Mint Julep Murder (14 page)

“Willie, did Kenneth know any blondes?”

“Blondes? Sure.”

“Are any of them here this weekend?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Why?”

Annie hesitated. She didn’t want to make Wheeler mad, but what harm could it do? “The maid saw a blond woman take that box from your suite yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh. Well, I guess the police will find out. Though I can’t see how it could matter.”

Nobody, not the victim’s brother nor the police, seemed to take the threat of a tell-all novel seriously.

Annie said sharply, “Well, if one of the authors didn’t poison Kenneth, then who did? Who would want to kill him?”

Willie hunched his shoulders; he stared out at the murky green water. “It’s nuts. Nobody. No way. Never. Not Ken.” His face creased in bewilderment. “He was a fun guy. Oh, I’m not saying he couldn’t rile people. I mean, Ken always had to be in charge, the main man. That’s the way he was. Always. From the time we were kids. He rode his bike faster. He ate more pizza. His hot rod beat everybody’s. He screwed more girls. He drank more beer. He made more money. He sold more books.” He paused, laughed softly. “I’m guessing there. I’ll bet he sold more books. I don’t know a lot about what he’s done the last couple of years. I just came back a few weeks ago.”

“Came back?”

Willie reached down, picked up a broken shell, bounced it in his palm. In his rueful smile, there was a touch of yesterday’s insouciant Willie. “Sweetheart, you don’t want to know. I’ve lived more places, had more jobs, made and lost more money—God, that’s fun—than a television evangelist. Bartended. Ran a bungee-jumping outfit. Prospected for gold. Sold vacuum cleaners. Taught ballroom dancing.” His eyes rolled. “But there comes a day when you realize you don’t have any roots.” His thumb flicked at the tiny barnacles on the shell. “Ken had been after me for years to come back and work with him. So, one morning I looked in the mirror when I started to shave—and I saw flecks of gray. So … I came home.” His hand
closed around the shell. He lifted his arm and threw. The shell skipped across the water, then sank. “I came home,” he repeated heavily.

Annie’s heart sank just like the shell. “So you don’t know who might have been angry at Kenneth? Or afraid of him? Or jealous of him?”

“Mad enough to make him hurt like that?” Willie’s face twisted. “Jesus, no. Oh, he was a little crossways with some folks. There was a printer who wanted to be paid, and Kenneth was behind. He said sometimes you had to get a new printer, start over, if the money just wasn’t there. But he told the guy he’d make it good when he could. And Ken was mad at his distributor. Ken said the fellow hadn’t gotten the books out like he promised.”

Annie nodded. Small presses sometimes came up short with printers. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t fair, but it happened. And poisoning Kenneth wouldn’t pay the bill.

Or would it?

“The printer. Where’s he located?”

Willie frowned. “Illinois, I think. Gustafson Printers.”

Annie pulled out her heavily marked program and jotted down the name.

“And the distributor?”

“Hmm. Wherry Brothers. Out of Tampa.”

“Willie, does Mint Julep Press have any kind of insurance on your brother?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to talk to Wanda. She handles everything. Wanda Dillon. She’s been with Ken forever.”

Annie wrote down the name.

“But you don’t know of any violent quarrels?”

“No.”

“Who profits from his death?”

“Ask Wanda. Like I said, I’ve only been back a couple of weeks.”

“You don’t know the contents of his will?”

“Honey, I don’t even know if he
had
a will. My guess would be that everything goes to his kids. Who else? He hadn’t remarried. He hung out with this gal, Cheryl. A
babe. Sells makeup at a Lord and Taylor. But she’s in the Bahamas this week with a girlfriend. Oh, God, I’ve got to call her.” His shoulders slumped.

“Willie, why was Kenneth drinking bourbon instead of the wine?”

Willie rubbed his cheek. “Money, sweetheart. I mean, Ken was a great guy, but he always cut corners. You know: bought store brands, shopped around for a bindery that’d make him the best deal, paid Wanda just enough to keep her from leaving, and he never met a raise he liked. So, he wasn’t going to spring for whiskey for the party. That whiskey was for us. He figured he was putting on the show, he could call the tune, and he liked bourbon.”

