Mint Julep Murder (23 page)

“Detective Wheeler, I was asking him not to write the book—”

“Because you wanted to write it? Did you have the idea it could make you rich?”

“Detective Wheeler, my wife is in no need of money.”

The policeman didn’t even bother to look toward Max. “I have been led to believe”—and those cold eyes bored grimly into Annie’s—“that money isn’t always the reason for writing. Do you want to be famous, Mrs. Darling? Is that what attracted you to Hazlitt’s idea?”

“No.” Annie pushed up from the couch. She wasn’t tall enough to be on his eye level, but she faced him defiantly. “Detective Wheeler, hear me out. I quarreled with Kenneth Hazlitt because he was upsetting the Medallion winners. That is fact. I didn’t know someone was going to poison him. But someone did.

“Now you know and I know that the whiskey was poisoned sometime between nine
A.M.
and the start of the party. We know it could easily have been done by anyone staying on the fifth floor. That list includes me, my husband, the five Medallion winners, and Kenneth’s brother, Willie. And,” she spoke with great deliberation, “the blond woman who was observed carrying a box out of that suite.” Her eyes locked with Wheeler’s. “The thing is, I know Max didn’t do it and I didn’t do it.

“Now, Detective Wheeler, here is something you don’t know.”

Annie had to give the detective full marks. His gaze sharpened. He listened.

“I decided this morning to pretend—do you hear me, Detective Wheeler?—to
pretend
to take up Kenneth’s book idea. I’m trying to find out whether one of the Medallion winners is the poisoner. That’s the truth. That’s all there is to it.”

Detective Wheeler studied Annie for a long moment. Then he said, “Mrs. Darling, that’s an ingenious explanation. But I suppose anyone who plans to write a book can come up with some pretty fancy ideas.”

“Right.” Annie spit it out. “I have another fancy idea, Detective Wheeler. You told me the fifth-floor maid told you she saw a blond woman take the box from Suite 500. Was that maid named Judy Fleet?”

He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, flipped it
open. His eyes scanned the pages, then he looked up at Annie. “Yes.”

“Well, then, Detective Wheeler, what do you think about her accident?”

For the first time, Wheeler looked utterly blank. “Her accident?”

He listened as Max and Annie took turns. And he made notes. Then he clapped the notebook shut. “I’ll check into it.”

But Annie didn’t like the thoughtful, suspicious look in his eyes.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Darling, Mr. Darling. I’ll get back to you.” He opened the door. “Mrs. Darling, in regard to your quarrel with Mr. Hazlitt. Like the lady said”—he nodded toward Henny, who flushed—“nobody else had any trouble with him. Did they?”

As the door closed behind him, Max said, “Don’t worry, Annie. He’s just frustrated.” But his eyes were dark with concern.

“Oh, dear.” Laurel’s breathy sigh sounded like a dove’s mournful cry.

Miss Dora mutely held up a tray of desserts.

Henny, her face stricken, proffered a card:

“Apologizing for suspecting his sister of murder,” Henny explained, her voice choked. “Just a slip of the tongue—Rex. Me. Annie, you know I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“Oh, Henny, don’t worry. It will all come right.”

Annie hoped her voice didn’t sound as hollow—and queasy—as she felt.

“You know”—Annie’s eyes glinted, and one sandal-shod foot tapped against the boardwalk—“I do not like being brushed off.” She almost had to yell to be heard over the whanging electric guitars of the Bubba Band.

“Annie, I wouldn’t take it personally.” Max somehow managed to make his voice soothing, even in a partial shout. He bent close to her. “It’s just that they’re feeling at home at the Festival by this point. And this is a big party”—he waved his hand at the huge crowd filling the terrace behind the hotel and spilling out over the boardwalk onto the beach—“and there are plenty of people for them to talk to. Everybody’s excited to talk to the Medallion winners. They don’t need an author liaison tonight.”

“They may not need it,” she said grimly. “But they’re going to get it.” She planted her hands on her hips.

Dusk was falling. The crowd eddied and surged around the buffet tables with the scrumptious Low Country cookout, fried chicken, shrimp, oysters, clams, and catfish, grilled swordfish, steamed snapper, crab cakes, baked grits with wild mushrooms and a Parmesan sauce, fried green tomatoes, black-eyed peas and rice, sweet potatoes, oyster pie, and stuffed artichokes.

Feeling virtuous, Annie had limited her plate to crab cakes and stuffed artichokes. If not a balanced diet, it was on the lighter side of the food available. Certainly she could come to a buffet and not pig out. She’d nibbled daintily at her portion and declined seconds. But most people were still eating.

Annie scanned the crowded patio. The varicolored lights strung around the terrace provided a festive air. She spotted Leah Kirby’s flaming red hair, over by the swimming-pool bar.

She hesitated. Would it be better to attack together, she and Max? That had its attractions. But she had a strong sense they’d better strike early. If she knew Jimmy Jay Crabtree, it would be a miracle if he were still sober. Annie nodded decisively.

“Okay, Max, let’s split them up.” She’d already tried to face down Emma Clyde and Jimmy Jay Crabtree. Maybe
Max would have better luck. “You take Emma and Jimmy Jay. I’ll do Leah and Missy and Alan. Let’s meet here at the boardwalk by eleven.”

Annie stopped a few feet from Leah Kirby.

“… you’re so wonderful. I can’t tell you how much I
love
your books. Please, would you mind
very
much—” The dark-haired woman hesitantly held out a book.

Leah Kirby took the book, propped it against the end of the bar. “How would you like for me to inscribe it?”

“Oh, just your signature, please.”

