I BIDED MY time at the office the next morning, efficiently reading and responding to queries and all the while keeping one eye on the hallway to see when Franklin left for lunch so I could follow him. I found myself yawning several times and tried not to dwell on the tediousness of my job. Sifting through a myriad of story proposals in the hopes of coming upon a gem brought to mind the work of a prospector who seeks the twinkling of gold in a mess of sand. Still, I accorded each query the attention it deserved, trying to put myself in the place of the hopeful writer who penned it. Thankfully, there were none that found their way into the Agents Beware file this time, but there were no shining jewels, either. Only one gave me pause, and I considered it for several minutes before setting it aside to read again at the end of the day. The query was for a novel about a woman who changes careers by leaving the corporate world to open a cupcake shop and becomes entangled in a murder investigation. I wasn’t sure if it appealed to me because of the succulent recipes, because it was a good, well-written story, or both, so I decided to distance myself and revisit it later.
Stretching my back, I looked up at the ceiling. As if they’d been hovering above me like a cloud, thoughts about Marlette drifted into my mind. I considered what little I knew of the man. Someone out there must be more familiar with his history. He couldn’t always have been the strange, unkempt individual who died in our office. And who was Sue Ann?
Completely distracted from my work, I proceeded to search the Internet, Googling Marlette, Sue Ann, homeless vagrants, anything I could conjure up that might lead to the smallest nugget of useful information. I discovered nothing. Staring into the hallway, I was trying to think of other search terms when Franklin suddenly walked past my door on the way to the exit. Remembering that his secretive lunchtime excursions made him one of my prime suspects, I slammed the laptop shut, grabbed my bag, and rushed out after him.
When he left the building, he started walking up High Street and through the park. Makayla was right. His movements were furtive and suspicious. He walked quickly, constantly looking around the streets and over his shoulder. He definitely acted like a man with something to hide. Maybe his secret bore a connection to Marlette.
I stayed in the shadows when I could, ducking in doorways and pretending to look at interesting things in the shop windows.
Franklin finally turned onto Walden Woods Circle, the street where my little dream house stood. Perfect. If he caught sight of me, I could just say I was looking at a house I was interested in buying.
We walked past the charming yellow house, and Franklin hustled up the walk of a tidy pink one with blue shutters. A piano-shaped sign was posted on the lawn. Music Lessons, it read, and it included a phone number. Could Franklin be taking piano lessons during his lunch hour? But why would he be secretive about that? I hid behind a wide tree trunk and stared at the house.
He did not go up to the front door but walked along the wraparound porch to an entrance near the back and let himself in. When he closed the door, I rushed over to the house and peered very discreetly in a side window, hoping I wasn’t too visible from the street.
I found myself looking into a kitchen, all done up with lacy curtains in the windows and a vase of flowers on the blue granite countertop. The table was set for two, with wineglasses and bright green cloth napkins folded under the forks. A plate of sandwiches sat in the center.
Repositioning myself so that I could just peer above the window frame, I saw Franklin, caught in the embrace of another man. They exchanged a tender kiss, smiled lovingly at each other, and then sat down at the table and proceeded to eat lunch.
That explained his furtive behavior! Franklin—prim, solemn, conservative Franklin—was gay. His suspicious behavior had nothing to do with Marlette’s murder. He just didn’t want anyone to see this side of his private life.
And I had just wasted part of my lunch hour on a wild-goose chase. I could have been looking for one of Marlette’s hidey-holes. Instead, I was behaving like a Peeping Tom.
I strode off the property in exasperation. Sighing deeply, I stopped for just a minute in front of the cozy yellow house I coveted. If my home in Dunston ever sold, maybe I could scrape together enough money to buy this perfect place.
My stomach grumbled in complaint, so I headed in the direction of Lavender Lane in search of lunch.
The smell of baking bread inside Catcher in the Rye assaulted my senses the same way it had the first time I visited the sandwich shop. I breathed it in deeply, my mouth watering. Scanning the delectable menu, I chose the Mowgli, a curried chicken salad with mangoes and walnuts wrapped in whole wheat naan. This time I virtuously asked for carrot sticks as the side. Glancing at the card the cashier handed me, I had to smile over being assigned the name of Miss Marple. It seemed fitting, considering my bumbling attempts at figuring out the mystery of Marlette’s murder. Waiting for my name to be called, I stared out the window. Just to the left of the fire department was Mountain Road, leading to the Red Fox Co-op. I wondered how Trey was doing up there.
“MISS MARPLE!” Big Ed bellowed, disrupting my musings.
I reached for the bag he handed me, and in my best British accent, said, “Why, thank you, kind sir.”
“Hey, you’re the intern at Novel Idea, right? You were Eliza Doolittle last time. I never did catch your real name.”
“Lila Wilkins. Pleased to officially meet you, Big Ed.” I shook his hand.
“I was thinking about you folks at the agency and that poor soul, Marlette. You were asking about him last time. Just last night I remembered something kind of unique about him and was hoping you’d stop in so I could share it with you.”