“Thank you,” I interrupted hastily. Truth be told, I was rather interested in hearing the rest of that sentence, but Franklin had suddenly appeared in the lobby, and I didn’t want to be caught discussing a ménage à trois in his presence. I wanted his respect, and I suspected I’d earn it by acting like a professional and a former journalist, not like a tween swooning over a poster of a shirtless heartthrob. Still, I couldn’t help exchanging a secretive smile with Luella as I slid the book into my bag.
“I’m off to lunch,” Franklin announced and then paused. “In the face of this morning’s unfortunate incident, Bentley probably forgot to mention that you may take an hour for lunch whenever you’d like. The main switchboard number has been set to voicemail since the last intern left, so it might as well stay that way for another sixty minutes.”
I looked back and forth between Franklin and Luella. “I’m expected to be the agency’s receptionist as well?”
Luella waved an elegant hand at me. “Don’t worry, darling. Our clients call us on our personal lines. The only calls you have to field will come from writers checking on their query status or members of the media who haven’t pleased Bentley enough to be given her direct number.” She fished a compact from her crocodile-skin clutch and examined her reflection. After licking her teeth with her tongue, she snapped the compact and smiled at me. “Honestly, the phone doesn’t ring much. Though after this morning…” She turned to Franklin. “I think we’d better let it go to voicemail for the remainder of the day, don’t you?”
Franklin nodded, recommended I try a sandwich shop on Lavender Lane called Catcher in the Rye, and disappeared downstairs. Luella followed on his heels, talking animatedly into a bejeweled cell phone as she walked.
One would imagine that having seen a dead man would ruin my appetite for the rest of the day, but judging from the growling coming from my lower belly, my body had made a quick recovery.
Catcher in the Rye was three blocks away, but the comforting aroma of baking bread was adrift on the breeze before I even stepped foot onto Lavender Lane. The café, which had both indoor and outdoor eating sections, was already crowded. As I tried to get my bearings, a man explained that I needed to order my food at the counter, pay for it, and wait to be assigned a name.
“I already have a name,” I told him. “I don’t get it.”
“Big Ed’ll call a fictional name when your sandwich is ready.” The friendly local grinned at me. “Everyone’s given a random name by the cashier. Big Ed is a creative fellow, you’ll see. Enjoy!”
I had no time to make sense of that last bit, as I had the daunting task of selecting a sandwich from the dozens listed on an enormous chalkboard mounted above the cashier’s station. I was tempted by the Van Gogh—turkey, sliced Brie, and apples with honey mustard on a French baguette—and by the Pavarotti—Genoa salami, prosciutto, provolone, and roasted red peppers on toasted Italian bread—but I went with the Hamlet, which was a tasty combination of Black Forest ham, sliced Havarti, tomatoes, and a Dijon mayo on rye.
After I’d ordered and paid, feeling guilty for choosing crinkle-cut potato chips instead of a side of sliced carrots or fruit salad, the cashier handed me a laminated card. “What’s this?” I asked.
“Your name,” the woman answered and called for the next person in line to step forward.
I smiled. I’d been given a card bearing the name and photograph of Eliza Doolittle. I loved My Fair Lady. Somehow, having been given this card made me stand with a more upright posture. With a slight tilt of the chin, I inexplicably felt more hopeful that I was capable of unraveling the mystery behind Marlette’s demise.
“Who did you get?” I asked the man who’d been so helpful when I first entered the sandwich shop.
The man frowned unhappily. “One that I don’t like. I always feel like a five-year-old child whenever Big Ed calls out this name and I have to step forward. For once, I’d like to get Sinbad the Sailor or James Bond. But no, I’m stuck with—”
“RUMPELSTILTSKIN!” the portly server behind the counter bellowed, and the man next to me slunk forward to collect his lunch.
“Better luck next time, Mr. Hodges!” Big Ed smiled merrily as the man tossed the card bearing his fairy tale identity in a basket. He then caught my eye. “And you must be Eliza Doolittle.”
“I’s very pleased ta meetchya, I’m sure,” I said in my best Cockney accent and performed a small curtsy as Big Ed placed my order on the counter.
Big Ed threw his head back and roared, his second chin wobbling with mirth. In his late sixties, the owner and sandwich artist was completely bald with the exception of a crescent of gray hair hugging the base of his large head. “I sure like it when folks play along. Are you visiting our lovely town on this fine day?”
“No. I just started working at Novel Idea,” I said with a hint of pride.
Reaching over the counter to give me a sympathetic pat on the hand, Big Ed said, “I heard what happened over there this morning. A terrible thing. Poor Marlette. He just drifted around this place like a tumbleweed, but he was a harmless old fool, despite what Flora might have told you.”