Played by the Book (A Novel Idea Mystery) - Softcover

Arlington, Lucy

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0425276635 ISBN 13: 9780425276631

Publisher: Berkley, 2015

Synopsis

The New York Times bestselling Novel Idea Mysteries make their return with Lila Wilkins, literary agent and “murder magnet,” planning a book signing garden party. But things aren’t coming up roses when she has to weed out a dangerous killer...

The owner of the Novel Idea Literary Agency is thrilled when former local boy and popular television show host Damian York returns to Inspiration Valley, North Carolina, to launch his new gardening book. But Lila is less than excited about the hubbub when she sees her mounting to-do list. Between planning York’s gala and sprucing up her yard for another event, she’s spread too thin—especially after she finds a skull buried in her flowerbeds.

As Lila’s macabre discovery leads to other secrets hidden in Inspiration Valley’s past, a member of the local garden club is found slumped over her prize roses—murdered. Now it’s up to Lila to dig through old mysteries and new clues to unearth a murderer before someone else is found pushing up daisies...

About this title

About the Author:

Lucy Arlington is the New York Times bestselling author of the Novel Idea Mysteries including Buried in a Book, Every Trick in the Book, and Books, Cooks, and Crooks.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1

I was completely engrossed in reading my latest proposal, a cozy mystery set in a charming English hamlet, when a couple of specks of dirt fell across my paper. I looked up just in time to see a blue ceramic pot coming down fast.

“Dead,” Bentley bemoaned, setting the pot down with a thud on my desk and sliding it under my nose. “Dead as a doornail,” she added for emphasis.

I brushed away the stray soil and examined what looked like a brown stick with a pair of shriveled leaves. “Did you water it?”

My esteemed boss, Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, founder and president of Novel Idea Literary Agency, hardly ever looked perplexed. Even though she now resided in North Carolina, Bentley maintained her Manhattan façade. At this moment, however, she stared down at me with a strange, quizzical expression. Then, she took the diamond-studded readers that dangled on a bejeweled chain around her neck and placed them on the end of her nose, giving the plant another inspection.

I cleared my throat. “Water?” I asked again.

“Well, of course I watered it,” she replied indignantly.

I stuck my finger in the soil. Dry as a bone. “And, what year was that?”

Her eyes shifted a bit before she started backtracking. “The problem is that plants need a lot of nurturing and I’m just not the nurturing type. Unlike you—you’re a nurturer. And, you have a green thumb.” She pointed out the rhododendron that I’d received from my son, Trey, last Mother’s Day. The vine was practically taking over the top of my file credenza.

“Anyone can grow a rhododendron,” I said, wondering what it was she had in mind this time. In the course of my employment I’d carried out my share of minion duties: fetching her coffee, catering to her most demanding authors, and unpacking hundreds of boxes of books. Was she going to add nursing a dead stick to that list? “They grow like weeds,” I continued, hoping to distract her. “Which, speaking of weeds, you wouldn’t think much of my gardening skills if you saw my flower beds. They’re a mess.”

She folded her arms and stared down her regal nose at me with a stern look. “That simply won’t do, Lila! You’ll need to whip them into shape right away.”

I did a double take. “Huh?” The truth be known, I’d intended to create a charming English garden after moving into my little cottage. But after a nearly fatal encounter with a murderous woman in that garden only two months ago, I got the shivers every time I even thought about touching the very trowel or rake that had been brandished against me. Was Bentley, in her own way, suggesting I move on from that trauma? I looked at her imperious posture and suspected a less nurturing motive. I asked hesitantly, “Why’s that?”

“Didn’t Franklin tell you?”

Franklin was Novel Idea’s nonfiction agent. A mild-mannered, older gentleman whom I’d grown quite fond of over the past year. “Tell me what?”

“Well, you know Damian York’s book, Perfect Outdoor Spaces?”

I nodded. Of course I knew about it. Perfect Outdoor Spaces had been the main focus of our status meetings for the entire past month. Its author, Damian York, was one of Franklin’s newest and most promising clients. As the host of a popular public television series, he was quickly becoming a rising star in the home and garden entertainment industry. Not only that, but Damian was a homegrown celebrity, born and raised in nearby in Dunston, which is partly the reason he chose Novel Idea Literary Agency to represent the first in his series of gardening books. Lucky for us that he did. Perfect Outdoor Spaces was destined to be a bestseller.

Bentley lowered her voice and spoke deliberately. “You’re going to help Franklin host a signing for Damian’s book during Inspiration Valley’s Annual Garden Walk.”

I leaned back in my chair and drew in my breath. “Isn’t that just two weeks away?” Flyers for the garden walk were plastered in the front window of every business in town. I was kind of flattered that she’d ask me to help a senior agent plan a signing for such an important client, even though it was on short notice. I could see her point, though. The garden walk was the perfect venue for an author like Damian York. I’d already planned on attending the walk and was hoping to talk my boyfriend, police detective Sean Griffiths, into taking a day off from work to accompany me. So, it really wasn’t that big of a deal to line up a simple signing.

