Mint Julep Murder (4 page)

“Uh—you’re cooking.” Annie said it with a straight face, without even a glimmer of sarcasm.

Max shot her a look of suspicion.

Perhaps being around Laurel had its recompenses. Annie smiled benignly. She did refrain from clasping her hands soulfully to her chin.

“Annie, I need help.”

“Yes.”

“You see, it’s
Miss Dora’s Delectables.”
Max pointed at the welter of cooking implements. “Apple Pan-Dowdy.” He didn’t say it with any conviction.

“Oh.” Annie weighed her response. She knew what she
wanted
to announce. She wanted to shout:
“Miss Dora’s Delectables
be damned.”

But Max was talking as fast as she’d ever heard him.

“… after all, Annie, my own mother. And she made a commitment. She and Henny and Miss Dora swore a blood oath—that’s how Laurel put it—One for All—”

“All for One,” Annie joined in.

Max’s face brightened.

“You know about it?”

Annie knew. The impossible trio had probably met at high noon or on the stroke of midnight to plight their awesome pact: The three hopeful authors would together brave the cold world of publishing (the Dixie Book Festival), and they would not rest, they would not flag, they would not fail until each had found a publisher for her book. Three books, of course. Quite disparate in tone and content.

Laurel was offering a small volume filled with simple, quiet, pithy comments that celebrated simplicity.
The Sun Shines. Cherish Good Humor.
Annie was tempted to quote these excerpts to Max. But she did want to preserve her marriage.

Not to be outdone, Henny, Annie’s most persistent
customer, had decided to come up with her own small book of comments:
The Quotable Sleuth.

And Miss Dora? A cookbook:
Miss Dora’s Delectables.

“… Mother called this afternoon. They really needed help. She said it was easy, and she faxed me the recipe, but I wonder if I got something wrong?”

Annie’s shoes scuffed up flour. Laurel, of course, waited comfortably at the bookstore to pounce on Annie, instead of cooking up a storm at her condo. Henny Brawley was probably cooking and writing at the same time. Henny excelled in efficiency.

Annie was grinning by the time she reached her husband. “You know something, Max? You look good enough to eat,” and she slipped her arms around him.

“Oh—” Max brightened immediately. He tossed the wooden spoon toward the disaster in the sink. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He murmured something indistinct about cooking later, and his mouth sought Annie’s.

Neither paid any attention to the ringing of the telephone.

The next morning, Annie stopped in the front hall on her way to the kitchen, yawned, and punched the play button on the answering machine. She could smell coffee—dear Max, who always arose first and made the best coffee in the world. But they’d ignored the phone the night before and really, as an author liaison, she wasn’t supposed to be out of reach.

So—

Three calls of increasing petulance from Jimmy Jay Crabtree: “… has to be Wild Turkey. Two fifths …” “… won’t eat any of that damn PC food. Make sure I get a steak at the brunch …” “So what’s the deal on this Southern Medallion? What kind of honor is it?”

A slightly more politic, but no less sharply worded call from Melissa Sinclair: “… have some misgivings about the provenance of the Medallion Award. Please have the particulars available when I arrive tomorrow …” Gone was the honeycomb-smooth voice, the drawled “Annie,
honey …” that had prefaced previous calls requesting various additions for the bestselling author’s suite.

Emma Clyde’s call was quite direct: “I won’t be trifled with, Annie. Inform the ‘committee’—made up of one odious Georgia publisher?—that I decline to be honored …”

Every vestige of sleepiness was gone by now.

Annie stared at the machine like a
Rolling Stone
editor handed a prayer tract.

Leah Kirby’s soft drawl was sheathed in ice: “… find it difficult to understand how the Dixie Book Festival could be a party to such a tasteless exploitation of the honored authors. This book proposal by Kenneth Hazlitt is at the very least a breach of good manners. I would cancel my appearance, but my readers are expecting me, and I will not disappoint them …”

Alan Blake’s aw-shucks tone didn’t hide his uneasiness: “… just a country boy, I know. But how is it that the authors who’ve won the Medallions are the same ones Kenneth figures to write a book about? That seems kind of funny …”

Annie felt like she’d walked in on the second act without a program.

What the hell had got into her Gang of Five? What was wrong with the Medallions? What book? What was going on?

That’s when Max yelled, “Annie, look at this!” and the volume of the television set in the kitchen trebled.

