what constitutes a cozy and make sure your book fits
the criteria, okay?” I held the door open for him. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but
I have to find a bucket.”

I ran to the lobby where Vicky was sitting at her table sipping from a cup.

“Vicky, the ceiling is leaking in the courtroom!” I exclaimed. “Do you know where
I can find a bucket?”

“No need to panic, Lila.” She put her cup down. “One of the presentation rooms has
a dripping ceiling, too. Zach found a bucket for it in the janitor’s closet down that
hall.”

She pointed to a corridor behind one of the large easels displaying the panel schedules.
We had placed it there to prevent attendees from entering that part of the building.