Mint Julep Murder (8 page)

Max speared a melon ball. “Ingrid’s alerted. She’ll be very cautious about packages.”

“I can certainly understand why somebody would be tempted to blow
him
up. So why don’t they send the letter bombs to Crabtree? Why bother perfectly innocent booksellers?”

“Obviously someone wants to damage his sales.” Max sipped his chardonnay.

“He doesn’t sell all that well,” Annie said absently. She savored her last oyster. “But he’s not the problem right now.” As much as she would like to luxuriate in lunch and
Max, her Puritan nature prevailed. “The problem is this Hazlitt guy and his book. I tried to call Blue, but she’s still in a tizzy, and all I got back was a message saying, ‘Work it out, work it out.’ And he’s still not in the suite, or at least not answering the phone, and he’s not in the White Ibis Room. So, I’ve got to get over to the booths and find him.”

Max replenished her wineglass. “What good will that do?”

Annie grinned. “I don’t know, but at least I can go look at the booths and get outside. It’s a beautiful day,” she said wistfully. She brightened. “I can say you’re the Festival’s legal counsel and—”

Max shook his head. “Let’s keep the fiction in the books—and me out of jail.” Max’s law degree hung in his office, but he always made it very clear to the clients of Confidential Commissions, his rather unusual business, which provided services to those in need of information, that he had never taken the South Carolina bar and wasn’t licensed to practice law. Max was also quick to make it clear to clients that Confidential Commissions wasn’t a private inquiry firm. The State of South Carolina had extremely particular requirements that had to be fulfilled to obtain a private investigator’s license, requirements Max had no intention of meeting. The county’s most odious assistant circuit solicitor, Brice Willard Posey, longed to charge Max with impersonating a private detective.

“Well, at the very least you can stand there and fold your arms in a macho way and glower.”

Max grinned at the thought and immediately crossed his arms in practice and glowered.

Annie loved the glower. Very Michael Douglas. Very sexy. And she managed to catch the wine bottle before it toppled.

She wasn’t a Puritan in all regards. She was opening her mouth to suggest they check out their suite before she went in search of Hazlitt when brisk steps stopped beside them and a glossy invitation was flung to the center of the table.

“What do you know about this?” Emma Clyde demanded.

When the world’s most successful mystery writer demanded, the world—including Annie—snapped to attention.

The big square invitation was quite tony, embossed with a silver glass spouting a sprig of mint, the logo of Mint Julep Press.

“So what gives? It sounds like a Festival event.” Emma’s fictional detective, Marigold Rembrandt, exuded a bright charm that bewitched critics. The charm did not extend to Emma. She stood there, her square face creased with suspicion, her pale blue eyes cold and searching, her broad, capable hands firmly planted on her substantial hips.

Annie knew that Emma wouldn’t budge until she received an answer.

“Emma, Kenneth Hazlitt’s his own show. The Festival didn’t authorize the party. We have absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Max was on his feet and pulling out a chair for Emma. Annie knew her role. “Won’t you join us?” And she did try to sound cordial. She really did.

Emma shook her head, which made her blue-gray hair
quiver. It was a new color and style, still short but with crisp waves instead of spikes. Emma wore her customary caftan, this one with alternating broad vertical stripes of violet and black.

Annie stood, too, and smiled, and thought the writer looked like an ambulatory awning.

Those pale blue eyes touched Annie, and she instantly felt a chill. Dammit, Emma couldn’t know what she was thinking. Uncomfortable, Annie plunged into speech.

“Emma, have you heard anything about what happens in Hazlitt’s novel?”

It wasn’t a dumb question. Emma knew everybody in the book business: editors, agents, bookstore owners, book buyers, publishing reps, critics, publicists. So if word of the plot of Hazlitt’s book had trickled through this small and gossipy community, Emma would know.

The minute the words were out, Annie would have given the world to have them back. It was one of those watershed moments. Like asking your host at a cocktail party, “Who’s that unpleasant-looking woman in the red dress?” only to learn that it is the host’s beloved cousin.

Dear God, Emma was one of the authors Hazlitt claimed he was writing about!

And Annie knew why. At least, she knew of one skeleton in Emma’s closet. Several years earlier, Emma’s much younger, philandering second husband had fallen (was pushed?) from the stern of
Marigold’s Pleasure
, Emma’s luxurious yacht. Late at night. Emma claimed she was sleeping soundly. The death was officially ruled an accident.