Annie lifted an eyebrow. It sounded more like a collector than a mesmerized reader. Collectors know that autographed books have greater resale value if they aren’t personalized.

But Leah Kirby merely nodded and wrote her name.

“Thank you
so
much.” The dark-haired woman flashed an unexpectedly appealing smile and turned away.

For an instant, Leah Kirby stood alone. A swath of orange light spilled over her. Her face was unguarded. Weariness—sadness?—tugged down the corners of her lovely mouth. Her face was utterly pensive, her eyes mournful. She could not have looked more lost and forlorn trudging across an endless tundra, adrift on a rudderless raft, cast ashore on a barren beach.

Annie wanted to walk away.

Leah lifted her glass.

The orange light suffused the amber liquid with gold.

Kenneth Hazlitt lifted a glass.

And he died.

In agony.

Annie took a deep breath.

Before she could move, Leah’s blond friend from the cocktail party came around the end of the bar.

Annie could see her better now. She was tall and thin with an oval face. Her white pique polo dress emphasized her slenderness. The woman lifted her chin, looked as if she were steeling herself. In the light, her hair was a pale
yellow. She reached out, touched Leah’s arm, spoke hurriedly.

Annie moved closer.

When Leah’s companion saw Annie, she broke off.

“Hello, Mrs. Kirby.” Annie glanced at the second woman.

After a moment’s pause, Leah inclined her head. “Annie, this is my publicist, Sherry Felton. Sherry, Annie Darling is the author liaison with the Festival.”

Annie didn’t hesitate. “Sherry, what did you do with the box you took from the Mint Julep Press suite?”

The publicist shot an anguished look at Leah.

The author stood very straight and spoke fast, her words clipped. “Sherry has no idea what you’re talking about, Annie. No idea at all. And if you don’t mind, we’re rather busy—”

“Why don’t you let Sherry speak for herself?” Annie faced the publicist. “Or perhaps you’d rather explain to the police? I can easily arrange that.”

Leah’s hand gripped her publicist’s arm. “Annie, Sherry has nothing to say to you. And no reason to speak with the police. As for that box, I don’t imagine it will ever be found.” Like a cobra, the author stared at her publicist.

“The police will find it.” Annie spoke with more confidence than she felt. Between the ocean and the lagoons, the likelihood of ever finding the missing box was next to nothing. But she wasn’t ready to roll over and play dead for Leah Kirby.

Annie said confidently, “Look, you might as well know I have a copy of Kenneth’s book outline from his secretary. So it doesn’t matter that the box is gone. Did you think that would take care of it? It won’t. I know what that book is all about and I’m going to write it. So the fact that you asked Sherry to steal the box—did you rip it open when you visited the suite, but it was too heavy for you to carry? I’ll bet that’s what happened—anyway, you found Sherry at the Festival and you ordered her to get that box and get rid of it.”

“You do have a talent for fiction.” Leah’s tone was mocking.

The author seemed absolutely certain that Annie could prove nothing.

With a sinking heart, Annie knew she was right. Ignoring Leah, Annie pounced on the publicist. “Sherry, there was a witness who saw you leave the suite.”

Sherry Felton drew her breath in sharply. Her anxious eyes widened in fear.

But Leah had to be a poker player, just like Emma. “Obviously, this witness hasn’t identified Sherry. Or the police would have spoken with her already. So, there is nothing to discuss.” Those expressive green eyes focused on the publicist. “Good night, Sherry. I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good swim.”

Sherry Felton finally spoke. “Good night, Leah. Mrs. Darling.” She had a well-modulated voice; normally, Annie was sure, a pleasant voice. Tonight, however, it was thin and tight.

As the publicist hurriedly walked away, Annie demanded of Leah: “Do you know what the penalty is for concealing evidence?”

Leah sipped from her glass. She gave Annie a faintly insolent look. Her face was once again a mask of success—smooth, impervious, faultlessly lovely—and more than a little inhuman. “No. I neither know. Nor do I care.”

“I think you do care. Very much. Does Carl know about Brett Farraday?”

Slowly, painfully, the haughty mask dissolved. Leah Kirby’s lovely face flattened into despair. She looked her age. And older. “How did you—” Leah broke off. She took a greedy gulp of her drink. Her lips trembled. The brazen antagonist was gone. “What do I have to do? Please, please, don’t tell him. Don’t.”

“Mrs. Kirby, were you afraid that your husband would find out about your affair with Brett Farraday if Kenneth wrote that book?”

“Carl wouldn’t have read it. If I asked him not to. But if he did—” Tears trickled down those smooth, lovely
cheeks. “Carl’s sick. He has cancer. He has a chance. I know he does. But not if he gives up. And if he ever knew—” She stared at Annie, heartbreak in those huge green eyes. “You won’t understand. I love Carl.”

Jimmy Jay Crabtree was in the bar.

Slumped against the shiny mahogany, he stared sullenly at an empty shot glass. He gestured brusquely for the bartender.

Max slid onto the stool next to him.

Jimmy Jay took his fresh drink, downed it in one gulp, shuddered.

“Jimmy Jay, listen, man, you really pulled off a good one.” Max nodded toward the bartender. “Scotch and water.”

The writer’s head swiveled slowly around. His squinty eyes blinked. “Who’re you?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, yeah. Husband. Yeah.” A snicker ended in a hiccup. “Never gave a damn for husbands. Shitload of trouble. Been one myself. Three goddamn times. Three times too goddamn many.”

“But you know how to handle trouble. Like you did with Regina Perkins.”

Jimmy Jay sat too still. He took too long to answer. But when he did, his glazed eyes flickered with cunning. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, buddy.” He slid to his feet, staggered slightly, then sneered, “Been nice talking to you.”