Mint Julep Murder (20 page)

Annie reached down and picked up a handful of sand. What tripe. Her eye slid down the printed page. It got worse.

“Oh, gag,” Annie said aloud.

She slapped the folder shut.

Applause erupted.

The crowd apparently enjoyed learning just how treacherous stairs, sailboats, and cliffs could be if explored in the wrong company.

Annie wondered that someone hadn’t held dear little
Alan’s head under the water in the school pool when he was such a precious little bundle of prepubescent lust.

Of course, Alan Blake’s essay was hogwash.

Actually, any self-respecting hog would gag on it, too.

But of all the essays, his seemed the most contrived, the least sincere.

It was almost as if he had sat down in front of his word processor, analyzed his readers (70 percent women over age fifty who listen to news/talk radio at 56 percent above the national average, read
Money
magazine at 54 percent above the national average, and the newspaper home news section at 29 percent above the national average) and plotted out the most appealing essay possible.

Which bespoke a carefully controlled, coolly cynical writer.

Who, according to Kenneth Hazlitt’s book proposal, had a past in Hollywood that he very much didn’t want to talk about.

Annie stood on tiptoe, keeping track of Emma as she talked to fans and signed books.

Okay, Alan Blake. If anybody can nose out the dirt, it’s Emma.

Here we come.

Annie hurried to keep up, slipping a little on the sand. It was amazing how fast Emma could move. And she had to be in her seventies!

“So who would know about Alan Blake and Hollywood?”

They reached the plaza. Emma shaded her eyes and gazed around the festival area. “I said I’d help, Annie, but I’m fresh out of miracles. Hollywood might as well be Zimbabwe or Mars as far as most people here are concerned. Let’s see—yes, there are some people I know from Nashville. Let me handle this.” She charged ahead.

Annie glared at her sturdy, rapidly retreating back, then broke into a trot. So Emma was her usual uncharming self. So what else was new?

Annie skidded to a stop in front of a booth. She noted that Emma could manage to make extremely nice when it suited her purposes. In fact, for Emma, she was downright charming.

“Louise, Wilma, it’s wonderful to see you.” Emma
chattered on for a moment, then inclined her head toward Annie. “My assistant, Annie.”

Gracious nods, then instant dismissal.

“… know you are so excited about Leah’s Medallion.”

“And yours, Emma, and yours.” Wilma twittered, pushing thick gold-rimmed glasses higher on a beaked nose.

Louise nodded vigorously, her long black hair rippling over her shoulders. “Absolutely
thrilled
for you.”

Annie stood there like a lamppost. Or a parking meter. Or a book dump. It was quite interesting to be invisible. A new experience.

Emma edged closer to the two women and nodded her head confidentially. “You know, I was so relieved to see that Leah was able to come. I’d heard that perhaps—oh, you know how rumors get around …” She let her voice fade suggestively.

They took the bait. “I just don’t believe a word of it,” Wilma snapped, but there was a squiggle of malicious excitement in the eyes behind their magnifying lenses. “Why, that young man’s twenty-five
years
younger than Leah. Of course, she swears she’s simply his mentor. But a friend of mine in New Orleans saw them there together last month—at the
same
hotel—and it wasn’t a conference.”

Louise wrapped long thin arms around her angular torso and giggled. “Oh, but Wilma, Brett Farraday is wonderful.”

Wilma might be a nerd, but Annie agreed with her taste. Brett Farraday was indeed wonderful: tall, sandy-haired, lanky, with a sunny grin on a bony, likable face, and the author of wickedly funny satiric newspaper columns that didn’t leave a single Southern stone unturned. Farraday regularly lampooned everybody from tobacco lobbyists
(They bring a tear to my eye in their struggle against government interference. I always knew I could count on the tobacco interests to keep America free.)
to the antiabortion activists
(Tote that barge, lift that bale, make that woman have that
baby! After it’s born? The government take care of it? That’s socialism! Government has no responsibility for people’s babies. If people can’t do better than live in slums, why, that’s their problem.)
to the insurance industry
(It’s our God-given right to make money, so, of course, we have to drop sick people from coverage. Anything else would be a betrayal of our stockholders. The flag flutters in the breeze to the tune of “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the insurance company logo flashes across the screen. Change jobs, lose your health insurance? Tough cheese, old buddy.)

