Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery) Read online

  I burst through the lobby doorway like a kid let out of school for recess. I felt so invigorated by my surroundings that I had to resist the urge to skip to Catcher in the Rye. But middle-aged literary agents don’t typically skip down the sidewalk on their way to lunch at the local sandwich shop, so I refrained.

  Maybe we should all skip more, I thought. After all, I had quite a bit to be happy about at the moment. I had the career of my dreams, my son, Trey, had matriculated as a second-term freshman at the University of North Carolina’s Wilmington campus and was doing well with his studies, and I was dating a wonderful guy.

  “You look chipper today!” the cashier at the sandwich shop said when I stepped up to the counter.

  “‘Frame thy mind to mirth and merriment, which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life,’” I said, quoting a line from Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew and then ordered the Homer—chicken souvlaki covered with shredded lettuce, diced onions, fresh tomatoes, and Big Ed’s homemade tzatziki sauce served on toasted pita bread.

  The cashier accepted my ten-dollar bill and handed me my change with a playful smirk. “Your life won’t be lengthened if you eat too many Homers.”

  “It’s practically health food. Think of all the veggies buried under that creamy yogurt sauce,” I joked, raising my voice over the din in the café. Big Ed’s dining area was unusually crowded today, especially considering he had an outdoor patio section. “Is everyone in town eating here today?”

  “Sure seems that way,” the cashier said. “What’s really happening is that no one’s leaving after they’re done with their food. There’s some famous lady chef at the table in the back corner and she treated a whole mess of people to lunch. I swear she’s made friends with half the town already.”

  My curiosity piqued, I accepted the name card that Big Ed would call out when my order was ready and headed for the restroom to wash my hands. However, the moment I recognized the woman holding court in the back of the eatery, I altered course. For there was Klara Patrick, dressed in tan slacks and a mint green blouse, laughing it up with a pair of Inspiration Valley bank tellers, a mail clerk, and the floral designer from the Secret Garden.

  “Excuse me,” I said, squeezing between the two bank tellers. “I had to come over and say hello. I’m Lila Wilkins from Novel Idea.”

  Klara gave me a bright smile and shook my outstretched hand. “How lovely to meet you. Have you eaten? Would you like to join us?”

  I glanced at the table, noting there wasn’t an empty place. Klara followed my gaze and appealed to her new friends. “We can make room for another chair, can’t we?”

  Everyone nodded and jumped to make room for me.

  “RUMPELSTILTSKIN!” Big Ed hollered.

  “That would be me,” I mumbled and blushed a little.

  Klara laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed; my name was much worse. I got Morgan Le Fay!” She touched her wavy brunette locks. “I might have evil enchantress hair, but the only thing I like to make in a giant black cauldron is my grandmother’s beef stew.” She grinned. “No matter. Big Ed is such a wonderful sandwich artist that I forgave him for that mean old card.”

  I smiled at Klara, instantly warming to her. “Can I get anything for you folks while I’m up?” I asked.

  “No, thanks,” the mail clerk replied on behalf of his tablemates. “Ms. Klara bought sandwiches for everyone in the place. Chips and oatmeal raisin cookies, too. I don’t think we’re ever going to let her go back to Manhattan.”

  Her face the picture of contentment, Klara gestured toward the window. “This town is an oasis, a tiny utopia of art and books and food. I explored every inch of Inspiration Valley this morning and found it to be quaint, welcoming, and sophisticated.” She nudged the mail clerk with her elbow. “I may just have to stay and open a restaurant, but that depends on how well my new cookbook sells.” She winked at me. I returned the wink and walked over to the counter to collect my food.

  Big Ed, who was one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever met, was especially rosy-cheeked and twinkly-eyed of late. He’d been in love with Nell, the owner of the town bakery, for years, but had never had the courage to tell her. Finally, he’d asked her on a date and a few months after that, he proposed to her by writing, “Will You Marry Me Nell?” on his daily special board. Dressed in a tuxedo, he’d knelt down beside the chalkboard, holding his mother’s diamond ring in his large and trembling hand.

