About the Contest
The winner of James River Writers’ and Richmond magazine’s eighth Best Unpublished Novel contest is “The Sweet Scent of Death” by Lesley St. James. A panel of volunteer judges, led by nine-time African American Literary Award-winning author Victoria Christopher Murray, chose St. James’ novel from 85 entries.
“What I loved most was that this was a mystery that kept me frowning as I tried to figure out the clues among this huge cast of characters (my suspects kept changing and I was so wrong), but smiling at the same time, hoping that Jill and Mike would somehow find their way to each other in the middle of trying to figure out this murder,” Christopher Murray said in her comments. “ ‘The Sweet Scent of Death’ is a very well written, fast-paced mystery that kept me turning the pages, trying to figure it out until the surprising end.”
As the contest winner, St. James will receive a $500 prize and a complimentary ticket to the 18th annual James River Writers Conference in October. And her fourth chapter is published here.
The contest also had two finalists: C.F. Scott (“Mini-Zon”) and Jane Boch (“Kaleidoscope Lane”).
The following excerpt picks up with Virginia native Jill Cooksey, a public relations account executive who is trying to launch a new fragrance for her client and prove to herself and everyone around her that she is not a complete failure. After a glamorous launch event in Central Park is marred by a fight between the campaign spokesmodel and her jealous TV costar, the spokesmodel goes missing. Or does she? Jill is convinced there has been foul play and sets out for the Waldorf Astoria hotel to investigate.
The Waldorf Astoria hotel towered above Park Avenue in art deco splendor. I had organized and attended several events here over the years, so I hoped to find a sympathetic staff member to help me track Juliet down. I was in luck. The concierge on duty was my old pal Jean-Paul. As usual, he was dressed better than any of the hotel’s patrons as he stood behind an exquisite antique rosewood desk and surveyed his domain.
Tall, dark, and ooh-la-la, Jean-Paul was the ultimate metrosexual. He oozed sophisticated charm, and with his Hermès ties, impeccable taste, and sexy French accent, he was the occasional subject of my daydreams. He saw me coming from across the lobby, and his cool gaze never wavered from me. The effect on most people is intimidation, a concierge’s best weapon, but like I said, I knew Jean-Paul. I had once seen his custom suit splattered with crème brûlée by a novice waiter at the American Society of Cosmetic Surgeons annual dinner. The sight of custard sliding down his lapel thoroughly humanized Jean-Paul in my eyes. Now that cool gaze, instead of intimidating me, just made me smile. He was so sexy. Consciously, I added a little sway to my walk.
“Bonjour, Jean-Paul,” I cooed at him as I sidled up to the desk.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Cooksey,” he said and smiled the faintest smile while cocking an eyebrow. “How may I be of service?”
“I’m looking for someone, and I’m hoping you can help.”
Automatically his lips pursed a little. While one of the concierge’s duties is to be overwhelmingly helpful while remaining chillingly polite, the other is to safeguard the privacy of his guests. This was going to be tougher than I thought.
“Mademoiselle, you of all people should know that I cannot divulge the identities of our guests,” he said.
“But it’s a matter of life and death!” As I hissed the words at Jean-Paul, I suddenly knew in my gut that it was a matter of life and death. Jean-Paul must have sensed my sincerity because he didn’t argue with me. He simply cocked another eyebrow and surveyed me calmly before he replied.
“Could it possibly wait for ten minutes? Jean-Pierre will be here then, and I will be at liberty to talk. If indeed someone’s life is hanging in the balance as we speak …”
“I can wait ten minutes,” I breathed with a sigh of relief.
Jean-Paul directed me to a small cafe around the corner, and I headed there to wait for him.
‘What if she doesn’t answer? What if Amber has murdered her?’
Cafe Montmartre was full of patrons munching pastry, swilling espresso, and eagerly reading the day’s newspapers. I ordered a latte and sat at a table by the front window. As I sipped, I suddenly felt silly for being so dramatic with Jean-Paul. Was it really a matter of life and death? So a friend stood me up for lunch. It happens all the time. What made this situation any different?
Juliet made it different. She had needed to talk to me, and she had suggested lunch at my place out in the hinterlands. It was too odd a suggestion for her just to forget about it. And the scene with Amber the night before had made me realize that even “It Girls” have enemies. Maybe it wasn’t life and death, but something was certainly wrong. I needed to help a friend.
As I reached this conclusion, Jean-Paul strode into the cafe. With a slight bow of his head he sat down, and I swear five seconds later a tall blonde waitress/supermodel (Wait, where did she come from? I had to order at the counter) deftly set a double espresso in front of him. He flashed her a smile in thanks, and she smiled back … with her whole body.
“You must be a regular.” Now I was cocking an eyebrow. In response Jean-Paul merely shrugged his shoulders and slightly pursed his lips in that all too French way that neither confirms nor denies.
“Now Mademoiselle, what is this all about?”
