Mint Julep Murder (22 page)

Annie thanked the clerk, who nodded hastily as the phone began to ring and four people converged on the desk. Annie stepped to one side and ripped open the envelope. She scanned the sheet. Max had come up with the goods. At last she had some ammunition for her talk with Jimmy Jay tonight.

As for now—maybe Max would be upstairs. After all, she’d done all she could for the moment. And certainly she had some information to give to Detective Wheeler, and she might have more before the evening ended. She’d earned a respite.

The elevator seemed to take forever.

She sped up the hall toward their room, shoved in the card.

“Max—”

He was there.

But he wasn’t alone.

Four faces turned toward her.

Laurel could have posed for one of the mega-bestselling books on angel encounters. Her classically lovely features were serene, her ocean-blue eyes meditative, her mouth curved in an uplifting smile.

Henny radiated assurance; her brown eyes snapped with vigor, her expression was intent.

A faint flush touched Miss Dora’s parchment-pale skin with a hint of apricot. Her small, tight mouth budded in a satisfied smile. The black chef’s cap tilted at a jaunty angle.

Max’s eyes lighted up with relief. “Annie, we have company. I ordered tea. For you, too.” He gestured at the individual teapots. “To accompany Miss Dora’s assortment of delicious desserts.”

“How nice.” Annie was proud of herself. She managed to infuse her voice with a semblance of pleasure, even though her vision of afternoon delight most definitely hadn’t included the Dauntless Trio.

Laurel beamed. “Annie, it’s simply been
serendipitous.”

“Have to agree.” Miss Dora’s nod made her shaggy silver hair ripple like cirrus clouds beneath the jet-black cap.

“I know you’ll want to be the first to congratulate Miss Dora on the acceptance of her manuscript. Truffle Press of Savannah.” Henny gestured toward two heaping platters on the coffee table. “Tasting is believing.”

Annie stared at the beautifully arranged cookies, slices of cake, and candies. Silently, she vowed she was going to redirect her enthusiasm for sweets into more healthy channels, fresh fruit, gingersnaps, vanilla wafers. Still without exactly meaning to, she took one step, then another, toward the coffee table. It wouldn’t hurt simply to look…. After all, it would be dreadful to hurt the old dear’s feelings.

Miss Dora’s flush heightened becomingly. “Certainly appreciate the support I’ve received. Success would not have come except for the stalwart efforts of my comrades. Now we must bend every sinew to secure acceptance of their manuscripts.”

“Huzzah!” Henny exclaimed.

“I have faith.” Laurel’s husky voice floated in the air like a petal from a magnolia blossom. She held up a card:

Annie’s hand hovered over the platters.

Henny grinned. She snapped through her stack of cards and held up one:

Annie tried to turn her reach into an airy gesture of admiration.

It truly surprised her when she felt the warm (God, how had Miss Dora managed that!) crumbling stickiness of the delectably fragrant cookie—exuding the ineffable, unmistakable, glorious scent of chocolate—in her fingers.

Of course, it would be horrid manners to pick up a cookie and then replace it.

As the rich, dark chocolate melted on her tongue, Annie heard Miss Dora muttering. “… squares of Droste chocolate. No other will do. And unsalted butter, of course. Vanilla from freshly ground beans.”

Annie floated to a seat next to Max and simply by happenstance found herself seated directly in front of the laden platters.

Miss Dora smiled benignly.

Annie’s hand hovered over the slice of apple-studded cake saturated with a thick brown syrup—

“Apple Delight,” Miss Dora murmured. “Rome or American Beauty.”

—then darted down to pick up a praline chock-full of pecans.

The sugar jolted her system.

“Miss Dora,” Annie said expansively, pouring a cup of tea, “you deserve fame and fortune.” She immediately sensed a cooling of the bonhomie and added quickly, “As do Laurel and Henny, of course, with their marvelous manuscripts.”

“We’ve had several expressions of interest,” Henny announced proudly. “Both Laurel and I. However, our efforts to gain attention from publishers were quite secondary to our survey of those who knew Kenneth Hazlitt. At least”—Henny darted a swift glance at Miss Dora—
“some
of us concentrated on our duties, perhaps to the detriment of
our
personal goals.”

Miss Dora’s gaze was as solemn and dangerous as an
alligator watching a golfer. “Jealousy is the little sister of envy.”

Laurel clasped her hands and beamed first at Miss Dora, then Henny. “United we stand.” Her sultry laugh rippled through the room. “Though, of course, not right at this moment. Since we are seated.”

Annie studied the cookies. Surely they were flecked with peppermint? Dear Max edged that plate a little closer to her.

“We sallied forth this afternoon, together and apart, seeking a true portrait of the unfortunate Mr. Hazlitt.” Laurel opened her purse, drew out a notepad. “I won’t, of course, list everyone to whom I spoke. Suffice it to say that I interviewed”—she paused, a pink-nailed finger totted down the lines—“twenty-three individuals.” She tapped the sheet. “I’m not certain how best to summarize my conclusions.” Dark blue eyes regarded Annie and Max doubtfully. “Mr. Hazlitt, the deceased Mr. Hazlitt, was a—I believe it is fair to say that Mr. Hazlitt was”—a tiny breath—“Mr. Hazlitt,” she concluded firmly, “was a creature of strong passions.”

There was a moment of silence while each pictured whatever that delicate assessment evoked.