Annie bolted toward the kitchen, leaving the answering machine still playing and Henny’s well-modulated voice exclaiming: “… don’t want to be a bother, Annie. But I know my book’s going to sell—and I’ll give you credit in the foreword, if you’ll just introduce me …”

Annie stopped and stared at the small TV that sat in the bookcase opposite the breakfast table.

“… no one was injured. Detective Clarence Wheeler from the Southern Division of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department said a postal inspector has arrived in
Hilton Head to direct the investigation. Detective Wheeler said it is a violation of federal law to threaten harm through the United States mails even though the package which reached Benedict Books Thursday was a mock letter bomb. Booksellers are warned to be cautious of unexpected packages.

“Mrs. Benedict declined to talk with reporters”—the earnest young anchor here looked slightly aggrieved—“and refused to say whether the threat will cause her to cease selling books by Jimmy Jay Crabtree. Crabtree’s first book,
Straighten Up and Fly Right
, was a bestseller.”

Annie was shaking her head. Not in her store. In addition to mysteries, she carried a selection of Southern authors, who sold very well indeed, especially Dori Sanders and Bobbie Ann Mason. But she’d returned almost a full box of Crabtree’s book. Having dealt with the man on the telephone, she’d made a mental note never to order another.

“… reached by telephone at his hotel in New Orleans, Crabtree announced he refused to be intimidated and would continue his book tour. Crabtree believes the warning ‘bomb’ is in retaliation against his conservative views. He is expected to arrive at Hilton Head today to attend the Dixie Book Festival. Crabtree will hold a news conference at the Buccaneer Hotel at three o’clock this afternoon. Mrs. Benedict, the bookstore owner, is chairman of the Festival. Authorities believe the fake letter bomb might have been sent to Mrs. Benedict because of her prominence in Southern book circles. In other news …”

Max clicked the remote, and the picture faded to black. A frown creased his handsome face. “Hey, Annie, isn’t Crabtree one of the authors you’re taking around?”

“Yes.” Annie picked up the cordless phone and dialed Blue Benedict’s home. The number was busy.

Max’s expression was grim. “I don’t like it.”

“I know. He’s a jerk. First class, certified—”

“No. If some nut’s sending out letter bombs—”

“Fake
letter bombs.”

“They might get real.”

“I won’t open any strange packages.”

“Don’t open
any
packages.”

“But Max—”

“I’m serious. And we need to warn Ingrid.” He pushed back his plate. “And I think I’ll see about a dog.”

Annie reached for a coffee mug. Coffee, she needed coffee. “A dog?”

“Sure. A bomb-sniffing dog.”

Annie grinned.

Max looked puzzled.

“Oh, Max, it reminds me of a story Susan Dunlap tells about what it’s really like to live in Berkeley and why that makes it so easy for her to write her Detective Jill Smith books. A bomb-sniffing dog.” Annie giggled.

“Is a bomb-sniffing dog a subject for levity in Berkeley?”

“Max, listen to this—and Susan Dunlap swears it’s true—there was growing concern in Berkeley over drug deals down in the flatlands, so the city council discussed hiring a drug-sniffing dog. Dunlap says all the old liberals who’d gotten rich and moved up in the hills were simply appalled that their city would even consider hiring something like a ferocious German shepherd to sniff out drugs. The city council’s compromise was to hire a drug-sniffing”—Annie choked with laughter—“cocker spaniel! Can’t you just see it, Max? A ferocious, salivating, lop-eared, wiggle-butted
cocker?”

Max refused to be deflected. “Shepherd. Spaniel. Dachshund. Who cares? I’ll see to it. And I’ll hang out with you today.”

Annie was touched. “Max, that’s sweet. But I’ll be okay. I have to run all over the place, picking up the authors. And you need to buy something that can pass for one of Miss Dora’s recipes. Why don’t you try Signe’s?” Signe’s Heaven Bound Bakery was one of Hilton Head’s most successful—and delicious.

But Max was looking unaccustomedly serious. “You’ll be careful?”

“Of course.” Annie felt warm and happy—until she remembered those odd phone messages from her Gang of Five. Lord, she had so much to do—and now she needed to find out what had, collectively, spooked her authors.

Annie always enjoyed going to Hilton Head. She and one million six hundred thousand other visitors every year. Not of course that the island was any finer than Broward’s Rock, but it was truly a world-class resort, perfect for families, golfers, tennis players, joggers, and swimmers. And much more accessible, over its graceful swooping bridge, than her own small island, which could be reached only by boat.

