Franklin dashed over and began to rhythmically press down on Marlette’s chest. “One and two and three and,” he huffed.
Suddenly realizing I hadn’t yet called 911, I punched in the number on my cell phone. Making the report to the emergency operator, I watched Franklin give mouth-to-mouth to Marlette, ashamed at the relief I felt that Franklin was touching those chapped lips while I spoke to a calm woman who promised to dispatch a team of paramedics immediately. “There’s an emergency crew en route,” I announced as I hung up. “They should be here soon.”
Jude leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Are the police coming, too?”
“Probably.” I edged away from him after noticing that Flora was positioned behind us anxiously wringing her hands. “Why?”
Jude glanced at Marlette, then back at me. “I think this may be a homicide.”
“You mean…” Flora dropped her hands and looked aghast. “Murder?”
“That’s ridiculous,” declared Zach, who had materialized in the lobby. “Why would anyone kill a homeless guy?”
I was wondering the same thing when Bentley came out of her office with Carson. The attractive forty-something author had donned his suit jacket while Bentley was wearing enormous Chanel sunglasses and carried a Louis Vuitton duffel in her hand. Striding down the hall they looked as though they were embarking on a trip.
Bentley halted at our little group. “Jude, let’s go.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jude looked stunned. “You need to deal with this situation. I think Marlette’s been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Carson’s surprised gaze moved from Jude to Marlette. “Looks more like an allergic reaction. His face is terribly swollen.”
We all turned toward the couch. I thought about Marlette’s puffy fingers and how doughy his neck had felt. “But from what?” I wondered aloud. Certainly not the water I’d given him.
Carson shook his head in dismay. “I don’t know. Maybe there was a bee in those flowers he was carrying.”
Jude shook his head. “No way. I noticed—”
“We’re wasting time,” Bentley interrupted impatiently. “My plane is already sitting on the runway. Lila can handle this.”
“M-me?” I stammered, flabbergasted that she would even consider jetting off to New York with a dead man in her agency. “Don’t you need to be here when the police arrive?”
Apparently, she found nothing amiss in her behavior. “My dear, Mr. Knight, Jude, and I have a late lunch meeting with a senior editor in New York. We have a few minor details to work out, and after that, Mr. Knight will officially become the highest-paid author of the Novel Idea Literary Agency.” Her eyes glimmered with dollar signs. “As for this unfortunate incident”—she gestured at Marlette without looking at him—“I’m confident that I can entrust you to manage the police as well as your daily allotment of queries. A woman with your experience and maturity can certainly give a succinct account to the authorities. Come, Jude.”
Jude shook his head. “I’m staying, Bentley. This needs to be taken care of. You can handle the details in New York.”
“Suit yourself. See you Monday.” And with that, she was gone. Carson gave me an apologetic bow, shook Jude’s hand, and followed the clip-clop of Bentley’s heels down the stairs.
“Oh dear.” Flora began wringing her hands again. “Oh dear, oh dear.”
I looked over at Franklin, who continued, without any sign of success, administering CPR. I marveled that he refused to give up despite his obvious weariness. “Has anyone ever read Marlette’s query letters?”
Flora shrugged. “My goodness, I have no idea! The interns were all warned about his regular visits and his…quirks. To tell the truth, they were a bit scared of him. He’s been coming here for almost a year now, and he brings flowers every day. Such a nuisance.”
“And his letters were always attached to the flowers?” I asked, wanting to confirm what Marlette had told me earlier.
“Yes.” Flora sank into one of the club chairs and began to dab at her flushed face with a tissue. She then continued the motion across her neck and down the deep V of her cleavage. “But I have no idea what they said.”
I felt anger on Marlette’s behalf. No one had bothered to spend five lousy minutes reading his letter? And yet, he had remained undeterred. Day after day, he reappeared at the agency, clutching his bouquet and his query, only to have his hopes dashed afresh each morning. “Everyone just assumed he was crazy,” I murmured sadly.