Mint Julep Murder (21 page)

This time Annie led the way. In front of Booth 14, she stopped. “That’s the guy who’s sponged off everybody all his life,” Annie hissed at Emma. “Now he inherits a small press and he’s suddenly proprietorial. Talk to his lawyer! Can you believe it? Talk to
Kenneth’s
lawyer, he means. I’ll bet the closest Willie ever got to an attorney was to hire one to keep him out of jail!”

Emma’s firm mouth curved in amusement. “The transformation from ne’er-do-well to entrenched capitalist only takes long enough to change the name on the bank accounts,” she said drily.

Annie almost explained that Mint Julep Press would probably be inherited by Kenneth’s two children, at least according to what she’d learned from Willie, but that wasn’t information Annie was supposed to have, and Emma would pick up on that immediately. It might be dangerous to Annie’s health if Emma decided Annie was more interested in finding Kenneth’s murderer than in getting background for the book.

But Emma didn’t notice Annie’s hesitation. The writer moved closer to Booth 14. She boomed, “Craig, I haven’t seen you since the conference down in the Keys. That
was
a weekend, wasn’t it?”

The bookseller’s narrow face crinkled in mock misery. “God, Emma, you put everybody under the table—and won the pot. But you always do. Next time I’m going to check the deck.”

“That won’t save you either.” She waved a casual hand toward Annie. “Craig, my assistant, Annie.”

Annie smiled and felt herself disappearing.

Emma looked positively benign.

Since she was invisible, Annie permitted herself a skeptical glance.

Emma’s tone dripped the very best butter. “Craig, I heard you speak at SEBA on the importance of handselling books. As I recall, you used Alan Blake’s first novel for an example.”

Annie had missed that session at the annual conference of the Southeastern Booksellers Association. She knew the importance of booksellers telling customers about new books they liked. It made careers every year.

Craig beamed. “One of my assistant buyers, Arlene Counts, first spotted Blake’s novel. Arlene’s got an uncanny sense for what’s going to hit it big. She was the first one in the store to go crazy over
Like Water for Chocolate
, too. And of course, Alan’s a hometown boy, so that makes a big difference.”

“Does his family still live in Birmingham?”

“His dad retired as principal of one of the high schools a couple of years ago. I think maybe his mom still teaches kindergarten.”

“Sounds like an ail-American family.”

“No doubt about it, Emma.”

“Didn’t Alan spend some time in Hollywood?”

Craig grinned. “Oh, you ought to hear him tell it. He says he wrote dozens of scripts and only sold one. It was a Dracula movie, and he thinks it was distributed in Italy and maybe it made it to a few B houses here. You know how Alan is, so modest and down-home. Never tries to act like he was any kind of a big deal out there. Then he gets a little serious and tells the audience that Hollywood’s a heartbreaker, just like they’ve always heard. And he’s really so glad he was able to come home. He says you
can
come home again, and it’s better than when you left.”

Emma took time to look over the bookseller’s display. She bought a Cajun cookbook. And handed it to Annie to carry as they moved away.

Annie snarled. “If I hear any more about how charming Alan Blake is, I’m going to gag. I can tell you he’s not nearly as nice as everyone thinks.”

“No one is,” Emma responded serenely. “I’d say Alan
knows how to sell books. That didn’t sound like his Hollywood years were too exciting.”

“No.” Annie hurried to keep up. “But if there’s something slimy in his Hollywood past, he’s not going to share it at a book signing.”

“True.” Emma paused; her steel-blue eyes raked the row of booths. “I don’t see anyone in the Dekalb bookstore booth.” She glanced at her watch. “Four o’clock. Let’s try the hotel bar.”

Henny shaded her eyes from the westering sun. “The crowd seems to be thinning.”

Laurel smoothed back a strand of golden hair. “I do believe,” she murmured, “that perhaps we’ve exhausted the possibilities here.”

Henny checked her program. “Actually, we’ve approached all but three publishers. And of those, only one looks promising.”

Miss Dora thumped her cane. “Nonetheless, true to our promise to Annie, we must check with each of the publishers to be sure we’ve gathered all possible material about Mr. Hazlitt.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Henny said quickly. “I haven’t forgotten our mission. Not at all. Never. But everyone seems to be departing.” She glanced around the Festival area, suddenly much quieter and less congested.