There was a price to pay, of course, for Hilton Head’s proliferation of magnificent golf courses and pine-shaded clay courts and private residential areas and ever-increasing variety of shops: TRAFFIC.

Indeed, the island’s popularity had resulted in the election of a mayor whose chief goal was to limit growth. The hospitality industry was urgently reminding residents that Hilton Head’s prosperity was a direct result of tourism. Annual payrolls amounted to more than $85 million.

As her Volvo crested the bridge with its spectacular view of the Sound and marshes, Annie sighed. Ahead it was bumper-to-bumper on Hilton Head’s sole main artery, the William Hilton Parkway. She glanced impatiently at her watch. She had to be at the Savannah airport by eleven. Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to squeeze in a stop here.

It was a long drive to the heart of the island, made much longer by the stop-and-go traffic more reminiscent of a big city than a vacation paradise. Finally, she reached the Wexford shopping area. Turning right, she drove up and down the rows and miraculously found a parking spot being vacated by a van. She swooped into it triumphantly.

The glass-paned windows of Benedict Books were filled with displays of books by authors attending the Festival.
The latest by Anne Rivers Siddons was piled in a tempting face-out pyramid. A gorgeous cover.

It was only nine-fifteen, so Annie rattled the front doorknob.

A security guard came up behind the glass door. He pointed at the CLOSED sign.

“Blue,” Annie said loudly. “I need to see her. The Festival. Tell her it’s Annie Darling.”

The middle-aged man turned away.

Even though most of the shops were just opening, Wexford Plaza teemed with vacationers. It was easy to spot them. Sunburned noses even though it was only May. Crisp new Salty Dog or Harbour Town T-shirts. A relaxed, good-humored, holiday air.

A young woman unlocked the door, held it open just an inch. “I’m sorry, we’re closed and—”

“Please, I have to talk to Blue. About the Festival. I have five authors due in today, and they’re all in a snit. These are the Medallion winners. I need to know—”

“Wait just a minute, please.”

The door closed.

Annie moved restively from one foot to another. She must be at the airport in time. She had a clear sense that Leah Vixen Kirby would be distinctly unamused if Annie was late.

Finally, the door reopened. Blue poked her head out. “Annie, look, whatever it is, you’re going to have to handle it.” Blue stood just an inch over five feet. Her tight golden curls quivered as she talked. Blue always talked fast despite her thick South Carolina accent. Now the words shot out jackhammer quick. “The post office people are here, and more of those fake bombs have turned up—in Birmingham and two in Atlanta and one in Miami—and I’m just crazy! I don’t know what’s wrong with your authors, but it’s your problem.”

Annie stuck her foot in the door. “They want to know who picked the winners.”

“How should I know?” Blue started to close the door.

Annie caught it with her palms. “Blue, you’re in charge. Who picked the Medallion winners?”

“Oh, the Select Committee, of course.” She looked around the veranda as if television cameras might lie in wait, and hissed, “That’s me, if you want to know, but I’ll deny it until the day I die, so don’t repeat it. Good heavens, I couldn’t dillydally with an awards committee with all I have to deal with. You know what it’s like to have an
awards
committee. Everybody gets so damn
serious.
And these are good writers. Why shouldn’t I pick them? So what’s their problem? Winning a Dixie Book Festival Medallion is very prestigious. And you can tell them that’s what I said. About the honor, not the selection. Annie, I’ve
got
to go.” The door began to close.

Annie leaned against the door and was surprised to be on the losing side. Dammit, she was bigger than Blue. “Hazlitt,” she yelled. “Kenneth Hazlitt. Who’s he?”

“Annie, you’re incoherent today. He’s Mint Julep Press. If you need to see him, he’s staying at the Buccaneer.” Blue’s face brightened. “Is that why you asked? Kenneth’s really excited about the Medallions. He keeps calling and getting more details. I wish everyone was as supportive as he’s been. Even if he does clown around too much. But he certainly keeps things hopping. And he’s planning a cocktail party for the honorees, so I put him on the same floor with all of you. That will work out. A party. I wish I could come. I
love
Kenneth’s parties.” Her usually refined face twisted into a snicker. “Goldfish. Ask Kenneth about the goldfish. Got to go, Annie.” And now the door moved in earnest. “As for the authors,” (a last shout) “work it out, Annie, work it out.”