“Do you drink bourbon?”

“Sure.” His answer was casual, unconcerned.

Annie stared at him. An ugly thought had just occurred to her.

“Willie, could the poisoned bourbon have been meant for
you?”

His eyes widened. His lips parted, but no sound came. He gnawed at his underlip, dragged in a ragged breath. “Christ. I almost poured a drink, but I had some scotch in my suitcase. I like scotch better.” He shook his head violently. “Hell, why would anybody want to kill me?”

“Why would anyone want to kill Kenneth?”

“Nobody. Like I told you, nobody. Unless—” Anger flickered in his eyes. “These writers. You think it could have mattered that much to them?”

“To
one
of them,” Annie amended. “That’s why I need to know more about the book. Willie, would Kenneth’s secretary know about the proposal?”

“Proposal?”

“That’s a description of what will be in a book. The rumor is that Kenneth was trying to sell the book to a publisher on the basis of a proposal. Would Wanda know?”

“Yeah. I guess. If anybody would. Yeah, Wanda will probably know.”

“I’ll call her.”

“Tell her I gave you her name.”

“Thanks. And, Willie? About the whiskey—did you open the bottle that held the poison?”

“No.” Then he frowned. “Hey, that’s funny. I mean, that’s kind of weird. There were three bottles. The third one’s still sitting there, unopened. Before the party started, I poured Ken a drink and tossed the first bottle in the trash. Then there was the second bottle, the one that last drink came from. Who opened it?”

“You didn’t?”

“No. Ken could have.” But he said it doubtfully. “No, no, no, I don’t think so. He didn’t come up to the suite until maybe ten minutes before the party started. I don’t remember him even going near the bar. He flopped on the couch. I went over to the wet bar and fixed us a drink, his from that almost empty bottle of bourbon. Mine from my bottle of scotch.” He stopped. His face tightened in concentration. “That second bottle! Who opened it? When?”

She had one answer. She needed the second. “The murderer opened it. What we have to figure out is when he had the opportunity to do so.”

“But I don’t see—” Willie broke off.

So, she didn’t have to ask the second question, the most crucial question.

Shock slackened the muscles of his face, draining his handsome features of life and animation.

“Those writers—”

“Yes.”

“They’re all on the fifth floor, on our floor?” “Yes.”

He swallowed jerkily. “I got tired shoving that damn cardboard key in the slot, so I—” He lifted a shaking hand to rub against his temple. “I propped the doors to the suite open while I was setting up down in the White Ibis Room.”

She knew it, of course.

But for how long?

She said, “When did you start working down there?”

“Just after you came up looking for Ken.”

So, maybe a quarter after ten.

“Somebody got in our suite while I was downstairs?” His eyes were stricken.

“I think so, yes.”

His face crumpled. He folded his arms tight across his chest.

She kept her voice gentle. “How long were the doors open?”

“I came up at three.”

Between ten
A.M.
and three
P.M.
, a poisoner walked softly down the hall.

“I made it easy, didn’t I?” Willie cried. “I sure as hell made it easy to murder my brother.” He buried his face in his hands.

The bellman stood with his feet apart, his arms folded behind him. He was tall and thin and wore his maroon-colored uniform with pride. He nodded shrewdly. “Yeah. You mean the suite where the guy croaked. Sure. I remember taking their stuff up. Took me four trips to get the luggage and all them boxes up there. Good tip.”

Max smiled encouragingly. “What time of day was it?”

“About nine. Yesterday morning.”

“Friday?” Max pinned it down.

“That’s right.”

“Did one of the boxes have liquor bottles in it?”

“Yeah. Ten, twelve bottles of wine, some bourbon. I unpacked that box, set the stuff on the wet bar.”

Max kept his voice casual. “Did you happen to notice the seals on the whiskey bottles?”

The bellman’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Yeah, I remember. One bottle was almost empty. The other two hadn’t been opened.”

Annie skidded by the desk.

“Yes, ma’am. Here’s a folder for you.”

Annie saw Max’s bold handwriting on the outside.

“Thank you.” She tucked the folder under her arm,
then turned toward the reflecting pond in the center of the lobby.