Bentley smiled slyly. “Which should be plenty of time for you and Franklin to put together a dinner event.”

I lurched forward. “A book signing and a dinner event?” Sure, I’d planned many events like these, but never two at once and with so little time.

Bentley had taken to pacing in front of my desk, her well-manicured hands gesturing as she talked. She had that intense look she often assumed when she was scheming a new plan. “Yes, of course you’d have to plan a dinner event. Half of his book features outside dining areas.” Her eyes lit up. “I can just imagine how you’ll set it up. An afternoon signing, perhaps set in a garden, followed by a meet and greet dinner where Damian can interact with . . . oh, let’s say . . . a hundred of his biggest fans.”

“A hundred?” I croaked. I’d retrieved a legal pad from my top drawer and was frantically jotting down her expectations.

She continued on, her wide-leg trousers flowing gracefully as she paced. As usual, Bentley looked cool, fresh, and perfectly put together. The outfit she was wearing probably cost more than I earned in a month. “Yes, I can see it now. It’ll be the perfect fusion between rustic and elegant—earthy tablescapes and candlelight . . . well, you can figure out the details,” she finished with a final wave of her slim hand. “Just make it fabulous. Oh, and of course, you and Franklin will need to coordinate all your plans with this year’s garden walk chairwoman, Alice Peabody.”

I jotted down the name.

Bentley continued, “She’s the president of Inspiration Valley’s garden club, the Dirty Dozen. She’ll be coming by to look at your gardens the first part of next week.”

“What?”

“That’s why you need to get that garden of yours into tip-top shape; you’re garden number thirteen on this year’s garden walk. The original entrant had some sort of family emergency and had to withdraw from the lineup.”

I could feel my eyes bugging out. “But . . .”

Bentley wagged her finger at me. “No buts, Lila. We need the garden club to help facilitate this event. In this business it’s all about paying it forward. You scratch their back and they’ll scratch yours.”

Oh yeah, well, my back isn’t itchy, I thought, struggling to maintain a civil attitude. This was not part of my job description. I’d happily weed through thousands of queries, prune hundreds of manuscripts, and nurture several promising new authors; but keeping a real garden trim and neat? Well, that was asking too much.

I held my breath for a few counts and then released it slowly, relenting to the fact that I was stuck. Once Bentley set her mind to something there was no dissuading her. So, instead of arguing, I simply nodded in agreement.

It’s true that Bentley could be a taskmaster, but despite my sometimes overly demanding boss, I loved my job as Novel Idea’s newest literary agent. After being laid off from the Dunston Herald—a daunting situation for a forty-five-year-old divorcée with a son heading to college—I’d taken a chance and responded to the agency’s help wanted ad. After cutting my teeth on a few hundred query letters, and bringing The Alexandria Society, a blockbuster novel written by Marlette Robbins, to the agency, Bentley had offered me my dream position. I’d been assigned to mysteries, from cozy and romantic suspense to hard-boiled and soft-boiled, which gave me the daily thrill of traipsing through manuscripts looking for the next bestseller. Sometimes I just couldn’t believe my luck. After all, what other job would pay me to travel in my mind’s eye to exotic locations, meet captivating characters, and ride the roller coaster of fast-paced plots with twists and turns so unexpected that they kept me spellbound until the last page?

Bentley made her way to my office door. “Oh, and Lila, be prepared to discuss your plans at Monday’s status meeting. We’re all here to help you in any way we can. Have a good weekend,” she added as she breezed out of my office.

I shoved aside the dead plant she’d left behind and collapsed on top of my desk. “Impossible,” I muttered. I sat there for a second, my mind reeling with doubt. How could I possibly pull together an event of such magnitude in two weeks? Not to mention, tame my unruly flower beds. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.

A quote from Mark Twain popped into my head. “There are thousands of excuses for every failure, but never a good reason.” I sat up and repeated the quote out loud, drawing inspiration from Twain’s wisely spoken words before snatching up my legal pad and heading to find Franklin.

I was in such a hurry, I didn’t bother to look before entering the hallway and ran smack-dab into one of the other agents, Jude Hudson. “Oops! Sorry,” I said, stumbling backward.

He reached out to steady me, placing his hands on my shoulders. The unexpected contact kicked my heart rate into high gear as his sculpted arms revealed themselves under his snug and immaculately tailored shirt. Much to my annoyance, I still hadn’t been able to shake the spark left over from a kiss that we’d foolishly shared during my first month at the agency.

