Murder at the Book Fair (17 page)

"You might say that."

"But that wouldn't have
anything to do with the book fair."

"Well, I'm not sure about
that. And I'm not sure if it happened after we left or not. That's what we're
trying to find out."

"You talk in riddles."

"Maybe I can be more
direct."

"Would you like to come
in?"

"That would be great. I'm
sure it's more comfortable than talking out here. But could you get rid of that
monster first. I don't want to be eaten alive one small bite at a time."

Jonnetta Jarvis laughed.

"Jo Jo won't hurt you, but
I'll put him up. I'd better give him a treat first or he'll be yapping the
whole time you're here."

It takes longer to put a dog up
and give him a treat than it does to call the sheriff. I know because I was
able to hum the
Jeopardy
theme three times. I didn't think it took any
longer to hum it than whistle it and humming is easier for a man in pain.

Just as I was about to forget
about the sundae I had eaten, Jonnetta Jarvis came back to the door.

"Sorry. Jo Jo was glad to see
me. It takes longer to put a dog up when he's jumping up and down on you. Do
you have a dog?"

"No, just Lou. And he lives
somewhere else. But he's housebroken."

She laughed.

"So is Jo Jo, although I did
have a few places to clean up the first few days after I got him."

I refrained from saying TMI to her
and stood there like I wanted to get the show on the road. She took the hint.

"Please have a seat wherever
you like. Would you like something to drink."

"No thanks," I said as
Lou and I took a seat.

"So, what can I do for
you?"

"Tell us what you can about
Cyril Portwood."

"He sells a lot of books. But
then he's written a lot, too. Seventeen, I think he said. I hope some day I can
sell as many as he does. I'm working on my second book now, but I know that's
not why you're here."

"What else do you know about
him?"

"Is he is some kind of
trouble?"

"Not the kind you mean."

"Well, I thought he was a
nice guy. Talked a lot. Like I seem to be doing now. Mine's because I'm
nervous. I'm not sure why he talked so much."

"Why are you nervous?"

"Well, I'm not used to cops
knocking on my door and being mysterious."

"Did you like Portwood?"

"Well, I only met him the one
time. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Has he done something wrong?"

"No. What about Lori
Wildwood?"

"I met her the night before,
at the author's reception. When we found out we would be at the same table we
talked some. I found out she had been there last year too, so she told me a
little about what to expect. And it was even more fun than  what Lori
said."

"Did Portwood give you any
money?"

She laughed.

"Are you serious?"

"I am."

"No. Why should he? I just
met him on Saturday."

"Do you know if he gave money
to anyone else, maybe Lori Wildwood, or Jake Cartwright? Maybe to the tune of
$50,000 a year?"

"Now I know you're joking.
But if someone did give me $50,000 a year I'd quit work and write full time and
hope that I became self-supporting as an author before the money ran out."

"Why would you think the
money would run out?"

"Well, in the case of Mr.
Portwood, if he is giving someone $50,000 a year someday that will end unless
that person is mentioned in his will."

"Maybe he told the person he
was cutting them off, without a penny?"

"Well, then that sounds like
a motive for murder. It should be easy enough for you to find out. Check the
bank and see who has more money than they should. Or ask Portwood."

"He's not talking. What if
the money isn't in a bank? Maybe it's in an offshore account."

"You still should be able to
tell who's living beyond his or her means. Obviously it's not me."

"Maybe whoever it is is still
working, maybe will work a few more years until all of this blows over."

"Then it might be hard for
you to find out who has it."

"And you don't have any idea
whom that may be?"

"I think you'll have to ask
him about that, or ask those other two authors you mentioned. I didn't see him
give any money to anyone."

"Did you see anyone touch his
food at any time that day?"

"Boy, you ask strange
questions. One couple came along, acted like they were going to do something to
his food, but I don't think either of them did. I figured they knew him and
were just kidding around. However, he wasn't at the table when they came. He had
just left. I don't know why I remember that, but for some reason I do."

"Did Portwood seem sick or
sleepy at any time that day?"

"You keep asking these
strange questions about him. Did someone murder him or something?"

"Why did you ask that?"

"Well, I write murder
mysteries, and you are beating around the bush for some reason. Is he
dead?"

"I'm afraid he is. And
someone murdered him."

"You're kidding! No, I can
tell you're not kidding. Well, he was fine when I left, when it was over. I
think I left before he did. He was still talking to the Cartwright guy when I
walked up to check out."

"I don't know if he was fine
when you left or not, but I'm not accusing you of murdering him."

"Well, good! Because I didn't
follow him when he left."

"I'm not sure anyone else
did, either. Can you think of anything that might have happened that day that
seemed a little out of place?"

"No, but I was on cloud nine
just being there. It's been my dream all my life to be an author. I'm hoping
that some day I can sell enough books to support myself from my writing. See,
I'm not married, and I have to live off what I make from my job, and my books,
little as it is."

"Well, I promise to read your
book, and if I like it I will tell others about it. I doubt if I will tell
enough people so that you can sell enough books to quit work, but every little
bit helps. And if I run into some guy who wants to marry an up-and-coming
author I'll be sure to tell him about you."