Those cool blue eyes probed Annie’s.

Annie swallowed and once again hurtled into speech. “Of course, it’s probably not true what everyone’s saying.”

“And what is everyone saying?”

Annie would have sworn that Emma’s broad mouth twitched.

“That …” Annie looked at Max for inspiration. His face was sympathetic, but he didn’t say a word. Annie knew she only had one hope, a diversionary tactic.

“Emma, what was the deal with Kenneth Hazlitt and goldfish?”

Amusement flickered briefly in Emma’s cool blue eyes. “Oh, yes. The famous goldfish caper. Kenneth was throwing a party for a Mint Julep book on Indonesia. And don’t ask me why a Georgia press would buy that title. Anyway, the author had arranged for Indonesian delicacies to be delivered by air freight from Los Angeles. For some reason, the stuff didn’t show up. So an hour before the party started, Kenneth scooped up eight goldfish—the big ones—out of a pond in his backyard, smoked them in his barbecue, chopped them up, and served them at the party on wheat thins. People raved about the great taste. Of course, Kenneth waited until every scrap was gone, then, ho ho ho, he announced what he’d done. It became the most famous book party of the year.”

For just an instant, a faint smile touched Emma’s square face. Then she leaned forward and picked up the invitation. Slowly, she crushed it in that strong, capable hand.
(Did he fall? Was he pushed?)
She stared at the crumpled invitation for a moment. “Kenneth always likes to top himself. I’m afraid that’s what he has in mind for today. But I don’t like the idea of being served up like cubed carp.”

“Don’t go,” Annie said briskly.

Emma’s chilly eyes moved from the invitation to Annie.

Annie nodded emphatically. “It’s like, What if they had a war and nobody came? If the authors don’t come, his party will be a flop.”

“I’d like to think so.” Her gruff voice was thoughtful. “But, Annie, what if it isn’t?”

“Oh, Max, isn’t it gorgeous!” Annie spread her arms wide as if to encompass all of the Dixie Book Festival.

Red-and-white-striped awnings projected over the booths that dotted the broad wooden plaza leading to the public beach. Every booth was crammed with books. Country music blared from loudspeakers. An area near the boardwalk offered delicacies from island restaurants, and a large poster announced signing and reading times. The air was as silky and soft as cat fur. A gentle sea breeze fluttered the awnings. Sand gritted underfoot on the gray wooden planking. The tangy smell of the ocean competed with the sour and sweet scents wafting from the hot dog vendor and the cotton candy stand. And the books!

Annie stopped in front of the poster. “Max, look! Marilyn Schwartz is speaking at four. She is
so
funny. We can’t miss that.”

People swarmed and thronged and milled. It was a sight guaranteed to delight the Chamber of Commerce and annoy the growth-curbing mayor.

Annie spotted Leah Kirby deep in conversation with a slim blond woman, who stood with her hands jammed in the pockets of her dirndl skirt. Leah gestured emphatically. The author’s face was flushed with anger. Her companion shook her head vigorously.

Annie glanced around. Carl Kirby wasn’t there.

A fan shyly stepped up, holding out a copy of Kirby’s latest book. The author looked blank for a moment, then she forced a smile. She nodded, reached out for the book.

Annie tugged on Max’s arm. “There, Max. Over by the third booth. That’s Leah Kirby.” Annie’s grip tightened. “And look, coming up behind them, that good-looking guy in the orange polo shirt, the one who looks like he’s spoiling for a fight, that’s Alan Blake.” Quickly she told Max about the videos. “I wonder if he’s hunting for Kenneth Hazlitt? Maybe I should let Blake take him on.”

But she’d promised Blue Benedict she’d handle it.

Annie headed for the information booth and a large map indicating exhibitors’ stalls. She nodded in approval. Blue had done a great job. The book booths were easily accessible. Reading and autograph sessions were set up at intervals on the beach. How was that for a resort atmosphere? (As long as it didn’t rain, but the gods usually smiled on Hilton Head in May.) The panels were spread among the meeting rooms in nearby hotels.

Annie already knew which author talks she wanted to attend, in addition, of course, to the appearances by her five. (Four, actually. Somehow she could pass up the pleasure of seeing Jimmy Jay Crabtree here or anywhere.) But tomorrow she definitely would catch Robert Olen Butler and Jane Roberts Wood.