Leah Kirby waited near a terra-cotta vase. Her hair was a richer, deeper red than the trailing bougainvillea. She wore an emerald-green linen suit this morning. The face she turned to Annie was quite lovely. And untroubled. “Good morning, Annie.”

Annie felt a spurt of irritation. She knew she looked frazzled. It was definitely frazzling to be suspected of murder and maddening to know the police weren’t even interested in the likeliest suspects.

Annie managed a tight smile. “Good morning, Leah. You look very well this morning.”

“Thank you. It’s a spectacular day. And I’ve met so many wonderful readers already. Now, where is our panel?” She held up a program, opened to the Saturday schedule.

“It’s in the hotel next door. We can either walk or I can drive you.”

“By all means, let’s walk.”

Annie led the way. Once outside, she lengthened her stride to keep up with the long-legged author. “I saw you and Mr. Kirby over by the booths yesterday afternoon.”

Leah slipped on her sunglasses. “Wonderful exhibits. As soon as my panel and signing are done, I want to go back. Carl’s gone to the Red Piano art gallery.”

Annie tried to keep her voice light. “What did Carl do yesterday?”

“Oh, he stayed in the room, rested. I think he took a walk on the beach in the afternoon.”

Annie decided to gamble. “What time did you go to Kenneth Hazlitt’s suite?”

Leah Vixen Kirby didn’t break stride, but the good-humored smile slipped away. Slowly, her head turned toward Annie. “I beg your pardon?” The mirrored sunglasses hid the author’s eyes, but her mouth was a thin, tight line.

She was buying time with that question.

Annie said, “Did you go to the suite when your husband went for a walk?”

Leah’s face was smooth, impervious, but tiny lines splayed on either side of her mouth. “I didn’t go to Kenneth’s suite. I only left my room once. To get some ice.”

Annie longed to shout
Bingo!
Leah was covering her tracks. If anyone had seen her out in the hall yesterday afternoon, she had an excuse.

“Someone saw you at the door to the Hazlitt suite.”

“Someone is mistaken.” A light, strained laugh. “But it doesn’t really matter.”

It mattered. Annie had known that Leah was on the fifth floor, that she could have gone into the Hazlitt suite.

Now, she was confident the author had done just that.

Had she carried a small vial of nicotine with her?

“Do you garden?” Annie asked. They were almost to the hotel. Annie pointed toward the north wing. “The meeting rooms are through that door.”

“Garden? Oh, yes.” Now a genuine smile touched that lovely mouth. “I’m quite famous for my azaleas.”

They walked into the broad hallway. Leah’s panel was in the Dolphin Room.

The author looked at Annie. The dark lenses hid her eyes. “I’ll be fine now that I know my way. Thanks so much for walking over with me.”

She turned away.

It was a dismissal.

Eager readers surrounded Leah, surged down the aisle around her.

Annie felt not only frazzled, but thwarted. Leah Kirby had won that round.

But the fight wasn’t over.

In one hour, Leah Kirby would walk out of that room.

Annie would be there.

Whether Leah liked it or not.

“You got my packet.”

Annie turned, her frown curving upward into a smile. “Max, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” He waggled the Festival program. “Come on, let’s get something to drink by the pool.”

They settled beneath an umbrella and ordered ice tea. Unsweetened.

Annie clutched her folder. “I haven’t looked at it yet.”

Max was quite pleased with himself. “It’s good stuff. Personal essays by the authors.”

It wasn’t, of course, that she felt competitive with her handsome husband. But
she
was the specialist in crime. Quickly, she described her talk on the beach with Willie Hazlitt.

Max’s face was skeptical, but he admitted reluctantly, “Willie did steer you in the right direction. That was one of the first calls I made. Kenneth’s secretary is very competent. If Wanda doesn’t know the answer, she knows where to look. She knew Kenneth was talking about writing a
novel, but she hadn’t seen any notes for a book or a proposal for one. She nosed around in his computer. Here’s what she found.” Max dug in his briefcase and pulled out a flimsy fax sheet.

It was a copy of a letter, dated May 2.

Annie cringed. Surely, Hazlitt couldn’t hope to compete with Margaret Mitchell or Alexandra Ripley?