“Ate too much, drank too much—” Henny paused, her eyes swerved toward Miss Dora. “—enjoyed the company of many, many women.”

Miss Dora was sorting through her recipe cards. “Satyr. Bacchant. Lecher.”

Max reached over to refill Miss Dora’s cup. “Was there any suggestion he was ever involved romantically with either Leah Kirby or Missy Sinclair?”

The Three Musketeers, each in her own fashion, gave him a withering look.

“We checked that first thing.” Henny waved her hand dismissively. “But oddly enough—for a man who ended up being murdered—everyone seemed to be very fond of him. The people I talked to went on and on about how much fun Kenneth was, a laugh a minute. They said he always
planned a great practical joke for every book conference, something that really got everyone’s attention.”

Miss Dora cackled, and the chefs cap waggled. “One year, a big book was all about ghosts in South Carolina. Kenneth arranged for the lights to go off halfway through the author’s talk, and then there were
whooooo
noises and a misty figure appeared near the ceiling.” In anyone less dignified, Miss Dora’s laughter would almost have been considered a snort. “Scared the poor author half to death!”

Annie glanced at the old lady in surprise. Miss Dora had always evinced strong interest in ghosts. Perhaps she objected to their commercialization.

“I doubt if the author appreciated it,” Annie observed.

Miss Dora continued to cackle.

“One of his competitors’ books, actually.” Henny selected a luscious-looking ball of candy, a combination of orange peel and pecans. “Perhaps not coincidentally, Kenneth had just published a book debunking haunted houses that year.”

Somehow Annie found a piece of the orange peel candy in her hand.

“He wasn’t universally beloved. There was that appearance of a belly dancer, at Kenneth’s instigation, two years ago. The
very
underclothed young woman appeared right in the middle of the banquet.” Laurel’s eyes sparkled. “The director of the Festival that year, an antiquarian bookseller from Mobile, was not pleased. But I checked, and that gentleman isn’t in attendance this year.”

“Did Mint Julep Press happen to have a book out on belly dancing?” Annie licked her fingers. The orange peel candy was superb.

But Laurel’s reply was lost as a sharp knock sounded on the door.

Annie felt both soporific and edgy from her consumption of fats and sugar.

Until Max opened the door. Then she felt edgy.

Detective Wheeler gave Max a crisp nod. “I’m sorry to
interrupt, Mr. Darling. But I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Darling.”

Annie attempted a flurry of introductions.

Wheeler nodded patiently. “I’ve met these ladies.” He stood in front of the coffee table, ignoring Miss Dora’s delicacies, feet apart, eyes glinting. “I understand they’ve been asking questions about Kenneth Hazlitt.”

A trio of voices spoke at once.

Crusty and incisive, Miss Dora nodded emphatically, and the black chef’s hat wobbled. “Boyish, one might say. However, indulging a grown man’s passions with youthful gusto can be most unattractive. And perhaps dangerous.”

Contemplative and otherworldly, Laurel’s voice lilted seductively. “A very vigorous personality. Famed for his bonhomie.” Those ocean-blue eyes fastened on Detective Wheeler with admiration.

Analytical and confident, Henny’s tone was pleasantly assured. “A fascinating afternoon, Mr. Wheeler. And the most astonishing fact is that everyone I spoke with claimed to be on the best of terms with the late and, I must say, apparently most genuinely lamented Kenneth Hazlitt. I couldn’t find anyone who’d quarreled with him. Except Annie, of course. Is that true for you, Miss Dora? Laurel?”

Silence.

Annie’s eyes widened in amazement as she stared at the greatest mystery reader she’d ever known.

Henny clapped her hands to her mouth.

Miss Dora cleared her throat. “Detective Wheeler, won’t you please have some refreshment?”

Laurel tilted her head. “Although our afternoon’s survey reflected a general sense of loss at Mr. Hazlitt’s demise, we must remember”—a winning smile—“that our efforts didn’t encompass the Medallion winners. And clearly, they had reason not to be pleased with Mr. Hazlitt.”

Something flickered in Detective Wheeler’s slate-gray eyes.

Annie feared it was satisfaction.

“Actually, Mrs. Roethke,” the detective told Laurel
and damned if his eyes didn’t warm as they rested on her, “I have had detailed conversations with each Medallion winner. To the contrary, I have been assured that inclusion in Mr. Hazlitt’s book pleased them.” Now his eyes turned, lost their warmth, and challenged Annie, who immediately felt like Miss Marple facing Inspector Slack.

But she didn’t employ Miss Marple’s adroitness. “Pleased them!” Annie’s voice rose. “Mr. Wheeler, they were
furious.
Furious! Every one of them. They called me—even before the conference began—and left angry messages. They’re lying! Ask them how pleased they are that I’m going to go ahead and write
Song of the South.”

Annie knew she’d made a terrible mistake the instant the words were uttered. And she knew exactly how Henny had felt moments before.

But worse.

Because Wheeler wasn’t eyeing
Henny
like a copperhead spotting a plump mouse.

The cookies, cake, and candy began to churn in Annie’s stomach.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Darling. The book. You’ve appropriated Mr. Hazlitt’s idea, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“If Mr. Hazlitt were alive, you couldn’t write this book. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Is that what you and Hazlitt quarreled about on Friday?”

“Absolutely not. Detective Wheeler, I need to explain—”

“The book was under discussion. We have witnesses who can testify to that.”

Annie scrabbled frantically to remember her hot exchange with Hazlitt. What exactly had she said?