She laughed again.

"Now, back to what you said
before you tried to be a matchmaker. That's one reason I paid Dan Grimes $100
to advertise my books. I don't know if it helped or not, but I sold well over
$100 worth."

"Who's Dan Grimes?"

"A book promoter."

"Was he there that day?"

"If he was, I didn't see him.
But I assume that whatever he did helped me sell more books."

"Congratulations! You're on
your way."

"Is there anything else you
need. I need to start working on dinner. and I left Jo Jo in the bedroom. He'll
be scratching at the door for me to let him back in here before long."

"No, that will be it for now.
I'll check back if I have any more questions."

"I notice that he hasn't said
anything. Which one of you is the good cop and which one is the bad cop?"

"Oh, I'm definitely the good
cop. He eats all the donuts before I can get to them."

Lou lifted his hand in a
"what can I say" gesture. We left before Jonetta Jarvis could ask if
Lou can talk.

As soon as we pulled off Lou
started grinning.

"That's right! That's right!
We're bad," I said.

"Cy, this is one time I agree
with you. Well, maybe not in the same way you mean it. And you're the one who's
bad."

"So, what do you think? She
was quick to pick up on murder. And I don't think I hinted at it."

"But I would think out of
everyone we've talked to so far, she seems to have the least motive."

"You're probably right. So
what routine do you want to use at Lori Wildwood's house? She might be home by
now."

"I don't know. Maybe
Who's
On First?"

"Third base."

"Huh?"

"I don't know. Third
base."

Lou didn't want to get any blood on
my new vehicle, so he refrained from lashing out at me. Instead he grinned, and
promised to get me help.

+++

The drive back to Lori Wildwood's
house was a short one, but filled with Friday evening traffic. But it was so
short that we arrived at her house before
5:30
, and no one was there to greet us.

"Well, Lou, do we wait?"

"Might as well. I definitely
think it's too soon to eat another sundae."

"I think it's also time that
they pay authors enough for the books they write so they can be home to answer
our questions when we stop by."

"I guess it takes more than
two books to write full time."

"Depends on who it is.
Margaret Mitchell and Harper Lee wrote only one each."

"Any idea how much money they
made?"

"I'd say enough."

"But Jake Cartwright said
that he and Cyril Portwood didn't make enough to live on, and they both wrote a
lot more than Mitchell and Lee."

"I guess it takes a Rhett
Butler or Scout to sell a lot of books. but I still think both of those guys
make more than people might think. Do you have any idea how many e-books are
sold today?"

"None to me. I don't even
have a Kindle, yet."

"How about a Cy Dekker and a
Lou Murdock? What if we wrote about ourselves? How many books do you think we
could sell?"

"I doubt if we'd be able to
give them away."

The two of us laughed. And then I
jumped as someone rapped at my chamber door. It reminded me of a knock a
teenager's father might do if a boy brought his daughter home late, and then
sat in the car kissing her. I turned and faced the next-door neighbor I'd seen
earlier.

She wasn't sticking a gun in my
face so I rolled down the window.

"I've already called the
police, so I know you're not with them."

"Actually, we're part of the
thought police, and I thought I told you we were here to see Lori Wildwood. I know
you're not her. And I don't think you're paid security, so we'll just wait here
until she comes home, if you don't mind. That is, unless you're inviting us in
to dinner."

The woman didn't answer because a
car pulled into the driveway as I finished speaking. I said, "Excuse
me," and pushed the woman away from my new van.

She turned away and walked over to
the author.

"Lori, let me know if these
guys are bothering you. I see they don't even have a license plate on this
thing, and I've called the police about them already."

Lori Wildwood smiled when she
recognized us.

"Why, Jeanne, these are two
of my new fans. They bought my book at the book fair. Now go on home. I'll be
okay."

The neighbor huffed away as the
author invited us inside. Lou and I followed her into the house, and there was
no dog there to maul us.

"What can I do for you? Don't
tell me you came to give me some ideas for my next book."

"Okay, I won't tell
you."

"You mean that's why you're
here? People are always trying to give me an idea for a book. I always tell
them to write the book themselves. You never know what you can do unless you
try."

The author motioned for us to take
a seat.

"So, what can I do for you?
Sorry, I wasn't here when you got here. I still have to work. I haven't sold
enough books yet to become famous and self-supporting. And by the way, my
neighbor means well. She always worries about me when my husband is out of
town."

"Let me get to why we're
here. I'm Lt. Dekker and he's Sgt. Murdock. We have some questions about the Kentucky
Book Fair."

"Why would the police be here
about that? They're a top-notch organization. Besides, nothing went on there
that I'd want to put in one of my murder mysteries."

"Well, it might have. Maybe
you don't  know about it."

"I'm pretty observant."

"Then tell me whatever you
can about the two authors you shared a table with."

"Well, I can't tell you much.
I just met both of them at the book fair. Jonnetta Jarvis said it was her first
time there. We met the night before at the reception. I didn't meet Cyril
Portwood until I got to the table. But evidently a lot of other people had met
him. There sure were a lot of them that showed up to buy his books."