Buried in a Book (Novel Idea, #1)

“They’re in the freezer, dear,” she informed me.

Spying several one-pound bags of coffee bearing Espresso Yourself labels, I focused on prepping the coffee machine, set it to brew, and then took a chair opposite Flora. “I have a query letter to show you. I think it has potential.”

Flora accepted the letter and read it on the spot. I pictured the author, a middle school teacher in nearby Chapel Hill, standing in front of her class and waiting to call on a student. Did she experience a slight tingle? Did her sixth sense whisper that the woman in charge of selling the children’s books and young adult novels of this literary agency was, at this very moment, perusing her query? If she knew, would her palms go clammy? Would her hand tremble as she wrote vocabulary words on the dry-erase board? Would she suddenly have to sit down? I grinned to myself, imagining the teacher’s delight should Flora send her an email asking for the first three chapters of her manuscript.

Setting the paper down, Flora sighed. “It has potential, but it’s too big of a story for the young adult genre. If they only traveled to one culture per book, that would be doable, but three? Too ambitious, I’m afraid.”

I was surprised by my disappointment. Trying not to sound defensive, I said, “Couldn’t you ask her to rewrite the book so that it focused on a single ancient civilization? She could turn this idea into a three-book series. I bet she’d jump at the chance to make those changes.”

Flora reached across the table and gave my hand a maternal pat. “You’ve got a good heart, honey, I can tell. But we get letters that are close to the target all the time. We’re looking for the ones that hit the bull’s-eye, that make our blood rush through our veins. When we read one of those letters, we hope and pray that we can get in touch with the author before some other agent does.” She fluttered her eyelashes and looked up at the ceiling. “Ah, the sensation is heavenly—that connection you make when a writer pitches a saleable idea and has the talent to back it up. It makes all the tough days worthwhile.”

I didn’t ask what she meant by “tough.” My first day on the job had been fairly traumatic already, and I wanted to concentrate on the positive aspects of becoming a literary agent. Still, Flora’s statement reminded me that she had disliked the man who died in this office Friday morning.

According to Big Ed from Catcher in the Rye, the soft-spoken, apple-cheeked woman across from me had tried to render Marlette even more invisible than he already was by getting him banished from the community park. I had to know just how much she’d resented his presence in Inspiration Valley.

My attempt to speak was abruptly interrupted by a shrill beeping, an indication that twelve cups of freshly brewed coffee was waiting to be had. I pushed back my chair and filled the black-and-white Dunston Herald mug I’d brought from home, inhaling the tantalizing smell of the roasted arabica beans.

“It seems odd to be sitting at my desk, plowing through query letters as though nothing happened here on Friday,” I began, idly stirring cream into my coffee. “I know you felt sorry about Marlette’s death, and I don’t mean to sound callous, but won’t it be a relief that he won’t be showing up all the time?” Pasting on an exaggerated grimace, I carried my mug to the table. “He was odd and raggedy and had a bit of an odor problem.”

Flora took the bait immediately. “I know. Shameful! Some people should not be allowed to wander about willy-nilly, unbathed, muttering to themselves, scaring children and making their poor parents very, very nervous.”

“Did he do that?” I opened my eyes wide.

Spluttering, Flora put down her cup hard enough to cause the tea to slosh over the rim and puddle on the saucer. “He most certainly did! Skulking around the park, hiding scraps of paper in the purple martin house, drinking from the water fountain shaped like a dolphin—which is supposed to be for the children—and touching things around the play area. I could just imagine all the germs he left in his wake!”

Cheeks pink with indignation, Flora dabbed at the liquid pooled on her saucer with a napkin. The level of hostility in her voice startled me. I’d never imagined this jolly, picture-book-loving matron could harbor such resentment for a fellow human down on his luck.

I wondered if Flora was capable of killing someone simply because she disliked having to bear witness to the unpleasant face of homelessness, but when she spoke next, the true nature of her repulsion became clear.

“Why would a person constantly creep about where children are playing unless that person was sick?” she hissed, not really addressing me any longer, but an invisible enemy only she could see.