Page 1 of Scripted for Love and Poison (Sol and Luke Mystery #2)
“ T his is not happening,” Sol said for the tenth time.
But even if she was set on denying the facts, they all pointed to one awful, hideous, horrible conclusion: Her checked bag had been lost. It had been carefully packed by her expert self to contain all the essential clothes, cosmetics, shoes, bags, and sundry accessories she’d need for her four-day stay in Los Angeles—and then some in-case-of-emergency or last-minute-invitation-to-a-lavish-party extra stuff.
Yet, despite the perfection of its contents and how much Sol Novo really required them all , it was nowhere to be seen.
She and Luke had been at carousel number three of LAX’s international terminal for more than forty minutes. The latest of the London passengers had picked up their checked luggage, yet Sol’s hadn’t been among the delivered suitcases.
“Andiamo al banco bagagli, Sol. I’m starting to see bags from a flight from Roma on the carousel,” Luke told her, but she wasn’t listening. She hadn’t even cared that her London-born-and-raised lover had talked to her in Italian—even if that always made her melt.
But she would not go to the baggage counter. She knew what happened there: People were always given the same terrible news—their bags were now forever lost.
“This isn’t happening,” she repeated yet again.
She had been stranded by volcanoes. She’d sleepwalked through terminals, waiting for much-delayed connections.
She’d napped in uncomfortable airport seats.
She’d been inside long-haul airplanes with malfunctioning lavatories and no running water.
She’d even had to head back home—on more than one occasion—after spending the whole day at the airport, only for her flight to go from eternally delayed to canceled.
But Sol counted herself fortunate because never, in her many decades as a seasoned traveler, had her bags been lost. Not even momentarily misplaced.
Luke was dragging his carry-on bag with one hand and had taken Sol’s hand with the other. He was guiding her to their airline counter at the arrivals area of LAX. Once there, he addressed the sole attendant filling the post.
“Hello. My partner’s bag hasn’t turned up at the carousel, and we were wondering if?—”
“It has to be somewhere!” Sol said, taking both hands to her heated cheeks.
“Ma’am, calm down. Do you have the receipt for the checked bag?” the airline attendant said.
Sol handed over the receipt, sore from having been called ma’am . How old did the airline attendant think she was?
After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only a couple of minutes spent inputting the number of the receipt in a computer—the attendant said laconically, “We’ve found it.”
“You have it!” Sol felt something akin to ecstasy. She was that attached to her things. “I thought I was going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe!”
“You may still have to do it,” the attendant continued in their curt style.
“What do you mean?” Sol asked.
“I told you we found it, not that the bag was here.” The attendant shrugged, not looking up from the computer screen.
Sol arched her eyebrows in confusion. “That sounds ominous.”
And it did, but not as ominous as what happened next.
Her editor was calling her. It had to be urgent, because Julie McQueen never had the habit of making a phone call.
Not to Sol. Infinite email chains were more her style.
But Sol needed to take that phone call because Julie was the one editor who threw well-paid freelance work her way on a regular basis.
Sol left Luke dealing with the airline attendant so that they knew where to deliver her suitcase once it made its way back from its undisclosed location.
It wasn’t like her to let someone else handle a lost-luggage situation, but over the past few months together, she’d learned to trust Luke.
He’d proven himself constant and dependable.
So Sol was sure he’d do everything to get her things back and instill all the required urgency into the airline people dealing with her belongings.
“Julie, hi. Is everything okay?”
“Are you in Los Angeles already?” her editor answered promptly.
She was a competent woman who Sol enjoyed immensely as a professional colleague.
She was a stanch believer in the less-is-more motto, never over-edited, and still had a decent contributor budget.
She wasn’t a great conversationalist, but Sol could overlook that.
“Just landed, trying to sort out a luggage thing.”
“They lost your bag,” Julie stated. Not asked, but stated.
Sol paced nervously a few meters away from Luke, her eyes pinned on him while he dealt with her problem. “They did. I’m a bit panicked, to be honest.”
“Don’t be, that’ll hardly serve any purpose. You’ll still have nothing to wear and be panicked on top of it. And, believe me, no one wants to see a panicked woman over forty,” Julie argued. Her editor sounded sadly somewhat reasonable. “But I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“Right,” said Sol. When did Julie ever have the time, or the inclination, for chitchat?
“I assume you’ve read my email.”
“I’m afraid you’ve assumed wrongly. As I was saying, I just landed and haven’t even had time to clear customs or get out of the airport yet.
” If she hadn’t been working with Julie for a few months and had learnt to understand the woman’s way of communicating, she’d be panicking about her editor’s tone.
But unlike most of the editors Sol had worked with throughout her career, Julie was all bark—that was a common editor trait—but no bite—an uncommon one.
“There was no Wi-Fi on the plane?” Julie asked.
“Gods, Julie, have you had your full caffeine intake today?”
“Sorry, hon, but a dear friend may have died, and I think I’m obviously more touched than I expected.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Sol, now feeling bad for her jab at the editor. “What happened?”
“Well, that’s why I asked you if you’d read my email. I’d put it perfectly there. Now you’ll get the not-so-polished spoken version. Simon Smith has gone missing.”
Sol’s brows knit together. She wasn’t following whatever Julie was trying to tell her. “Missing as in ...?”
“Missing as in kaput, hon. It looks like foul play to me. I’ve been telling him for years he needed to lay off on the vitriol. And he’s been getting hate mail for ages. But this!” Julie continued, without making much sense to Sol. She didn’t even know who Simon Smith was.
“Can we recap a little bit? You said someone died?”
“Yes! Probably ...” said Julie. “Simon, obviously. Do you even know who I’m talking about?”
“I feel I may be overplaying it, but do you realize I just landed from an eleven-hour flight and my luggage is lost! And no, sorry, I didn’t read your email.
The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it right now.
” Sol continued pacing up and down, eyeing Luke as he was still chatting with the airline attendant.
She could feel a headache coming and was massaging her temples.
“Simon Smith, The Showbiz Reporter ’s main film critic and one of the most divisive people in our business.”
“Divisive because?”
“The last time he actually liked a movie was probably 1999,” said Julie.
“I mean, it was such a great year but ...”
“There’s life after Fight Club , American Beauty , and Eyes Wide Shut ...”
“Don’t forget about The Matrix ,” Sol contributed, stopping her pacing.
“Yeah, Simon didn’t like The Matrix , actually.”
“Seriously? What’s wrong with him?”
“See, that’s why I’m so worried about him!” Julie said. “Everybody hates him. Even his editor at The Showbiz Reporter , Jason Zit. I just called him, and he’s not worried. And he hasn’t heard from Simon for two days! He sounded relieved to be rid of him. He’s had it out for Simon for years!”
“Okay, Julie, I can see you’re clearly upset. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I need you to find Simon, of course! But I’m afraid it’s too late and he’s going to be six feet under, buried in the California desert somewhere. And that’s a dreadful way to die!”