Still, I recalled being interested in several pitches during my Friday session, including a wonderful romantic suspense and two cozy mystery series, and I couldn’t wait to read those. However, I had over a dozen unsolicited queries to wade through first.
I did my best to respond to queries within four weeks, but this group had been sitting there for nearly six now and I wanted to get back to the authors today if possible. With my door closed and Handel playing from the free music station on my computer, I pushed all thoughts of Melissa Plume’s death aside and devoted my full attention to the queries.
Before I knew it, I’d sent fifteen rejection emails and two requests for the first fifty pages. I had made suggestions on eight of the rejection letters, recommending that the author increase or decrease the word count, clarify the project’s hook, or paint his or her protagonist in a more engaging light. The other rejections elicited no comments. The projects felt flat and unexciting to me, and there was no way to verbalize that sentiment kindly, so those authors would receive a form rejection letter without a personalized note. Who knows? Another agent might fall in love with those queries, but I didn’t feel a spark. So much of my job revolves around gut instincts—a sense of connection to the author’s story. The best queries leave me hungry for more. The worst leave me completely unmoved.
I hit send on the last of the emails and then glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was half past three.
“Coffee break!” I announced to the books on my shelves and headed downstairs.
Espresso Yourself was buzzing with the murmur of satisfied customers along with a group of artists who were boisterously hanging a new collection of paintings on the walls. They were large canvases and were distinctly modern in style. One painting, which was nearly as tall as Makayla, had been covered with a cherry red wash. A black square adorned the bottom half of the panel, and the work was entitled, “Jazz.” I didn’t get it, but then again, my knowledge of abstract art could fit inside a thimble.
“Not your cup of tea?” Makayla teased softly as I approached the counter. “I saw you tilting your head this way and that and frowning. Take a look at the one on the back wall. It’s called ‘Icarus.’ I like it.”
I turned to take in another oversize canvas made up of swirls of blue, black, white, and gold and recalled the story of the boy with wax wings who’d flown too close to the sun and had ended up drowning in the sea as a result. “I can picture wings and waves. Sunlight and water. A range of emotions, too. The gold is like the freedom he must have felt during flight and the black is the fear that must have engulfed him as he began to fall.” I shook my head in wonder. “There’s so much going on in a few paint strokes. I don’t like it as much as my lady at the fountain painting, but it’s still amazing.”
While Makayla fixed my latte, I filled her in on my lunchtime visit with Logan Delaney. I figured she had a right to know the identity of the mysterious green-eyed woman since she’d witnessed the fight between Melissa and Coralee. I was in the middle of explaining how Coralee was in breach of contract when a young man around Trey’s age started shouting and pointing out the window.
“There’s a giant banana across the street!” he shrieked and then burst into a peal of unsettling, high-pitched laughter. He was slight of build and dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and a knit ski hat whose flaps covered his ears. The blue and green flaps tapered into tails of braided yarn that dangled past the boy’s shoulders. He tugged on them, repeatedly drawing attention to the “banana” out the window.
Scowling over having my narrative interrupted, I realized that he was gesturing at my scooter. Makayla and I exchanged perplexed looks, and she murmured, “Do you think he’s drunk?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. If so, he’s going to need a double shot of espresso or he’ll be seeing an entire fruit basket on the train ride back to Dunston.”
“I wanna peel the big banana!” the boy declared, heading for the door.
A young woman with a collection of star tattoos on her neck grabbed her friend by the arm. “Dude, that’s a Vespa.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Get a grip. I just want to grab a café au lait and then we’re out of here.”
Makayla frowned. “I’ve never wanted to shoo off customers before, but these kids have been crowding my space for the last few weeks and they’ve all been raucous as magpies and messy as pigeons.”
Studying the group of older teens, who appeared to be yet another wave of college students skipping classes, I remembered Trey telling me that Jasper had been charging coeds to meditate at the co-op. A couple of these kids were wearing caps embroidered with the Red Fox Mountain Co-op logo. Had they just come from there?