Brett Farraday!

“Is Brett here this weekend?” Emma asked.

Wilma shook her head. “No. He isn’t on the list of authors.”

Annie wondered if she could track Farraday down. And when she did? How far would she get opening a phone conversation with, “I understand you’re having an affair with Leah Kirby, Mr. Farraday?”

But maybe he wasn’t the person to talk to.

Emma exhibited another burst of charm and disengaged from her admirers with great skill. Annie almost complimented her. Almost.

As they quickly skirted around the information booth to study the map of the exhibits, Annie whispered, “Did you know about Leah and Brett Farraday?”

“I’d heard she was involved with someone.” Emma’s tone was neutral.

Annie shot her a swift glance. The topic of unfaithful spouses might not be a popular one with Emma.

But the mystery writer’s square face was untroubled. She stabbed a blunt finger toward the map. “Booth Twenty-three.”

Once again Annie found herself introduced with the dismissive, “My assistant, Annie,” and she felt the cloak of invisibility slide over her. It seemed to her that Emma was relishing Annie’s subordinate role entirely too much.

“… I heard there was some criticism of Jimmy Jay’s selection as a Medallion winner.”

A tall, birdlike man with bulging dark eyes clasped his
hands and bent his head. “My dear, who can doubt it? Have you heard …”

Annie bent her head, too, to listen. But it was the same old, same old. It was easy as an observer to be casual about the litany of Jimmy Jay’s lousy treatment of others, though Annie doubted that any of Jimmy Jay’s ex-wives—still battling viciously for alimony and child support—considered it old hat.

“… little boy had an operation for a defective heart valve, and do you know Jimmy Jay didn’t even go! And they say he won’t even call the little guy. And …”

Jimmy Jay had insulted a bookseller in Boca Raton, hit a television interviewer in Nashville, borrowed money and not repaid it to a current girlfriend, been cut off the air for obscene language in Pascagoula, skipped out on a hotel bill in New Orleans and the hotel was demanding that the bookstore make it good …

“Did you ever hear he was drunk as a skunk and driving—not his secretary—when his car killed that little girl?”

The bookseller and Emma both looked at Annie in surprise.

Of course it came as a surprise when an invisible creature spoke.

The bookseller’s prominent eyes widened. “Lordy. Why, honey, I’ll bet you’re right as rain. Any way you cut it, that Jimmy Jay’s a sorry piece of goods.”

As they headed for their next booth—Number 14—Annie almost dismissed that interview as nonproductive, then she stopped short. “Wait a minute. Wait a
minute.
That bookseller—”

“Walt Hisell,” Emma supplied.

“He said Jimmy Jay skipped out on a hotel bill and the hotel was going after the
bookseller.
Okay, that has to mean Jimmy Jay was in New Orleans to do a signing. Otherwise, the hotel wouldn’t try to get money out of the bookseller. And if they tried to get the bookseller to pay for the hotel room, that has to mean Jimmy’s publishing house wasn’t paying for the trip. And if his publishing house wasn’t paying for a book trip—”

Annie didn’t have to finish because Emma knew what that meant.

If Walt Hisell had the story right.

To her credit, Emma was generous with her praise. “That’s quite insightful, Annie. Let’s see—” Her pale blue eyes scanned the crowd. “Over there. By the hot dog stand. Beau Kramer’s a sales rep for Jimmy Jay’s publisher.”

Emma headed straight for Kramer. Annie stuck close behind. Sales reps know everything that’s happening in a publishing house.

Cornered, Beau Kramer tried to be discreet, but Emma wasn’t having any.

“As a favor to me, Beau. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

Kramer, chunky and athletic, glanced doubtfully at Annie.

“Annie, my assistant,” Emma announced. The cloak descended.

“Okay, the story’s true. We refused to pay for this last tour. He set it up himself. Emma, he’s on the skids. His books aren’t selling, as in no place, no way. And he’s such a stupid jerk, he’s trying to pressure us to pay for this tour anyway. He thinks it will embarrass us so much we’ll cave in.” Kramer took a huge bite from his hot dog, licked some relish from his chin. Annie decided not to tell him about the mustard on his lapel.

