Every Trick in the Book (7 page)

“But that area is cordoned off because of the renovations,” I protested.

“The entry is simply obstructed by barriers and our signs. You can get in easily.”
She glanced down at my shoes. “I’m glad to see you’re not wearing a pair of unstable
high heels. Just watch out for the construction debris.”

“Okay. Where’s the janitor’s closet?”

“Fifth door on the right. And I’ll get Jude to mop up the water on the floor in your
room. We can’t have any lawsuits on the first day of our festival.”

Ducking behind the easel and then under the wooden barrier, I found myself in a dimly
lit passageway that disappeared into darkness. The floor was littered with chunks
of plaster, pieces of wood, and dirt, and I couldn’t see past the first three doors.
To get to the janitor’s closet I’d have to venture into the dark.

The rainy weather made the air in the corridor dank, and I felt a chill. “‘Deep into
that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,’” I whispered, quoting
Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Rubbing my arms, I gingerly picked my way around the
debris.

My eyes became accustomed to the gloom, but I still couldn’t see very clearly. The
rubble on the floor was a shadowy obstacle course. My steps echoed in the hollow-sounding,
somber space, and I felt edgy, even though there was absolutely no reason for me to
be skittish. I was just getting a bucket, for heaven’s sake.

I passed the fourth door and was almost at the fifth when I stumbled on a crumbly
brick. I reached out my arms and my hands caught the wall to keep me from falling.
Vicky had been right about the shoes, and in that moment I was glad I’d worn flats.
Wiping my hands on my pants, I continued.

A noise sounded down the corridor, almost like an echo of my stumble. I stopped and
held my breath, listening. Hearing nothing, except for the beating of my heart and
the rain assaulting the roof, I waited a minute more and then moved forward.

The fifth door opened easily, revealing a small cubicle. At one end, a tiny square
window shot a shaft of dull light onto a set of metal shelves and a troop of mops
in the corner. I felt along the walls to the side of the doorway for a light switch
and was jubilant when my fingers touched one. However, flicking it produced no result.
In the gray light shining in from outside, I could see two buckets under the bottom
shelf to the left of the window. I darted over and grabbed both of them. The door
slammed behind me with a loud thump.

I cried out in surprise. Annoyed with myself for being so jittery, I left the room,
pulling the door closed firmly behind me, and started to make my way around the maze
of debris.

Ahead in the corridor, footsteps approached in my direction.

“Jude, is that you?” I called out.

No one responded, but the footsteps came closer.

“Who’s there?” I demanded, tightening my grip on the bucket handles.

In the gloom, a man appeared, casting an eerie light ahead of him with an open cell
phone. It was difficult to make out his features, but his tall, thin body filled the
narrow corridor with more shadow. His dark clothes allowed him to melt into the blackness.

“This wing is closed,” I announced. “Festival attendees aren’t allowed in here.”

As he moved his head, there was a glint at his brow. I suddenly realized that I stood
in front of the creepy man in black, the one with the eyebrow rings who had unnerved
me in the courtroom during the pitch appointments. He was the one who’d left the feather
on my table.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I inquired in my best authoritative voice.

“You.” The single syllable rumbled from his throat like a growl. It echoed in the
emptiness, replete with undeniable menace. “Finally. I’ve found you.”

He advanced, his hands reaching out for me.

FOR A MOMENT, I STOOD IN THAT DARK CORRIDOR LIKE
I had been hewed from the same stone as the floor. My mind couldn’t seem to come
to terms with the fact that a strange man was reaching for me with a pair of long,
spidery hands. It didn’t make any sense. Why me? I’d never seen his craggy, pierced
face before in my life.

These fleeting thoughts were quickly replaced by a more primal urge—my instincts took
charge and my body reacted like any cornered animal. My muscles were now in control,
the message issued to my nerve center commanding me to fight.

Just as the creep’s bony fingers were about to close on my forearm, I swung the metal
bucket in an upward arc. It connected with his chin, the impact forcing his head to
snap back. His head bobbed on his neck like one of those plastic drinking birds dipping
its beak in and out of a glass of water.

“HELP!” I shouted before my attacker could recover. I
stumbled down the hall toward the public area. As the light grew brighter, I could
hear the tread of heavy footsteps behind me. He was coming after me again.

Then I realized that those footfalls sounded like they were ahead of me. But how could
they be behind
and
in front? Was someone now blocking my path to freedom? I pulled up short and gasped.
Another man was entering the shadows.

“Lila?” a familiar voice called.

Thank heavens! My coworker Zach Cohen had come to my rescue.

“Zach!” My panicked shout reverberated off the walls. “Someone’s chasing me! Help!”

To his credit, Zach didn’t waste another breath. He charged past me into the gloom,
carrying a bucket just like mine in one hand. “YOU!” I heard him bellow as my potential
attacker’s steps changed direction. “STOP!
NOW!
”

Part of me wanted to follow Zach. He was a strong young man in his midthirties, and
though he was nearly impossible to intimidate and I was confident he could take care
of himself, I was still worried. After all, there was something sinister about the
man in black. Menace oozed out of him like foul cologne. I could easily picture him
slipping into a nook to wait for Zach to pass by. What if he picked up a loose brick
or another makeshift weapon from the construction debris? Zach would have no chance.
No chance at all.

That terrifying thought propelled me into the lobby. I grabbed Vicky, told her to
call the police, and then looked around for backup. Just then, Zach reappeared. His
face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, but he was unscathed.

“He…got…away!” Zach put his hands on his knees and bent over, sucking in air. “Out
the fire door.”

