That’s when I remembered Big Ed telling me that Flora believed Marlette to be a pedophile. If she was convinced of this fact, it was no surprise that she viewed him with malice.
Deciding to test the depth of Flora’s enmity toward Marlette, I said, “We have our share of homeless in Dunston as well. I don’t think any of them are pedophiles, but I do wish those poor people could all get the help they need. Whether that means rehabilitation into society, medical care, or counseling, it bothers me that they’re left to wander around like half-starved zombies.” I hesitated. Was I laying it on too thick? “What do you think, Flora? Should these folks be rounded up and sent to a facility somewhere so the rest of us don’t have to see them?”
Flora frowned, considering my question. Finally, she shook her head. “No, dear. A town should take care of its people. Inspiration Valley doesn’t seem to have any programs in place for”—she struggled to find the least offensive word—“these lost souls. I don’t hate them, Lila. Don’t think that of me. I just don’t want the children to be subjected to scary-looking adults. They have so little time in this life in which they can enjoy their innocence. That’s why I do what I do.” She gazed into the middle distance and smiled dreamily. “Beautiful picture books, faraway places, magic, adventure. That’s what a childhood should be about. Not ugly things like war or abuse or homelessness.”
I nodded, amazed that Flora could be so na?ve at her age. Or perhaps it wasn’t na?veté at all. Maybe Flora’s innocence had been stolen from her and she lived her life trying to preserve it for other children. Her words made me think of Trey, and I suddenly wished that his childhood had been as untainted as Flora’s vision. Doesn’t every mother hope for that?
“Perhaps this author can create that for a young adult audience,” I suggested softly, pushing the teacher’s query letter closer to Flora’s hand.
She picked it up and flashed me a quick smile. “Okay, Lila. I’ll give her a chance.” Humming again, Flora washed her teacup in the sink and left the room.
In my office, I sat down on my creaky old chair. Cradling my mug, I slowly swiveled around and replayed my conversation with Flora. She was a bit of an odd duck, but she was certainly no murderer.
I spun the chair back to face the desk, and my eyes fell on the laptop that I’d pushed aside to make room for the stack of queries. Jude had mentioned emails this morning, as had Bentley on Friday. How many might be sitting there waiting to be read? I turned the computer on and waited for it to boot up.
Twenty minutes later, having had to interrupt Bentley once to ask for my assigned password, I accessed the agency’s main email account. Jude was right. There were hundreds of email queries in the inbox. Three hundred and seventy-two to be exact. And Bentley had forwarded me the day’s two proposals to read through. The remaining hours of the morning flew by as I fielded phone calls and read query letters, discarding each one into a virtual rejection file.
Finally, I looked up from the screen and rubbed my eyes. I was blushing from the query I had just finished reading. It was for a novel in the erotica genre about a sea captain who gets shipwrecked on an island populated by salacious women. Although the letter was well written, the author’s graphic descriptions made me squirm in my seat. Not being familiar with erotica, I was uncertain if this query was atypical for the genre. It was addressed to Ms. Luella Ardor, and I wondered if I should pass it on to her. I hesitated a few minutes but eventually forwarded it to her email address.
My stomach growled, and glancing at the clock on the computer screen, I saw that it was already half past noon. Making sure Marlette’s notebook was in my bag, I headed for Espresso Yourself.
In the café, I stepped behind a gray-haired lady in a pink velour pantsuit who was waiting at the counter. Makayla handed her a takeout cup and then saw me. “Grab that table in the corner,” she said, smiling. “I’ll bring you something.”
Surprisingly for this time of day, the coffee shop was quiet. A woman in a flowered skirt sat at one table with a laptop in front of her, a man holding the hand of a little boy was on his way out, and the pink pantsuit lady was adding sugar to her coffee. I settled down at the table by the window and examined the book Makayla had set there to claim her seat. It was Muriel Barbery’s Elegance of the Hedgehog. The thought of the warmhearted barista escaping to a bourgeois Paris apartment during her breaks made me smile. I pushed the novel to the edge of the table and pulled out Marlette’s journal.