I leaned forward again, my eyes scanning the piles of work waiting for me. Any further sleuthing would have to wait for a while. Maybe Sean would have some luck tracing the ring’s owner, but for now, I needed to get some work done. I clicked over to my inbox and did a quick check, and an email from Makayla’s editor practically jumped off the screen: “The Barista Diaries Cover Art,” the subject line read. I opened the attachment, my breath catching. The artist had created what looked like an Impressionist painting of the inside of a busy café. Soft hues of gray and blue and shifts in shades captured the essence of patrons grouped around tables as they enjoyed both coffee and conversation. I could almost imagine the smells, the whirring machines, the laughter and din of constant chatter . . . Makayla was going to love this!
Normally I simply forwarded cover attachments to my clients, but with Makayla, I wanted to be there to see the look on her face when she saw her cover for the first time. So instead of forwarding the email, I copied the image and made a color print. I’d take it down to her later as a surprise.
The next email I opened was the manuscript I’d requested from the author of Death of a Dame, the Roaring Twenties mystery query I’d read a few days ago. I opened it right away and was immediately disappointed. The manuscript was over a hundred thousand words, way too long for the typical cozy mystery of seventy-five thousand words. I skimmed the first chapter, realizing the author used a lot of unnecessary narrative about the characters’ backgrounds, facts that could be condensed and easily woven throughout subsequent chapters. Overall, the writing wasn’t bad; he just needed to rework and polish the manuscript. And I did like the premise of the mystery, which was set in the 1920s. I hesitated . . . Did I want to take the time to make a few notes, see if he would be willing to rewrite and resubmit, or should I simply reject the proposal?
Undecided, I kept reading until the end of the third chapter and found that despite a few rambling scenes, the storyline was solid. I knew this author had a good book in him, maybe even this one if he made a few changes, so I decided to take a chance. I composed a note with a few suggestions and requested a rewrite and resubmission. But as soon as I clicked send, I regretted my decision. Taking a chance on this author was a long shot and nine times out of ten, this type of scenario never panned out well. Either the author was offended by my suggestions or they simply hadn’t developed the skill set needed to write a marketable book. But it was already done. Only time would tell if my initial instinct was correct.
My thoughts turned back to Pam, an author who had more than enough skill and a ready-made fan base, and I wished I’d thought to ask her more about her mystery. Was it cozy, or hardboiled? Chock-full of romance or more Agatha-like? Whatever it was, I knew it would be a vivid, enthralling story. It gave me a thrill to think that I’d be reading it soon. Piggybacked to that thrill, however, was a bit of trepidation. How would Flora react? Certainly it was an author’s choice to change genres, but it meant cutting Flora out of one of her strong authors. Plus I’d be put to the task of convincing the publisher to switch genre horses as well. Or find another publisher. Not that any publisher would usually hesitate to take on an author with an established fan base who was branching into a new genre, but still . . . suddenly I wondered if this might be part of the reason for the ten o’clock meeting.
A knock sounded on my office door and Jude stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “I was hoping I’d find you here early.” Without being asked, he seated himself in one of my guest chairs. He’d worn a casual outfit this morning: blue jeans with leather boots and a dark blue button-down shirt that hugged his torso in all the right places. I averted my eyes, irritated that I’d noticed that last detail.
“Don’t worry,” he started. “I’m not here to talk about this thing between us.”
This thing between us? The muscles in my neck tensed, a dull ache suddenly rising at my temples. “There is no thing between us, Jude. And for your information, Sean and I have set a date. Next September.”
He raised a brow. “September what?”
“Uh . . . just September. We haven’t set the exact day yet.”
“I see.” He smirked. “Well, like I was saying, I’m here about something entirely different. It has to do with Zach.”
“Zach? What about him?” It occurred to me that I had seen him last night but I hadn’t really talked to him much in the last couple of days. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s fine. It’s just that he took that stuff Bentley said at Monday’s status meeting seriously.”
“About keeping our eyes and ears open at the expo?” I remembered Zach wanting to make some sort of bet over who could solve Chuck’s murder first. Suddenly, my stomach rolled with dread. Or maybe I was catching what Mama had. I hoped not. “Did he find something?”
Jude chuckled. “He thinks so. In fact, he says he’s nailed down the killer.” Jude paused, noticed my grimace, and offered a quick apology for his poor choice of words. “The good news is he believes Jodi is innocent.”
“That is good news,” I said.
I was about to add my own theories when he snapped back with, “But the bad news is that he’s convinced your client, Lynn, is the killer.”
“Oh no.” I collapsed my head into my palms and closed my eyes for a second.
“Yup. Apparently, he’s been asking around town about Chuck and has come up with some interesting facts. And he says they all point to Lynn.”