I wanted to hug her but sensed she wouldn’t welcome the familiarity, so I gave her my card, telling her to call me if she ever needed a friend. She took it and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans and then crossed the street without another word.
I watched her until she disappeared around a corner, and I silently prayed that she could recover from this ordeal.
Walking into Novel Idea felt like coming home. The other agents were genuinely glad to see me, and they hugged and fussed over me for a good fifteen minutes before I finally ventured into my office and got to work.
My concentration was interrupted by a call from the reception area. “Hello?” The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t place it. I hurried out to see who it was. Standing near the entrance was Calliope, Luella’s client, wearing a purple velour pantsuit and a canary yellow headband.
I held out my hand. “Hello, Calliope. I’m Lila Wilkins. We met last week.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t…” Recognition registered on her face. “You’re the one who found Luella. I read about it in the paper. It must have been awful.” She offered me her hand as though I might bend over and kiss her garish diamond and amethyst ring. “Poor Luella. She didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“No one does,” I said, though part of me believed that Luella had merited some kind of retribution for what she’d done to Marlette. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Bentley.” She pointed down the hall. “Is she in?”
“She’s in New York, but perhaps I could be of assistance?”
She shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. “What will happen to Luella’s clients?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll be taken care of.” I suddenly realized I’d seen a photograph of Calliope’s face before. It had been on the inside back cover of the book Luella had lent me on my first day of work. “Isn’t Can’t Take the Heat one of your books? I read that recently and loved it.”
She nodded, her face aglow with pride. “It’s nice to be represented by an agency whose staff loves my work. However, a New York firm is offering me some very attractive perks. I’m tempted, but they want me to stick with contemporary romance.” She put her hands over her heart. “I want to leave my comfort zone. I’ve written a historical romantic suspense set in Elizabethan England, and personally, I think it’s my best writing. Ask Bentley if this agency would like to represent my new project. If so, she knows how to reach me. I do want to stay with the agency out of loyalty, but I’m wondering if anyone’s got enough free time for little old me.”
“Of course we do,” I hurried to assure her.
She turned to go but then abruptly spun around. “Oh, I almost forgot! I didn’t come here just because I was in the neighborhood. I have an important delivery. Please give this to Bentley.” She pulled a thick brown envelope from her cavernous Prada handbag. “Luella gave it to me for safekeeping a while ago. Told me that if anything happened to her, I was to get it to Bentley.”
“Do you know what it is?” I asked, noticing the envelope was sealed. It was heavy in my hands.
Calliope shook her head, her dark curls bouncing wildly. “Feels like a manuscript to me. I thought it was a very strange thing for her to do, but no matter how much I probed, she wouldn’t tell me what it was or why she wanted me to hold on to it. When she was murdered, I was dying to open it, but I’d made a promise to a friend.” Her magenta-hued lips crumpled a little, and I saw that she and Luella had shared a bond that went beyond agent and client.
After Calliope left, I took the envelope back to my office. I knew I should have put it directly on Bentley’s desk, but I couldn’t. Everything that had happened revolved around the contents of this package, for I was certain that it held a photocopy of Marlette’s manuscript. This had been Luella’s insurance policy, and though it had failed to keep Carson under her control, it would add to the stack of evidence that was mounting against him.
But beyond all of this, the envelope contained Marlette’s book. This was the project of years of labor, and it had been good enough to ignite a major bidding war among several publishing houses. It had been good enough to be called brilliant by my boss. I felt I deserved to read just one page of the novel that had caused so much strife and yet would soon be devoured by thousands and thousands of readers.
I slit one end open with the edge of my scissors and shook the envelope over my desk. A thick stack of papers secured with two rubber bands fell out with a thud, and I immediately recognized Marlette’s handwriting.