  I’d been lucky enough to witness the proposal and had teared up watching the tender scene. I doubt there’d been a dry eye in the sandwich shop that day. Grizzled construction workers, solemn businessmen, and surly teens had all melted at the sight of Nell throwing her arms around Big Ed’s neck, her cries of “Yes! Yes! Yes!” echoing through the room.

  Now, Big Ed greeted me as though he hadn’t seen me in ages. He asked after Sean, my family, my coworkers, and my health. Only after I assured him that everything was great did he say, “Have you had a chance to meet Ms. Klara? She’s quite a doll, though I’d rather you didn’t mention that to my future bride.”

  “I just met Morgan Le Fay and hope to join her for lunch.” I examined my sandwich and wondered how I was going to eat it in front of the celebrity chef without dribbling yogurt sauce all over myself. “Big Ed, Klara called you an artist and I couldn’t agree more. This looks delicious.”

  The sandwich maker beamed. “She bought sandwiches for at least fifty people today. And earlier this mornin’ she grabbed up a whole shelf of pastries from Nell’s. Raved about them all morning to everyone she met. I tell ya, that Klara’s a real gem.” He then shouted, “JAMES BOND!” and placed a fried fish sandwich on the counter.

  I grabbed my Homer, headed back to Klara’s table, and began to cut my sandwich with a fork and knife. However, Klara handed me a pile of napkins and said, “You can’t eat souvlaki like a lady! Pick up that pita and have at it!”

  Encouraged by a chorus of applause from my tablemates, I ate my lunch with true abandon, enjoying both the food and the company immensely. Klara regaled us with interesting television mishaps such as the time she dropped an entire carton of eggs on the studio floor or when the water she was boiling for pasta bubbled over and saturated the herb-seasoned cod sautéing in a frying pan on the front burner. “But all cooks make mistakes, even the ones on TV,” she finished with a laugh. “If I didn’t have my husband on set, I’d never have survived that first season. Speaking of which, he’s probably wondering where I am. I should head back to that darling little B&B.”

  By this time, I’d inhaled my sandwich and drunk down an enormous glass of iced tea, so I offered to accompany Klara to the Magnolia. We chatted amicably and had just turned onto the cobblestone lane where the bed and breakfast was located when a turquoise pickup truck pulled alongside the curb.

  Klara paused to read the magnetic sign on the truck. “Amazing Althea?” Her eyes went wide. “Oh, a psychic!”

  Normally, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say that Althea was my mother, but for some reason I was embarrassed to tell Klara, a famous woman whom I admired, that I was the daughter of a professed psychic. “We have all kinds of artists in Inspiration Valley,” was my breezy reply.

  Torn between continuing on to the hotel as though I hadn’t noticed my mother’s truck or saying that I needed to get back to the office right away, I hesitated. And in that moment my mother jumped out of the truck and waved. “Yoo-hoo! Lila! I knew I’d run into you if I drove into town right about now.”

  “Wow,” Klara breathed. “Impressive.”

  “She probably talked to Vicky, our office manager,” I murmured while my mother was still out of earshot. Then, when she got closer, I smiled and said, “Klara, this is my mother, Althea. Mama, this is Klara Patrick. We’ve watched her show together a few times, remember?”

  Klara’s eyes darted between my mother and me. “How nice that you two live so close.”

  My mother took Klara’s hand and instantly flinched. She quickly recovered and tol
d Klara how much she’d enjoyed her first cookbook, but I could see that something was troubling her. “Were you looking for me?” I asked.

  “Thought I’d pick up that pair of Books and Cooks tickets you promised to drop off.” She pouted. “Guess you’ve been too busy to find your way to my place.”

  My mother lived in a charming rustic house at the base of Red Fox Mountain. It was only a fifteen-minute ride on my Vespa, and yet I’d been so wrapped up in Taste of the Town preparations that I’d canceled our dinner plans last week and hadn’t caught up with my mom since. No wonder she looked hurt. “I’m so sorry. The tickets are in my desk at the office. Do you want to come back with me now and get them?”

  While my mother mulled this over, Klara fixed her gaze on a jogger racing up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She waved and called out, “Bryce! Over here!”