Miss Dora pursed her lips. “I’ve overheard several of the booksellers and publishers making plans to meet for libations. Apparently, book gatherings are not devoted solely to a celebration of the Arts. It would be pleasant to join them. However”—she lifted her cane as if to arms—“duty requires us to make our report.”

The private detective was brisk, but Max detected a note of pride. “… not easy to dig stuff up on a Saturday afternoon. Okay. Subject: Regina Perkins, age thirty-three, single, white, five-feet-four-inches tall, one hundred sixty-four
pounds. Native of Marietta, Georgia. Associate degree in business from a junior college. Nobody much remembers her. Never caused any problems. Average grades. Worked her way through school. Part-time jobs at a local McDonald’s. I found a woman who worked there when Perkins did. Said Perkins was nice enough, never said much. When she got out of school, she got a job with a temp agency. With them for six years. Worked as a temp for a writer named Crabtree. He took her on permanent about four years ago. That’s when she moved into a fancy apartment in midtown and bought herself a shiny new Jaguar. According to a neighbor, she’s ‘nice enough, never says much.’ Same song. So, same gal. Don’t know what she does for this writer Crabtree, but he’s paying her big time. She files her income tax electronically. It’s easy to get into those files if you know how. Course you understand I wouldn’t do a thing like that, but let’s just say a little bird told me Perkins’s income popped from temp wages, about fourteen thou a year, to a cool fifty grand. You want more? I can get on it Monday.”

“That’s all I need.” And Max gave the address of Confidential Commissions for the bill.

Four years ago. That’s when Jimmy Jay Crabtree’s car—ostensibly driven by one sober, unremarkable secretary named Regina—struck and killed a child at a school-bus stop.

And that’s when Regina got a full-time, permanent, quite lucrative job.

Max scrawled a summary on his legal pad, ripped off the sheet, and slipped it into an envelope.

The bar was jammed with people shrieking at one another at full lung power.

It was hard to wedge through the packed bodies.

Emma had to stop every foot or so as booksellers recognized her.

“Emma, you’re still my bestselling mystery writer!”

“Emma, I know this isn’t the time of year you tour, but would you consider …”

“Emma,
The Case of the Purple Parrot
is absolutely …”

“Emma, congratulations on your …”

Annie would have yawned in total boredom, but she was afraid the thick cloud of cigarette smoke would asphyxiate her.

A bookseller popped up from a jammed table. “Here, Emma, take my seat.”

Regally, like a queen among courtiers, Emma wedged herself in at the table. She waved her hand airily. “My assistant, Annie.”

Perfunctory nods.

Annie wondered what she would have to do to regain visibility. Tap dance? Scream? Disrobe?

But, finally, Emma got cracking.

Annie draped herself around a fake palmetto and unabashedly listened. In her invisible state, no one at the table noticed.

“Ginger, didn’t Missy Sinclair grow up not far from you?”

A bouncy redhead looked surprised. “No, Emma, Missy’s from New Orleans.”

“Wrong, Ginger.” The portly man was firm. “She’s from Mobile.”

“No, no, no,” a petite woman objected. “She grew up in Tallahassee.”

A plump, motherly bookseller frowned. “You must have misunderstood, Margaret. Missy told me she was from Franklin.”

An earnest woman with gooseberry eyes and prominent teeth smiled condescendingly. “You are all missing the point.”

Emma’s cool blue eyes studied the speaker.

Anyone else would have shriveled into a ball.

But the patronizing smile didn’t waver.

“So where’s she from?” Emma demanded.

“Yes, Fredericka, where’s she from?”

“Yeah, Fredericka, clue us in.”

Fredericka’s pale eyes glistened. “I, of course, realized some time ago that Miss Sinclair had cited a number of cities as her birthplace. In fact, I attended several of her signings in Atlanta to confirm my observation. I overheard her at different times in conversation with individuals as she signed her books—I have quite acute hearing—mention Biloxi, Memphis, Lexington, and Savannah. It is quite significant, of course. Don’t you see?”

“If we saw,” Emma interjected sharply, “we wouldn’t be asking.”

“Well, it seems so
clear
to me. Melissa Sinclair is claiming
all
of the South as her birthplace. Not simply one town, one state. She is our spokeswoman. She speaks for
all
Southerners.”

