Something Wicked (33 page)

Annie was halfway across the lobby when she remembered Emma. She scooted back to the alcove, found a pay phone, and dialed Emma’s number. The answering machine picked up. Of course. But Annie knew damn well Broward’s Rock’s most famous author was in her office because Emma’s routine was invariable—a
half-hour walk on the beach in front of her palatial home, then three hours at her computer. Neither war nor storms (excepting electrical failures) nor holidays nor celebrations nor illness (unless major surgery) varied Emma’s writing schedule.

Annie enunciated loudly and clearly. “Emma, the Medallions are strictly on the up-and-up. I’ve got the word straight—”

Emma picked up her phone. “From whom?”

“Blue Benedict. She swears that Hazlitt guy had nothing to do with your selection. So you’ll come, won’t you?”

The silence was frosty—and thoughtful. Emma’s voice was as cool and sharp as a dueling sword. “If that’s true, it makes Kenneth’s novel even more interesting.”

And she hung up.

Annie glared at the phone. The public might adore dear Marigold Rembrandt (“… America’s sweetest and canniest sleuth,”
The New York Times.
“… delights readers with her warmth and charisma,”
Chicago Sun-Times.
“… won the hearts of readers from coast to coast,” the
Los Angeles Times),
but her creator had about as much charm for Annie as the seven-foot alligator that lived in the pond behind Annie’s home. Annie knew dangerous beasts when she saw them.

Annie slammed the receiver into its cradle, jolting her fingers. “Ouch.”

All the way up in the elevator, Annie tried to figure it out. Why did it make Hazlitt’s novel more interesting? Or was Emma being supercilious?

And did Annie really give a damn?

Well, yes. She was responsible for the care and feeding of the honorees and their mental well-being throughout the Festival. So, yes. But she didn’t understand what Emma meant….

The elevator doors opened, and Annie confronted her own image in a huge mirror with a gilt baroque frame.

She had that instant of surprise that always came when seeing her reflection. Sandy hair. Gray eyes. Slim, athletic figure.

Annie paused.

Laurel always urged Annie to relax, to imbide more deeply from Life’s Fountain of Joy.

Annie thought the message was clear. She frowned. Dammit, did she really look harried and intense?

She forced her shoulders to relax. Actually, she looked stylishly resortish, her smooth cotton top crisply white, her light blue chambray skirt long enough to swirl. Annie smoothed her hair and tried a casual smile. Okay.

The door to Room 500 opened immediately.

Annie looked into amused green eyes that widened with perceptible pleasure as they surveyed her.

“Do
come in, said the lonely guy to the good-looking girl.” His voice was a pleasant baritone, and he used it to matinee-idol perfection. He thrust out his hand. “Hi, I’m Willie Hazlitt, and my crystal ball tells me you’re the author liaison who just called. I had no idea author liaisons were beautiful. What a delightful surprise.”

Willie’s hand was warm, his grin seductive.

Annie smiled, but with definite reserve. She knew all about the Willie Hazlitts of the world. Good-looking, charming, playful. And not to be trusted with either the household silver or a woman’s reputation.

“Hello, Mr. Hazlitt. I appreciate your help.” The room behind him was nice. Lots of white wicker and brightly striped pillows and a seashell motif in the sand-shaded wallpaper. If all the suites were this attractive, her authors should at least be pleased with their accommodations.

“Anything I can do, anything at all. And my name’s Willie.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Annie Darling. Now, this flyer—”

“Sure, sure, Annie.” He led the way into the living area. “Let me take a look in these boxes.”

Willie Hazlitt made it look easy to heft four big cartons onto a table near the wet bar. He was about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was also so spectacularly handsome—thick, smooth black hair, regular features, a smile that combined charm with a hint of wickedness—that not even his vivid sport shirt—emerald-beaked, crimson-feathered toucans against a bright fuschia background—could compete with his looks. And it would take a man inordinately confident of both his appearance and his masculinity to wear that particular shirt.

He kept up a nonstop chatter as he poked through the boxes. “… more than you ever wanted to know about the fall list from Mint Julep
Press:
Red Hot Tips from Hot Rod Hal, Blue Grass in My Old Kentucky Home, Press the Pedal to the Metal
—huh, now that sounds like fun, the memoirs of a long-haul trucker—
Sea Island Reverie
—oh, poems. I thought it might be a primer on how to have your very own little grass shack, which I could relate to, ma’am”—here he favored Annie with a bright, not soo suggestive glance—
“Root Hog or Die,
which I do
not
relate to. Well, not this box, I guess. Let’s see.” He pushed the first box away, pulled the second one close. “Nope. This one’s got party stuff in it, nuts—the house-brand peanuts from a discount store—you can count on Ken to cut corners wherever, oh yeah,” Annie heard a remnant of a southern drawl, but she guessed Willie had spent some years elsewhere, “and paper plates, that kind of stuff. Now here’s a box that’s taped shut. That’s special for the open house. Can’t get into those yet. But I know there’s a bunch of other flyers. Unless he’s already taken then to the booth. He’s really on a high about his book.” A shrug. “My brother publishes books—I mean, we do. You’d think it would just be another day at the office. But no, Ken’s beside himself.”

Willie delved into the last box and, triumphantly, yanked up a stack of sheets so electrically pink that Annie blinked.

“Here we go.” He handed one to Annie.

Annie took the sheet.

Annie took a deep breath. Oh, Lordy.

“Would you like extra copies?” Willie asked helpfully.

“Five.”

Before pulling the brochures from the box, she saw him glance at her wedding ring.

Annie took the flyers. “Thanks so much.”

“Oh, we’ve got hundreds. We’ll have a stack of them here this afternoon at the cocktail party.”

“Who’s coming to the cocktail party?”

“Ken sent out invitations to booksellers. But
you’re definitely invited. Five o’clock. Here in the suite. And feel free, take some extra copies of the flyer.”

Willie smiled happily, obviously unaware his offering was as welcome as the Bud Light truck at a Baptist church social.

Annie accepted another handful. Should she give flyers to her authors as they arrived? Or should she await a propitious moment?

She turned toward the door.

Willie didn’t exactly block her way, but he was right there, an eager hand on her elbow. “How about a drink tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied vaguely, “but thanks.”

“Anytime. Just give me a ring.”

He leaned against the doorjamb and watched as she walked toward the elevators.

As Annie punched the button, she gave him a final, noncommittal smile. Willie probably preferred married women. She stepped into the elevator, the pink sheets in her hand, and wished that she had nothing else to do that day but fend off Willie’s advances. That she could do. Duck soup. Instead, she had a horrid premonition that her Gang of Five might make mincemeat out of her. She opened her purse and absently dredged up a partially squashed mint.

No, stress didn’t make her hungry, fill her mind with images of food.

Of course not.