A murder attempt with poisoned ink.
Agent Zelda straddled her motorcycle. Her legs still vibrated from the three hour ride, and the engine was hot. She stared out from between the dead bugs on the shield of her hot pink helmet. She sighed. A writer hopeful strode across the parking lot. She was dressed in black like a wannabe spy. Or worse, that’s what her book was about and she dressed the role. Another cheesy gimmick. Just last week, a writer had sent Zelda a sheet cake with the query letter written in frosting.
More writers poured into the Hotel. Agent Zelda felt a ping of excitement. Maybe one of them would be her next great find. That’s why she loved conferences. They were almost as addictive as a great hummus dip with pine nuts. She headed inside to use the bathroom.
Before she could schmooze with the other agents, she had to meet with writers for two hours to discuss their queries. She’d read their letters beforehand, but Agent Zelda had seen nothing but vampires. Vampire dystopian. Vampire version of Glee. Vampire Treasure Island. But nothing sparkly. Agent Zelda had a secret obsession for Edward Cullen.
When the two hours were over, Agent Zelda shuffled from the room. In her zombie-like state she didn’t realize that most of the writers had left for dinner. Most of the agents had moved to the private bar/room. She was alone. Except for the amazon-like potted fern.
But then, a man in black sidled up next to her. Agent Zelda couldn’t help but think of her cat, which was always sneaking up on her when she read manuscripts on her iPad in the comfort of her recliner.
The man held out an envelope. AGENT was written across the front in bold black lettering. Agent Zelda glared, trying to shoot poisoned ink from her eyes. Clearly, this writer didn’t read the numerous agent blogs. Get a clue, she wanted to scream. Follow the guidelines!
“Quick. Take it,” the man in black said. His eyes were a simmering pool of liquid lava ochre yumminess.
Her breath caught in her throat and she held out her hand. “Sure thing.”