Despite the book background of those listening, Fredericka’s highly literary interpretation of Missy’s fabrications elicited no exclamations of awe.

In the flat silence that followed, a hawk-faced woman who’d had too much sun spoke for the first time. “Fredericka, I hope you don’t go shopping alone when you’re looking for a used car. The truth of the matter is, Missy Sinclair’s from the wrong side of the tracks in Tupelo. We went to high school together. She was fat, unlovely, and came from a family that makes the Snopes sound aristocratic. So she has a lot of fantasies about how she might have grown up—if she’d been from a good family in Savannah or Franklin or Lexington. But it doesn’t matter a damn. As far as I’m concerned, she can claim to be Scarlett O’Hara’s oldest daughter if she wants. Her latest book is quite possibly the best Southern novel in twenty years, at least since—”

The battle was joined. Querulous, well-read voices rose to a screech.

Emma’s eyes sought Annie. “You want a drink?”

Annie knew Emma was signing off.

“No, thanks. But thanks, Emma.”

“Happy writing, my dear.” Emma’s canny blue eyes
glittered with amusement, then she turned to the bookseller at her side.

Annie knew she was dismissed.

As she wormed her way out of the bar into the comparative quiet and much less-noxious air of the lobby, Annie knew she hadn’t fooled Emma a bit.

So why had Emma agreed to probe the pasts of her fellow Medallion winners?

Perhaps Emma felt that one could never know too much when murder occurred.

Or perhaps Emma was making sure suspicion pointed away from herself.

Whatever the truth, Annie knew that Emma was not to be trusted.

But neither were her co-honorees.

The Medallion winners. Each one knew by now that Annie intended to carry on with Kenneth’s literary endeavors. Perhaps tonight she could use that threat along with what she’d learned today to jostle loose enough information to make an impression on Detective Wheeler.

Annie glanced at her watch. The Low Country cookout started at seven on the terrace behind the hotel. Even though she’d certainly not charmed several of the honorees today, no one would be surprised to have her, as author liaison, arrange for them to meet together for the cookout.

It only took a few minutes to pen the invitations on hotel notepaper in the telephone alcove, which was beginning to seem like a second home. Annie carried her missives to the front desk.

The clerk behind the desk was on the telephone. “… not conscious yet? Yes, sir, I’ll tell Mr. Garrett. He’s trying to get in touch with her husband, but he’s a trucker, and they think he’s in Montana. Yes, sir, thank you.”

The clerk hung up and hurried to the counter. “Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am. We’re shorthanded this afternoon.”

“Is she still unconscious? The maid who fell.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s odd. There’s no reason for her to go
down those stairs. She’s Five and Six. But maybe the staff elevator didn’t come, and she needed to go upstairs.”

“But she fell
down.
Right?”

“Yes.” The clerk shook his head. “Anyway, she can tell us what happened when she comes to.”

If, Annie thought grimly, she regains consciousness.

But a maid falling down steps couldn’t have anything to do with the poisoning of Kenneth Hazlitt.

Unless the maid had seen someone going into the Hazlitt suite.

Someone in addition to the blonde who had stolen a big box?

Annie shuddered.

Wheeler was certain she was that blonde.

Annie wanted very much to talk to that maid, to find out what else she may have seen on the day of the Mint Julep cocktail party. She asked the clerk, “Are the police investigating her fall?”

“Why, no, ma’am. Why should they? She just fell. It’s an accident.”

Annie frowned. Certainly if anyone had pushed the maid—and who would and why?—they wouldn’t stop with a push, not the malevolent person who’d decreed Kenneth Hazlitt’s agonizing death. So, the fact that the maid lived, even though unconscious, argued against anything but accident.

“What’s her name?”

The clerk hesitated, then shrugged. “Judy Fleet.”

Annie nodded, then remembered her mission. She held out her envelopes. “I’d like to leave these, please. And do you have any messages for Mrs. Darling?”

While she waited, Annie glanced around the lobby.

And there was America’s Most Adored Male Author.

This afternoon, Alan Blake was matching his image. He lounged against a pillar, a smile on his admittedly handsome features as he entertained a circle of admirers. He saw Annie looking at him and raised a hand in a casual hello. At one point, he broke into easy laughter.

“Ma’am?”

Annie turned back toward the desk. “Here’s a message for you.”