He ignored my protest. “The wife of one of my clients is writing a cookbook.”
That wasn’t what I had expected. “Cool.”
“Except she’s not really writing it, she’s using a ghostwriter.”
“That’s interesting. Why doesn’t she do it herself?”
“She says all the celebrities use ghostwriters for their cookbooks.”
“Celebrity?” I inquired.
“She’s the wife of a congressman. Tilly Stratford. Her husband, Wesley Winthrop, is my client.”
I’d heard the former TV star had moved to Old Town Alexandria. “No kidding!” Just to be sure we were talking about the same person, I asked, “The one who played the daughter in American Daughter?”
“The very same.”
I chomped into one of the chocolate croissants. The chocolate was still warm and soft inside. The favor Mars needed was becoming clearer. He probably wanted me to arrange a huge party for the debut of the cookbook. I might be an event planner, but most of the time I dealt with conventions and large events.
“But the ghostwriter quit on Friday.” He sipped his drink and then said casually, “I was thinking maybe you’d be interested.”
“In ghostwriting a cookbook? I don’t know the first thing about that.”
“Nothing to it,” he said with way too much confidence for someone whose cooking expertise was limited to grilling meats and mixing cocktails. “And it pays very well.”
“Is she difficult?” I asked out of curiosity.
“Who?”
“Tilly.”
“Not at all. She’s very sweet. You’ll like her. She’s . . . a little intimidated by the congressional scene. She’s out of her element. But you’ll love her.”
“Then why did the ghostwriter quit?”
“We don’t know. She told Tilly she was sorry but she had to quit, and that was it. She walked out, leaving poor Tilly high and dry. No one has been able to reach her since Friday.”
I tilted my head and gave him my best doubtful look. “Mars, that doesn’t make sense. People don’t take a job and quit in the middle of it.”
“Are you kidding me? People do that all the time. One of my clients advertised a job and hired six people. Guess how many showed up on the first day of training.”
It was clearly a trick question. “Three?”
“Zero.” He made a zero with his thumb and forefinger. “Not the best example, but my point is that people don’t always come through with what they promise. I’m told that there has to be a personal connection between the ghostwriter and the chef. I feel a little guilty because I was the one who hooked her up with Abby Bergeron. She came highly recommended. Maybe they just didn’t mesh.”
Daisy finished her Puppy Paw-Tea and then watched us, probably hoping we had another one hidden somewhere.
Mars persisted. “Tilly is a sweetheart, Sophie. She’s so disappointed. It would mean a lot to her if you could help out.”
I slurped the remains of my mocha latte in a most unladylike manner.
Mars wrote something on a napkin and slid it across the table to me.
I took a look and felt my eyes widen. “Is that a dollar sign?”
“I told you it paid well. They’re in a hurry to get it done and are willing to pay extra. The thing is”—he looked at me with his best imitation of Daisy’s puppy eyes—“I know you wouldn’t let them down.”
He didn’t need to shower me with empty flattery. I was torn. The money would be nice, but I had been looking forward to some downtime. “Mars, thanks for thinking of me, but I’d really like to have a little time off. Besides, a cookbook is a huge project. We’d be working on it for a year, and I would need to get back to my real job soon.”
“Ah! But the bulk of it is done.” He leaned toward me. “Tilly is very disappointed. This cookbook is a big deal for her, and”—Mars locked his eyes on mine—“I know I can depend on you. I don’t want some other highly recommended person coming in and making a mess of it or walking away.”
“I’ll think about it.” I scowled at him. “In spite of your assurances that it’s easy, I don’t know what’s involved in ghostwriting a cookbook.”
“There’s nothing to it. You write down recipes. How hard could that be?”
I stood up and collected Daisy’s leash. “I’ll let you know.”
As I walked away, Mars called out to me, “You were my favorite wife!”
I was his only wife. He had lived with our friend Natasha, but she never did manage to get him to walk down the aisle with her.
Fall was my favorite time of year in Old Town. It was way too early for pumpkins, but they already decorated the front stoops of some historic homes. Others had lush wreaths on their doors, featuring dried flowers and giant sunflowers. The leaves on the trees that lined the streets were still green. It was that transitional time between summer and fall. School had started, and weekend beach trips had ended. Warm summery days were still the norm but they were interrupted by chilly days that reminded us fall weather was already on the way.
Traffic had picked up, and people had begun to leave their offices in search of lunch. At an intersection with King Street, Daisy and I waited for the light to change and the line of cars to stop.
A man paused near us. About my age with a neat appearance, he reminded me of my old beau, Alex. His brown hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a blue Oxford cloth button-down shirt with a striped yellow tie. Quintessential Old Town attire for gentlemen. He smiled at me, which made me totally self-conscious. He even reached down to pat Daisy.
But the second the light changed he was off in a hurry, walking across the street in great, confident strides ahead of the crowd. When he reached the sidewalk on the other side, he lifted the end of his tie and placed it in his mouth. In one swift movement, he raised the lid on a public garbage bin, bent over, reached inside, and pulled out a red soft drink can.
I was so stunned that I stopped walking in the middle of the street.
He dropped the top of the garbage can in place, let his tie fall back to his chest, and strode away.
I looked around. No one else seemed to be watching him. Hadn’t anyone else noticed what he just did?
A car honked at us, and we dashed across the street. I couldn’t help myself—I turned right and followed him.
Chapter 2
Dear Natasha,
I love your TV show. You inspire me! I’m throwing a party and I’m planning to serve your jalapeño poppers. What do you recommend as a drink to go with them?
Hot Mama in Volcano, Hawaii
Dear Hot Mama,
As much as I love those jalapeño poppers, I’m afraid they’re passé. Look for recipes involving smoked salts or peppered fish and meats. Or go all-out with fermented garlic! That’s what’s on trend right now.
Natasha
Unfortunately, Natasha intercepted me. “Sophie! Sophie! Where have you been? I went by your house half a dozen times last week, but you weren’t home. You really should let me know if you’re going out of town.”