  Certain the runner was celebrity chef Bryce St. John, I nudged my mother. The tall, golden-haired man slowed his pace, allowing all three of us to admire his muscular body. Clad in neon orange running shorts and a formfitting Nike T-shirt, there was very little of Bryce left to the imagination.

  “That’s the kind of sight that’ll get your blood pumpin’ on a fine spring day.” My mother gave the jogger a long, appreciative stare.

  Klara smiled at her. “I think he looks better in a chef’s jacket, but maybe I’m just thinking like a woman who’s been married forever.” She chuckled. “Listen, I’m going to cross over and talk to him about the first event we’ll be doing together. It was nice to meet you, Althea. I’ll see you tonight, Lila.”

  Crossing the street in an unhurried stride, Klara shook hands with Bryce and then made a show of wiping her hand off on her pants. I could hear her laughter mingle with Bryce’s until the rumble of a motorcycle drowned it out. Turning back to my mother, I was about to ask her again whether or not she was going to come back to the office with me, when I saw the dark expression on her face.

  I reached out and put my hand on her arm. “Is something wrong?”

  Though my mother’s gaze was still focused on the two chefs on the opposite side of the street, her eyes were unfocused, as if she’d drifted away to another place and time. “Mama,” I whispered softly, not wanting to startle her from her trancelike state.

  She blinked and I could almost see her come back into herself, gently and soundlessly, like a bird returning from flight to perch on a familiar branch. “She’s no good, that one. Puts on a convincing show, but I ain’t buyin’ what she’s sellin’.”

  By this time, Klara and Bryce had begun to walk toward the Magnolia B&B. I studied them for a moment and then frowned, recalling how delightful and generous Klara had been with everyone at the sandwich shop. “You don’t know her from Eve. How can you pass judgment on her like that?”

  My mother shook her head. “Will you ever believe in me, shug? Time after time you think the things I see and feel are nothin’ but nonsense.” She pulled her arm away. “I’ll admit to stretching the truth sometimes, to addin’ some colorful flourishes and special touches to my predictions, but when I know somethin’, I know it.”

  I cast my eyes down in shame. Ever since I’d been a child, my mother’s so-called gift had frightened and confused me. It was easier to view her as a performer, a harmless eccentric, than to truly believe she could sense and feel things the average person could not. However, she’d routinely proven that she was adept at reading people and that her intuition was as honed and accurate as a woodsman’s ax, so why did I continue to doubt her?

  “Okay, Mama.” I gave her my full attention. “What troubles you about Klara? Other than you think she’s insincere?”

  “Her appetite,” my mother answered. “That girl is hungry for money and fame. She wants ’em so bad and she’ll do anythin’ to get ’em. She’ll step on folks, Lila. Probably already has. Just don’t let yourself get caught under her boot heel. That’s all I ask. Keep your guard up around that woman. Promise me that.”

  I sighed, but told her what she wanted to hear. “I will do my best not to be trod upon by her or any other celebrity chef this weekend.”

  As it turned out, that was a promise I wouldn’t be able to keep.

  • • •

  WALKING THROUGH THE double doors of the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts later that afternoon, I experienced both a swell of pride and a tinge of sadness. Funded by Marlette’s estate, the center was a wonderful addition to our town, but it only existed because of his untimely death.

  My footsteps echoed on the lobby floor. I paused at a portrait of the man, a representation of the person he’d been years before I’d met him. The vibrant expression in his eyes was very different from that which I’d experienced last summer. Below the painting, a glass case exhibited a first edition of his book, as well as a copy of the original handwritten manuscript, bits of paper bearing lines of poetry, and Marlette’s leather-covered journal opened to a sketch of a wildflower. I touched the corner of the case, wishing, not for the first time, that I’d had a chance to really know him.

  “Oh, there you are, Lila.” Bentley’s brisk voice interrupted my ponderings. “I believe Vicky has everything in order, but I need you to double-check to ensure that nothing is neglected. We can’t give these celebrity chefs any reason to be critical.”

  “I was on my way to do just that.”

  “Good.” Bentley headed for the exit. “I have to make a call, but I’ll return in time for supper.”