My eyes traveled beyond the town hall’s double doors to
the sidewalk below. Since the festival was now officially over for the day, people
were streaming outside, spilling over the sidewalk and into the street. There was
no sense searching for the man in black. Despite his height, it would be impossible
to spot him in the crowd. Because of the weather, dozens were clad in dark-colored
coats.

Moving closer to the exit, I gazed out at the gunmetal gray thunderclouds and crossed
my arms over my chest, rubbing the goose bumps away from the skin of my arms. Beneath
my suit jacket and blouse, I felt chilled.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Zach put his hands on my shoulders and examined my
body with his gaze. Normally, I would have pushed him away and let loose a snide remark
or two, but instead, I hugged him and gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek.

“I’m fine. Thank you for rushing to my aid.”

Zach preened, glancing this way and that to see how many women had witnessed his act
of heroism. Unfortunately, the only audience he had was Vicky, and she appeared entirely
unimpressed.

“I won’t have much to tell the police,” I said to her.

She shrugged. “No need to worry. I didn’t place the call because there was nothing
for me to report. I make it a rule not to jump to conclusions, and once again, it’s
proven to be a good rule. It looks like the imminent threat has passed.”

I scowled at Vicky. “That horrible man could be back tomorrow! We need to identify
him and be prepared in case he comes back. Where’s Jude? The psychopath had a pitch
appointment with him, so we must have a record of his name and contact information.”

This was the type of action Vicky was eager to pursue. She pushed away her chair and
stood with the straight-backed
discipline of a marine heading to the front lines. “I’ll see to this immediately.”

Zach watched her march away. “What a pistol! The Zachmeister likes her.”

My coworker had a particular way of referring to himself in the third person. Looping
his arm through mine, he led me outside. “Come on, we’ll head over to the restaurant
for the agency dinner. I found a maintenance guy to deal with the leaks and Vicky
can handle the detective work. You and I will order some booze. After today, I could
use a tall, frosty mug of Octoberfest ale.”

A drink sounded good to me, too. I was more of a red wine kind of gal, but after my
run-in with the stalker in the shadows, I had half a mind to down a shot of whiskey.
Or two.

However, by the time Zach and I joined the rest of the agents from Novel Idea at Voltaire’s,
Inspiration Valley’s new French restaurant, the frightening experience had lost its
edge. It was difficult to concentrate on anything unpleasant inside Voltaire’s. The
interior was resplendent with crystal chandeliers, red velvet and gilt chairs, and
gold brocade tablecloths. The mirrored walls cast splintered refractions of light
onto a ceiling painted with winged cherubim and ethereal celestial goddesses.

I sank into one of the soft chairs and smiled with relief as a waiter placed a napkin
on my lap. “Good evening, madam. May I pour you a glass of champagne?”

Bentley gestured at my empty glass. “We’re celebrating the completion of a very successful
first day. I am immensely proud of my agents.” She hesitated. “Where are Jude and
Vicky? We can hardly have a toast without them.”

“They are searching for the identity of Lila’s crazed writer stalker!” Zach announced
and then proceeded to tell
Bentley, Flora, and Franklin how he’d scared off a veritable giant in the deserted
town hall wing.

After listening to his inflated version of the event, Bentley eyed me curiously. “Perhaps
you should mention this incident to your policeman friend, Sam? Or is it Scott?”

Bentley rarely remembered the names of people she had no use for, so I patiently replied,
“Sean,” before she could list every name beginning with the letter “S.” “I’ll definitely
tell him. And since Officer Griffiths is a guest speaker tomorrow, I’ll certainly
feel safer should that…man…return.”

Jude and Vicky arrived at that moment, shrugging out of rain-drenched jackets and
easing into the red velvet chairs with the same sigh of relief I’d uttered.

“Well?” Zach demanded excitedly. “What’s the psycho’s name?”

“We’re pretty sure it’s Kirk Mason,” Jude answered. “He was booked for my last pitch
session of the day, but in the confusion of the leaking ceiling, everyone cleared
the room and I didn’t actually meet with him.”

Vicky fiddled with her silverware until the forks, knives, and spoons were perfectly
aligned. After taking a prim sip from her water goblet, she said, “We’re tardy because
I wanted to review Mr. Mason’s registration form. He paid by check—a cashier’s check,
I assume, considering the address he provided is incomplete. The street is missing.
He only filled in the state and a zip code.”

“Then Kirk Mason could be a pseudonym?” Flora’s eyes widened. “Oh, this sounds like
a Nancy Drew novel!”

The other agents gave Flora an indulgent smile.

“No offense, Flora,” I said, “but I’d prefer to have Sam Spade by my side should Mr.
Mason come back to the festival tomorrow.”

“But why did he go after
you
, Lila?” Franklin wanted to know. “He was supposed to pitch to Jude, so you couldn’t
have caused him offense.” He turned to Jude. “Do you know anything about Mason’s pitch?”

Jude consulted his legal pad. “Only from a proposal he sent to the office. His thriller-suspense
intrigued me, and I had really hoped to speak to him.” He shook his head. “It certainly
held a lot more promise than the last pitch I heard. The story was your run-of-the-mill
serial killer stuff, full of graphic detail with no character development.” He frowned
in distaste. “The killer’s signature was that he pierced a body part on all of his
victims with a safety pin. The author was more than happy to describe all the gory
details, but I wasn’t hooked.”

“As fascinating as this discussion may be,” Bentley said in a tone that belied how
she truly felt about the topic, “I would like to review the highlights of the day.”
She gave a regal wave of her hand, indicating that she was ready to make a toast.
After praising the agents and Vicky for their hard work, Bentley ordered a sampling
of the most decadent food on Voltaire’s leather-bound menu and the waiter scurried
off to the kitchen. Another waitress materialized with loaves of warm baguettes and
a sun-dried tomato cheese spread and presented Bentley with the wine list.