“No problem. Running into you is always a pleasure,” he said playfully, keeping his hands in place and holding me at arm’s length. As always, his eyes kind of shimmered when in close proximity to any woman (how did he do that?) but this time those sparkly chocolate brown eyes studied me with concern. “You look stressed.”

“Bentley just dumped a load of work in my lap,” I replied, shaking off his hands and reminding myself that I was a one-man type of girl, and that man was definitely Sean.

A swatch of dark wavy hair fell over his forehead as he lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I can help with?”

“There might be.” I was touched that he’d offered. “I’ll be discussing it at Monday’s status meeting. I may need to delegate a few tasks for a meet and greet dinner I’ll be planning for Damian York.”

“Count me in,” he said, throwing me a wink. Then with a mischievous grin, he reached down and snatched up my left hand. “I see there’s no ring on that finger yet. If Griffiths doesn’t put one there soon, I might just take care of it myself.”

“Give it a break, Jude!” I said, ripping my hand away and stomping down the hallway. I knew he was only kidding, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Truth be told, his words hit on a nerve. It’d been a couple of months since I’d overheard Sean ask Trey for his permission for my hand in marriage—a wonderfully romantic gesture that sent me into an immediate tizzy. Ever since, I’d fantasized about my dream wedding—a literary-themed wedding: simple glass candle votives arranged on stacks of vintage books, copies of Browning’s love poems splayed open for guests to read, and my treasured copy of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice prominently displayed next to the wedding cake. Why, I’d practically planned the whole wedding in my mind, everything from my bouquet—roses much like those that must have grown in the Capulets’ garden where Romeo stole away to speak to Juliet—to my dress, which of course would be a 1920s flapper-inspired gown, reminiscent of The Great Gatsby. The only problem was, Sean still hadn’t popped the question. To make matters worse, Sean’s new promotion from officer to detective was keeping him so busy we’d barely had any time together, which was just going to get worse now that Bentley had given me all this extra work.

I knocked on Franklin’s door harder than necessary and walked straight in, not even waiting for his invitation.

“Bentley talked to you?” he asked with a sheepish look.

I nodded, walking over to his wall that displayed all his clients’ framed book covers. I located Damian York’s cover, which showed a table set for two in a romantic English garden, with candles flickering inside hurricane glass and paper lanterns strung on overhead branches. For one wistful second, I thought of how such a table would be a perfect setting for a proposal, then I snapped back to reality. “Yes, Bentley talked to me.” I pointed up to Damian’s framed cover. “She wants a signing for Perfect Outdoor Spaces followed by a dinner for a hundred of his fans.” I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling. “‘Rustic but elegant,’ I think she said. And, of course, she wants everything to be fabulous,” I added, waving my hands in a mock gesture.

Franklin shook his head. “Oh my, she’s been scheming again. I’m sorry, Lila. I should have warned you.”

I looked across the desk at my friend. Franklin Stafford was one of the sweetest men I knew, the definition of the term “Southern gentleman.” I could never be angry with him. “It’s okay.” I sighed. “If we divide and conquer, I think it’ll be doable.”

He seemed relieved. “I have to admit, I’m not the best at planning dinner events.”

I took out my legal pad and started adding to my notes. “Okay, then. I’ll handle the dinner if you want to take on the book signing. Bentley has a garden venue in mind.”

Franklin nodded. “She told me as much. I was thinking the Secret Garden.” The Secret Garden, in keeping with Inspiration Valley’s literary theme, was the perfect name for the local nursery, which was located on Sweetbay Road just past the railway station. Its enchanting acres were surrounded by a hand-stacked stone wall covered in trumpet vines. Patrons entered through carved wooden doors under a double-arched gate covered with pastel climbing roses and made their way around the nursery’s beautifully orchestrated settings on pea-gravel pathways defined with colorful beds of perennials.

I jotted it down. “Perfect! That would work for both the signing and the dinner. I could arrange to have a large tent brought in and set up in the gardens. It would be a lovely location.”

“We should do flowers on every table,” he added.

“Wildflowers, perhaps.” Field lilies, hibiscus, and mallow popped into mind, but I couldn’t quite picture them all together. I made a note to check with Damian to see which flowers would suit both the book and the occasion. Or perhaps my friend Addison Eckhart, manager of the Secret Garden, would give me some advice.

“Yes, and we’ll use some of the repurposed containers that he suggests in his book.” Franklin’s voice rose an octave as he described his ideas. “I like the idea of tinted mason jars or vintage boxes and tins. It adds a sort of an earthy charm, don’t you think?”

I started to reply, but he jumped back in with more ideas. “Oh, and I saw in his book that Damian likes to fill small metal buckets with a mixture of herb plants and place them on the table where guests can clip fresh herbs if they want. Isn’t that clever? As for the other containers, we could pop by Beyond and Back to ...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0425276635
• ISBN 13: 9780425276631
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 320