  I checked my watch and realized I had only a few minutes to inspect the setup in the Dragonfly Room, where the chefs, literary agents, and our guests would dine following my tour of the Arts Center. I hurried into the room and was stunned by what I saw inside. What had been an empty space yesterday was now an elegant dining hall. Four round tables were draped with white linen cloths and set with yellow and green candles in glass holders, Portmeirion botanical dishes, and glittering crystal glassware. Wildflower arrangements in crystal vases were the centerpieces and mirrors along one wall reflected the setup, adding to its glamour.

  As I approached, Vicky Crump looked up from straightening a fork at one end of the table. “What do you think, Lila?” she asked. “Doesn’t the spring floral theme work well?”

  “It looks amazing!” I exclaimed. “Who would have imagined that a dance studio could be transformed like this?”

  “It is lovely. And the theme and colors perfectly complement the meal Voltaire’s has put together for us.”

  I picked up a printed menu from one of the place settings and read aloud. “Golden beet soup with crème fraîche and chives, grilled rosemary lamb chops with lemon caper sauce, sautéed garlic asparagus, oven-roasted new potatoes, and for dessert, a vanilla panna cotta with strawberry compote.” I sighed. “I’m hungry just talking about this feast and we have hours yet before we’ll be taking our first bite.”

  The door from the hall opened and Franklin walked in with two men.

  “But you can never have enough butter,” the tall man on Franklin’s right declared with a slight French accent. He had sharp facial features and dark eyes, and although not a heavy man, his belly strained against his shirt.

  “Yes, you can, Maurice. There should always be a perfect blend of ingredients. A deliberate balance,” retorted the slight Asian man on Franklin’s left. His head was shaved, and he bore an uncanny resemblance to the chairman on Iron Chef America. “Too much of any one ingredient can make a dish feel heavy.” He gestured at the other man’s middle. “And it doesn’t do your physique any good. That’s why your cookbook sales were so flat. Your French decadence just doesn’t cut it anymore in today’s quest for lighter cuisine.”

  The French chef glared at him. “The taste is worth the indulgence, Joel. An abundance of flavor is everything. Not that you’d understand that.”

  The chef I assumed must be Joel Lang opened his mouth to respond but before he could, Franklin hastily interjected. “Gentlemen, let’s save this lively and informative debate for anot
her time. I’d like you to meet Vicky Crump, our office manager, and Lila Wilkins, another agent in our firm. These two ladies are responsible for organizing the Cooks and Books portion of Inspiration Valley’s Taste of the Town festival. Lila and Vicky?” He gestured to the two men. “It is my pleasure to present Joel Lang, author of Fusing Asian, which is in high demand and has already received outstanding reviews.” He then shifted his hand at the tall Frenchman. “And this is Maurice Bruneau. His book, Flavor Is Everything, was released to widespread acclaim. They are both clients of mine.”

  We greeted each other and shook hands, Maurice Bruneau dispatching a slight bow as he brought Vicky’s fingers to his lips.

  Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. “What is the topic of your demonstration, Monsieur Bruneau?” she asked with the hint of a smile, pronouncing the French salutation with a perfect accent. Her demure tone surprised me, as I had never witnessed Vicky being anything less than confident, practical, and efficient. Had she forgotten that Maurice Bruneau was not one of the featured chefs? That he was merely in reserve should one of the other chefs cancel?

  Joel Lang let loose a derisive snort. “My former mentor isn’t—”

  Bruneau shot a caustic look at Lang and rudely cut him off. “Tristement, I am not part of the program. I am merely, how you say, a standby. But”—he winked at Vicky—“I could provide a private demonstration if you desire.”

  As if coming out of a trance, Vicky suddenly coughed. “I believe we have a full agenda this week.” She waved in the direction of the door. “Franklin, I told the other chefs to gather in the foyer for Lila’s tour, so perhaps we should guide these gentlemen there . . .” The rest of her words were lost as she disappeared into the lobby. Joel Lang glared at Maurice Bruneau and hastened after her. Franklin raised his eyebrows and exchanged glances with me.

  “Pardon,” Maurice Bruneau apologized. “I did not intend offense.”