“Thanks, Beau,” Emma said gruffly.

“You didn’t hear it here.”

“Right.”

Annie waited until they were out of the sales rep’s hearing. “Good going, Emma.”

The mystery writer shrugged. “So Jimmy Jay needs money. How does that figure with Kenneth’s murder?”

Annie’s elation seeped away. But she held stubbornly to the thought that they had learned something they hadn’t known: Jimmy Jay Crabtree might be desperately short on cash.

But, as Emma had pointed out, how could that tie in with Kenneth and his tell-all, sexy Southern novel? If anything,
the free advertising of being part of Kenneth’s novel might have been enough to jump-start Jimmy Jay’s sales.

Annie sighed. Damn, it would be nice to hang the murder on the most hated Medallion winner.

Unfortunately, Emma’s latest contribution simply seemed to make him the least likely suspect.

On their way to Booth 14, they passed the Mint Julep Press display.

Annie was surprised to see Willie Hazlitt on duty. But she had encouraged him to keep on keeping on. It was one way of handling grief.

Sunglasses hid his eyes. Despite the blazing colors of another Hawaiian-patterned sports shirt, Willie didn’t have a holiday air. He looked tired, forlorn.

She lifted her hand in greeting.

He didn’t respond, though she was certain he’d seen her.

In fact, his mouth drew down in a frown of—disapproval? disgust? dislike?

Annie reached out, tugged on Emma’s billowy sleeve. “I want to talk to Willie Hazlitt.”

But as she reached the booth, Willie crossed his arms. His body language couldn’t have been clearer. He didn’t want to speak with her.

The subtlety of John Marquand’s Mr. Moto was not for Annie. “So what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like vultures.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Picking at bones. That’s what you’re doing. Taking Ken’s idea and trying to make a bundle with it. Blake told me all about it.”

“Alan Blake?” Obviously, he’d picked up Annie’s message at the hotel desk. “And he came running right to

“Not the way you mean,” Willie shot back. “Alan came because he was an old friend of Ken’s. Ken published his first book, gave him his start. And Alan wanted me to know how much Ken—” Willie stopped, bit his lip, took a shaky breath. “He thought a lot of Ken. Wanted me to
know that. That’s when it came up. I wouldn’t have thought you were that kind of person. But I guess it could make you a lot of dough. That’s what I told Detective Wheeler.”

Despite the silky warmth of the sun, Annie felt a sudden chill. Oh, great, her effort to get the attention of the Famous Five might boomerang. What if Wheeler got the idea Annie might have killed Kenneth to take over his book idea? If so, it would be damned ironic. A lot more irony than she could appreciate. And infuriating if the investigator would believe someone might kill to write a book but that no one would kill to
keep
a book from being written!

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She couldn’t tell Willie her threat to write the book was simply a ploy. Not with Emma standing beside her.

Besides, he wouldn’t believe it.

So what could she say?

Emma thrust out her hand. “Emma Clyde. Mr. Hazlitt, I want you to know I’m very sorry about Kenneth. But, believe me, Kenneth would be all in favor of Annie picking up his idea. He loved excitement. As for making money … writing books for most people is a labor of love, Mr. Hazlitt.”

But Willie continued to frown. “I’m going to talk to my lawyer. I don’t know much about this kind of stuff, but it looks to me like she’s stealing Ken’s idea. And I don’t like it.”

“Your lawyer can talk to my lawyer,” Annie told him stiffly. “Come on, Emma.”

He stepped in front of Annie, blocking her. “And I want that box back. The box you took from the suite!”

Annie held on to her temper. “I didn’t take the box, Willie. I don’t even know what’s missing. What was in it, do you know?”

His eyes glinted with suspicion. “It was all about the book, the book you now say you’re going to write. The hell you didn’t take it—”

Annie interrupted sharply, “Detective Wheeler can search our suite anytime he wants to.”

Willie folded his arms across his chest, glared at her. “I’m going to tell my lawyer about the box, too.”

“Be my guest.” Annie stepped past him. “Let’s go, Emma.”