I briefly explained my relationship with Juliet and our lunch plans. I could tell by the end of the story that Jean-Paul wasn’t buying it.
“So Mademoiselle, you are telling me that Juliet Scott, star of television and silver screen, decided not to go to Queens, that cultural Mecca, that glittering gem of the five boroughs, to have lunch, and this surprises you?” His smile of contempt was probably the closest Jean-Paul ever came to laughing. My father’s animosity toward the French suddenly didn’t seem strange. With reserves of strength I didn’t know I had, I suppressed the desire to strangle him with his tie.
“That wouldn’t seem so strange if I hadn’t witnessed,” I leaned in closer, “an altercation, if you will, last night between Juliet and a person, who shall remain nameless, who most likely wishes her dead.”
“Amber O’Neil!” gasped Jean-Paul, suddenly interested. “You mean the story is true?”
My stomach plummeted.
“How do you know about Amber?”
In an instant, the look of derision was back on his face. “Mademoiselle,” he said with infinite patience, “look around you.”
I did, slowly and in extreme shock. Everywhere I looked I saw pictures of Juliet and Amber splashed across cell phones, tablets, and the front page of the New York Gazette along with the headline “Starlets Struggle in Central Park.” The patrons were devouring the story faster than the pain au chocolat.
“I’m going to kill that Mike McCall! Jean-Paul, now you must see why I have to find Juliet.” He scrutinized me for a moment, his eyes narrowing to slits as he summed up my situation.
“Alors,” he began finally, “if you accompany me to the hotel and promise to wait in the hallway, I will knock on Ms. Scott’s door and see if she is home.”
“What if she doesn’t answer? What if Amber has murdered her?”
“Murder, Mademoiselle Cooksey? I think not. Not at the Waldorf Astoria hotel.” With that he rose, deposited a few bills on the table, blew a kiss to the waitress (who simpered), and was out the door, all in one fluid motion, leaving me scrambling to catch up.
I tailed him to the hotel and followed him inside, always careful to stay back a ways. The hotel could never know that Jean-Paul was helping me stalk a star. I caught up to him at the elevator, and we pretended not to know each other. When we slipped into the car, Jean-Paul pulled out a special card key and inserted it into a slot. Then he hit the button for the 26th floor. The doors slid shut, and we were alone in the elevator for the ride up.
“Mademoiselle, you are glowing,” crooned Jean-Paul. I looked into the mirrored interior of the elevator and was surprised to see he was right. My cheeks were flushed and healthy-looking from running after a concierge who might have been a panther in a past life. My straight blond hair was windblown in an attractive way, and despite the fact that my friend might be lying in a pool of her own blood, I was smiling and my blue eyes were shining.
“Perhaps the cloak and dagger stuff appeals to you,” purred Jean-Paul as he took a step closer. I just smiled and tried to shrug at him in a French sort of way. I don’t know if it worked or if I looked ridiculous, but he did take another step closer.
Ding! The elevator stopped and the doors slid open at the 26th floor.
“Now Mademoiselle, stay out of sight while I knock on her door. If she doesn’t answer, I will investigate first and call for you when the coast is clair, I mean clear.”
“Sure thing,” I lied, and we headed down the hallway.
At long last we were at the door, where Jean-Paul knocked several times with no answer. He pulled out his master key and was inside Juliet’s room in a flash. I counted to around seven before I followed him inside. The look on his face told me he was expecting just such behavior, but it really didn’t matter. There was no body and no blood waiting for us. The bed was made. The room was neat. No sign of struggle. The bedspread was a little mussed, as if someone had sat on the bed.
Immediately, I went to the closet.
“Mademoiselle!” Jean-Paul was actually a little pale.
“Jean-Paul, we need to establish where Juliet is. Obviously, she didn’t sleep here. Did she leave town or did someone take her away?”
“Or is she merely out to lunch?” he parried.
“Jean-Paul, I’ve tried her cell. I called the hotel this morning. I grew up with her. She wouldn’t have stood me up. It is possible something has happened to her. We need to know.”
I put my hand on the closet doorknob and looked to Jean-Paul. I would have searched the room without his approval, but I would rather have had it. After a moment, he gave me the nod.
I had hoped to find everything gone from the closet. That could mean she had left town or changed hotels or something like that. But her big beautiful Louis Vuitton suitcase was there along with a row of gorgeous designer garments that fluttered in the air conditioning like a Seventh Avenue Sherpa’s prayer flags. Shoes were lined up on the closet floor with some space between pairs. Might there be some pairs missing, or was I just going crazy analyzing the shoes of a woman who could at this moment be waiting outside my apartment in Queens? I slipped my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and dialed her number. It went to voice mail again, and I felt a little better about stalking Juliet and rummaging through her closet. She was still missing.
I was truly hoping the dress would be there. Then at least I’d have some hope that Juliet was just being a flaky actress, that she hadn’t been the victim of a crime.
