Southern Ghost (39 page)

CAROLYN G. HART is the author of
Dead Man’s Island
and
Scandal in Fair Haven
, featuring Henrietta (Henrie O) O’Dwyer Collins, and nine “Death on Demand” mysteries, including
Something Wicked
, for which she won an Agatha and Anthony;
Honeymoon with Murder
, which won an Anthony; and
A Little Class on Murder
, which won a Macavity. She lives in Oklahoma City with her husband, Phil.

If you enjoyed Carolyn G. Hart’s Henrie O mystery, SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN, you will want to read Carolyn’s next mystery, MINT JULEP MURDER. Available now!

Here is a special look at MINT JULEP MURDER.

MINT JULEP
MURDER

A Death on Demand Mystery
by
CAROLYN G. HART

Annie Lawrence Darling almost sideswiped a cleaner’s van when she neglected to yield at the Sea Pines traffic circle. Although she didn’t know how anybody could be expected to master the intricate give-and-take of the circle, in her view as complex as the instructions for assembling a computer. In a word, the damn traffic circle wasn’t user-friendly. Despite its evident problems, however, island residents tenaciously refused to approve a change to stoplights. Annie gritted her teeth and lifted her hands briefly from the wheel in a mea culpa apology to the indignant driver of the cleaner’s van. If bumper-to-bumper cars weren’t bad enough, the island’s stubborn retention of the two traffic circles at the beginning and end of Pope Avenue hopelessly aggravated the problem.

But she managed to make the swing around and
peel off onto Pope without smacking into another vehicle, even taking time to notice the ducks who inhabited the small pond and the sign cautioning traffic to watch for crossing ducks. She glanced at her watch and picked up speed.

She would be making this trip a lot today, each time with an author. She tried to see the landscape with a stranger’s eye and smiled with almost proprietorial pride at the dense pockets of huge pines, the always appealing compact palmettos, the blooming oleanders in the grassy median, the carefully homogenized commercial buildings in shades of beige, tan, and lime.

She would have enjoyed taking her charges to Broward’s Rock with its quiet lanes and equally gorgeous beach, but Hilton Head, though bustling, was just as lovely. May was a perfect month on any of the Sea Islands. The air was balmy, the temperature in the seventies, and no humidity. Hilton Head’s fourteen miles of beaches were never really crowded, even at the height of the tourist season.

Annie pulled into the Buccaneer’s parking lot. The Festival Committee couldn’t have assigned her charges to a nicer hotel. The Festival events were occurring at open-air, tented booths on the public entrance to Coligny Beach, just a short stroll from the Buccaneer. Authors were also quartered at the beachfront Holiday Inn and at several other luxurious beachfront hotels.

The Buccaneer was one of Annie’s favorite hotels. Small, elegant, and charming, it was built like an
Italian villa with dusky mauve stuccoed walls and arched windows.

She hurried up the oyster shell path between fragrant banana shrubs. Brilliantly flowering hibiscus flamed in clay pots by the side entrance.

She had a hand on the door when the six-foot-tall pittosporum bush quivered. Henny Brawley darted out into the path. “Annie, I’m so glad to see you.”

Broward’s Rock’s most accomplished reader of mystery fiction wore a scarlet linen suit. A slender gold necklace supported an oblong ceramic likeness of Agatha Christie. Henny’s gray hair was swept back in soft waves. Her expression of surprise mingled with delight would have done justice to Jessica Fletcher upon finding a corpse. Annie wondered how long Henny had lurked behind the bush, waiting.

“How’d you know I’d come in by the side door?”

Henny’s eyes narrowed, then she capitulated. “You had to park,” she said tersely. “Look, I wanted to give you this.” She thrust a two-by-three-inch piece of cardboard into Annie’s hand. “I know this will hit the bestseller list. I’m thinking a
little
book, with a single quote on each page. You know, like
Life’s Little Instruction Book
or
Everything I Know I Learned from My Cat.
A book doesn’t have to be big to succeed, just big in scope!” She nodded in undisguised self-congratulation. “
The Quotable Sleuth
can’t miss, Annie. You can leave a message for me at
the desk. Room 403.” She smiled brightly and turned away, paused, called back, “I plan to use Miss Marple on page one: ‘The great thing to avoid is having in any way a trustful mind.’

“Then at the bottom of the page, it will say: Jane Marple,
A Pocket Full of Rye.
Isn’t that wonderful? Annie, I’m so excited!”

With a wave of her hand, Henny disappeared behind the pittosporum bush.

Annie almost called out to tell Henny about a terrific collection,
The Mystery Lovers’ Book of Quotations
by Jane Horning. Then, with a decided headshake, she dropped the piece of cardboard into her purse. No reason to deflate Death on Demand’s indefatigable reader. Henny’s book would have its own flavor. Still, Annie had other things to do than focus on her best customer’s search for a publisher. Now all Annie needed to top off her morning would be for Miss Dora to be waiting inside.

