It would have taken a stellar query letter to capture my attention that morning, and I have to admit that not a single one ended up in the possibilities folder. At noon, I wasted a precious fifteen minutes buying yogurt, strawberries, and a granola bar at the grocery store, but I was back at Novel Idea with plenty of time to spare.
I dumped the food on my desk and checked to be certain that the agency was truly empty. It was. Even Flora, who usually brought lunch from home, had gone out today. Bentley always left for nearly two hours to dine at a restaurant in Inspiration Valley or Dunston, but I poked my head in her office just to make sure.
The place was deserted, and Luella’s office was unlocked.
It was now or never.
I turned the knob and pushed open her door. The cloying scent of roses infused with jasmine that was Luella’s perfume assaulted my nostrils, and I warily ventured inside, feeling uneasy about entering the workspace of a possible murderer. But the suspicion that Luella had taken the life of another person for her own selfish reasons propelled me forward, and soon I stood behind her desk, looking around, trying to think of where to start.
Straight ahead, two ornately carved mahogany bookcases lined the wall. In the corner, atop a colorful Persian rug, a round Duncan Phyfe coffee table was encircled by two wing chairs upholstered in the same pink floral fabric as the drapes that graced the window. The file cabinet was crafted from wood and etched with intricate designs. Luella’s computer sat upon a magnificent antique mahogany desk with two drawers and an inlaid leather top. It reminded me of a photograph I’d seen in a magazine of Agatha Christie’s writing table that had been sold at an auction last year.
I pulled at the drawer on the left. It didn’t move and was obviously locked. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make it budge. The second drawer slid open easily, and I sneezed as a hodgepodge of scents wafted out. A disorganized assortment of makeup containers and bottles and potpourri sachets were mixed in with a jumble of pens, paper clips, and other stationery items. Nothing of significance there.
Cocking my head to make sure there was no sound in the hall, I left the desk and quickly scanned the bookshelves. The books lined up in neat rows were romance novels, their spines depicting bare-chested, muscular men and bodacious maidens swooning, or women falling out of their dresses in the arms of brawny buccaneers. Many of the authors were big-name romance writers, and I was awed at Luella’s stable of clients.
I riffled through the files, carefully opening each drawer and trying not to disturb anything. Contracts for authors, catalogues from publishers, brochures for various conferences, references for editors—nothing that pointed to any kind of involvement with Marlette.
Turning my gaze back to the desk, my eyes fell on Luella’s desktop computer. I hadn’t found anything among her things, but surely there would be a clue or connection to Marlette on her computer. I quickly stuck my head out the door to ensure that no one had returned from lunch, as I was beginning to feel a bit concerned over how much time had passed. The hall was silent.
Booting up the computer, I was dismayed to see that it was password protected. I sat back in frustration. Would my one chance to explore her hard drive be stymied from the start? I racked my brain to think of possibilities for her password, but I didn’t know her well enough to come up with any viable solutions.
I started with the first words that came to mind—Sue Ann Grey, Woodside, Marlette—but even as I typed them, I realized she wouldn’t want to remind herself of her past every time she logged onto her computer. I keyed in romance, money, men, and other words that made me think of her, but nothing would unlock the computer.
Idly, I wondered what Luella’s perfume was called and rummaged through the desk drawer, sneezing twice. A small glass bottle in the shape of a woman’s torso emitted Luella’s overpowering scent and had the name Goddess of the Hunt inscribed on it. I smiled ruefully, thinking of Luella’s perfume as a metaphor for how she saw herself.
Hurriedly I typed in goddess and was thrilled to find that it worked. I quickly scanned through the document files and her emails but found no reference to anything relating to Marlette’s murder.
Checking the history file on her Internet browser yielded better results. I found several links to web pages about bee sting allergies and anaphylactic shock. My pulse quickened as I typed and clicked. One page in particular contained a detailed article on how anaphylactic shock can cause death. Luella had also visited herbal medicine sites that sold bee venom capsules.