Next I tackled the gorgeous highboy. Again, there were clothes in the drawers. I headed for the bathroom. All the hotel-provided toiletry items were there on the vanity along with a few makeup items and a comb. It was possible that some personal items were missing, but I couldn’t be sure. I went back to the bedroom, perched myself on a satin covered Louis XV style armchair, and pondered.
“Mademoiselle.” I turned to find Jean-Paul holding one crimson satin open-toed pump. “I seem to find only one.” He cocked another eyebrow. Together we searched high and low, but the shoe’s mate was nowhere. And where was the dress? A wild scene of abduction sprang into my mind.
“Okay Jean-Paul, suppose Juliet arrived home from the event only to find kidnappers in her room. She struggles with them. They overpower her, but not before she loses one shoe. They bundle her up in a laundry sack and take her down the freight elevator, out of the hotel, and into a waiting car that screams off into the night.” When I looked to Jean-Paul for affirmation, the skepticism was marching across his face.
“I think perhaps, Mademoiselle, public relations is not creative enough for you. Perhaps you should try your hand at writing science fiction novels.”
“Fine. So what’s your theory?” My feelings were a little hurt.
“Juliet Scott got up this morning, put on her clothes, picked up her handbag, and went out. Perhaps she went to breakfast. Maybe she went shopping or walking in the park. She is still out, and eventually she will return.”
I hadn’t thought about the purse. There wasn’t one in the room, and kidnappers don’t usually pause while their victim grabs her purse, at least not in all the books I’d read.
“But what about the dress, Jean-Paul? Why isn’t the dress in the room, and where is the other shoe?” I had him there. There couldn’t be any explanation for the missing dress.
“Perhaps she sent it to our dry cleaner. Didn’t Amber toss champagne at her?” Touché! Score one for Frenchie, but I wasn’t ready to admit defeat.
“Well, I suppose we should check with the dry cleaner, but that still doesn’t explain the missing shoe.”
Jean-Paul only gave me a wry smile as he led the way to the hall. Once we were out of the room, he went to the house phone and dialed the operator. In a moment he was connected with the Waldorf’s in-house dry cleaner. While I certainly didn’t want to look overly dramatic and stupid, I was truly hoping the dress would be there. Then at least I’d have some hope that Juliet was just being a flaky actress, that she hadn’t been the victim of a crime. Unfortunately, such reassurance was not to be. The dress was not at the dry cleaners.
My mind was a blank. I couldn’t think. I don’t remember sitting down on a settee near the elevators, but that’s where I was when Jean-Paul next spoke.
“Perhaps, Mademoiselle, Miss Scott took the dress herself to another dry cleaner when she stood you up and went out to explore this fascinating city. At this very moment she is probably ogling a long dead pharaoh at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” Jean-Paul was teasing, but his voice was kind. He knew I was worried. I looked up to find him smiling benignly down on me, not a cocked eyebrow in sight. Despite my worries, I found myself smiling back. I suddenly felt a little foolish.
“No doubt you are right, Jean-Paul,” I gave in gracefully.
Meet the Author
Photo by Kate Aldrich
Lesley St. James loves a good mystery. It goes back to her days of reading Nancy Drew as a child. “I’ve always known that I was going to write mysteries,” St. James says. So when she began writing “The Sweet Scent of Death” in 2000, of course she chose to make it a mystery.
St. James double-majored in English and French literature at the University of Mary Washington and studied film at Georgia State University, specializing in screenwriting. In 1996, she moved to New York City, where she spent two years in children’s television and two years in health care and beauty public relations — experiences she draws on heavily for her novel. “I just had so much content that I could work with,” she says. “My brain was just full of anecdotes and experiences and scenes and people, so they just distilled into this story.”
These days, she lives in Mechanicsville with her husband, Matthew, and this will be her third year as an English teacher at Deep Run High School. Formerly, she taught journalism at Varina High School for 15 years. In that time, she worked on her own writing off and on and completed “The Sweet Scent of Death” in 2010. After receiving multiple rejections, St. James revised her work several times, realizing her 2010 version wasn’t at the level it needed to be in order to be published. Currently, she’s on the fence about self-publishing or going through a traditional publisher, but she says either way the public can expect to get their hands on the book in the next several months to a year. She even has a sequel lined up.
St. James was elated when she got the news that she’d won James River Writers’ and Richmond magazine’s Best Unpublished Novel contest. “I was in the dentist’s office when I got the email, and I started going, ‘I won, I won, I won!’ and everybody is looking at me like ‘What?’ but it just felt absolutely fantastic, and honestly, it’s incredibly validating and just incredibly encouraging.” —Nicole Cohen
James River Writers Conference 2020
The 18th annual James River Writers Conference will be held virtually this year, Oct. 9-11. Keynote speakers include award-winning authors Meg Medina and Linda Sue Park. Master classes, agent one-on-ones and critiques will also be available. Admission is $175 for one day and $245 for two days. Visit jamesriverwriters.org for details.