As for now—

Mint Julep Press was in Booth 16.

Despite her best intentions, Annie had to stop at several booths to greet local booksellers and then, of course, she ran into bookstore friends from Birmingham and Tallahassee and Columbia and Augusta and Raleigh and Memphis and Charleston …

“Max, isn’t this fun!” She took a little sideways dance in sheer exuberance.

He gave her a fond, amused,
nice
smile, and she thought how lucky she was. Then his face changed and he reached out to grab her. “Careful, Annie …” but she was already toppling, along with the cardboard cutout she’d sideswiped.

Ignoring her scraped knee, she bounced back to her feet, hastily assuring a small crowd she was just fine, thank you.

“Sweetheart, I’d fall down with you anywhere, anytime,” a huge voice boomed.

It could have been sexist, it could have been offensive, but the big man’s light tone robbed the words of offense, and the hand on her elbow was gentle.

Without warning, Annie stood face-to-face with Kenneth Hazlitt, who was setting the cutout on its stand and was, in fact, even larger and blonder with a bigger smile than his replica.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Me, in the flesh and in cardboard.” He laughed so hard his chest wobbled. “Don’t know when I’ve had so much fun. Here, come to our open house tomorrow. See the Mint Julep Press fall list and get the best discounts in the business. And get a great preview at our cocktail party this afternoon. Fifth floor of the Buccaneer Hotel.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Sweetheart, you won’t want to miss it! Today or tomorrow. We’ll have the most exciting book bash in the history of Southern books all day tomorrow. And this afternoon, we’re having a super preview, and guess who’ll be there? The Medallion authors themselves! Because they’re the inspiration for the book I’m writing. Listen, New York’s hot for my book. Everybody’s excited. Isn’t that great?”

“No.”

It was like watching a fast freeze in a film. The huge grin locked in place; the china-blue eyes widened. “No?” Kenneth Hazlitt repeated. The little word quivered with
amusement and curiosity. “Sweetheart, are you a book grinch? Aren’t you interested in the life experiences that create great literature?”

Annie thought fleetingly of Jimmy Jay Crabtree. Great literature?

“Look—”

But Hazlitt was riding his horse hard. “Honey, you won’t believe the exciting possibilities I’m exploring. What heartbreak fuels the passion and power of Southern stories? What is the truth of the lives behind these works?”

A crowd was gathering, to Hazlitt’s obvious delight. He beamed at the eager faces surrounding them.

“How better to understand their greatness than to create a grand and passionate novel about writers like Alan Blake, Leah Vixen Kirby, Emma Clyde, Jimmy Jay Crabtree, and Melissa Sinclair, the Festival’s brilliant and fascinating Medallion winners.”

No one within fifty feet could have missed hearing him. He grabbed up a sheaf of pink flyers. “Don’t miss the open house tomorrow, folks. That’s when we give you a sneak preview of the contents of the book the whole South’s gonna be wild about. We’ll honor these fine authors and realize how their lives can inspire and educate us. We’ll look behind their public masks. How does Leah Vixen Kirby know so much about love, about men and women torn by doubt and jealousy and desire? Does Jimmy Jay Crabtree struggle with the old devil rum? How much real-life experience does Emma Clyde have with murder? Alan Blake is as handsome as his heroes. How have his looks always put him in a starring role? Melissa Sinclair describes the dark struggles of the soul in old Southern families. What about
her
family?”

People reaching for flyers jostled Annie.

She stood on tiptoe, trying to get his attention. “Mr. Hazlitt, wait a minute, wait a minute!”

Hazlitt leaned around her, shoving flyers toward grasping hands. His face flushed with excitement, he boomed, “Come one, come all. The most exciting book bash—”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. She stood with her arms akimbo.

Recognizing the warning signs, Max tugged on her elbow. “Annie, he’s—”

“Mr. Hazlitt, the Festival demands that you immediately cease coupling your name with those of the Medallion winners.”

The publisher of Mint Julep Press paused and looked down at Annie, his big face stricken with incredulity. “My goodness gracious. That’s a most upsetting piece of news.” He grinned hugely. “Why, sweetie, I’m just sorry as I can be if the Festival has its nose out of joint, but, sugar, the Festival isn’t my daddy. At least, if it is, my momma never told me.”