A long, cool hallway with meeting rooms—Snowy Egret, White Ibis, Great Blue Heron, Brown Pelican—led to the central lobby and a rectangular reflecting pool. Whitewashed walls gave the lobby a bright, fresh aura. Brilliant scarlet bougainvillea bloomed in yellow terra-cotta urns.

Annie went directly to the desk. The assistant manager greeted her cheerfully. Jeff Garrett’s carrot-hued hair sprigged in all directions. Freckles spattered his snub nose. His wide mouth spread in an infectious grin that Annie returned despite her pre-occupation.
She felt she and Jeff had forged a bond, she’d been there so often in recent days.

“Everything’s just as you ordered, Annie. Fruit baskets and a magnum of champagne in each room. And, let’s see, a manicurist will be up to Ms. Sinclair’s room at four, the six-foot pine board’s in place beneath Mrs. Kirby’s mattress, the foot massage appliance is in Mr. Crabtree’s suite.” Jeff paused, leaned forward, and his voice dropped. “Got a call this morning with a special request from Mr. Blake. I made a special trip off-island to pick up three ‘adult’ videos for his suite.”

Annie merely nodded, but she felt a twinge of surprise. Alan Blake’s charming, boyish persona didn’t square with the X-rated video request. But as Miss Dora was wont to remark: You can’t always tell a package from its cover. In any event, Annie was glad Blake hadn’t asked her to get the videos. There was a limit to how helpful she intended to be.

Jeff’s eyes widened. “Do you know how much those kind of movies cost? Wow. If my wife finds out I’ve been in that place, I’m in deep trouble”—he glanced down at a list—“and I’ve got the keys ready for you.” He pulled out a manila envelope from a drawer. “You’ll find the room numbers inside with the keys. And do you want the key to your suite?”

Annie took both the envelope and her own key and thanked him. She opened the larger envelope. Five folders with oblong cardboard electronic keys were enclosed. She handed the folder for Room 506 to Garrett. “Emma Clyde will pick her key up at the
desk.” At least, Emma should—if she would. Annie added calling Emma to her mental list of responsibilities. She tucked the other four folders back into the envelope. “I understand Kenneth Hazlitt is staying here. Has he checked in?”

Jeff stepped to a computer, punched in the name. “Yes. Could I call for you?”

She felt a tiny spurt of irritation. For heaven’s sake, she was hardly a security risk. Jeff knew who she was. He had just handed her the oblong cardboard room keys for five expected guests. To be fair to Jeff, that was different. The Festival was paying for the accommodations for the honorees. And it was contrary to hotel policy to provide inquirers with the room numbers of guests. So okay, Jeff was just following the rules.

“Yes, please.”

Jeff nodded toward an alcove. “The house phones are over there, Annie.”

“Thanks.” She crossed to the alcove, picked up a receiver.

The desk rang the room.

“Hello.” The deep drawl was instantly attractive.

“May I speak to Mr. Hazlitt, please?”

“Which one?”

“Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.”

“Ken’s not in. This is Willie. Can I help you?”

Damn. Annie looked again at her watch. “I need to speak with Mr. Hazlitt. Do you know when he will return?”

“Who knows? If he’s found a good party, it may
be a while. But we’ve got our own little party this afternoon, and a book open house all day tomorrow. You can count on catching him one time or the other. Ken never misses a party, especially not his own.”

“Do you know anything about the book he’s writing?” She had reached that level of desperation.

“Not much,” Willie replied cheerfully. “But I can paw through the stuff we brought. See if I find anything. I think maybe there’re some flyers he’s going to have at the booth. Kind of a teaser, you know? For the open house. Are you press?”

Annie would have claimed membership in the Mafia if she thought it would help. She gave it some consideration (she credited a vicious second-grade teacher with helping her shed any compunction always to tell the truth), but in this instance, she didn’t see any advantage to be gained. “No. I’m a bookseller, and I’m serving as an author liaison.” It sounded official even if it didn’t have a thing to do with Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt’s literary aspirations. “Could I have a flyer?”

“Sure. Come on up. Room 500.”

Annie was halfway across the lobby when she remembered Emma. She scooted back to the alcove, found a pay phone, and dialed Emma’s number. The answering machine picked up. Of course. But Annie knew damn well Broward’s Rock’s most famous author was in her office because Emma’s routine was invariable—a half-hour walk on the beach in front of her palatial home, then three hours at her computer.
Neither war nor storms (excepting electrical failures) nor holidays nor celebrations nor illness (unless major surgery) varied Emma’s writing schedule.

Annie enunciated loudly and clearly. “Emma, the Medallions are strictly on the up-and-up. I’ve got the word straight—”

Emma picked up her phone. “From whom?”

“Blue Benedict. She swears that Hazlitt guy had nothing to do with your selection. So you’ll come, won’t you?”

The silence was frosty—and thoughtful. Emma’s voice was as cool and sharp as a dueling sword. “If that’s true, it makes Kenneth’s novel even more interesting.”

And she hung up.

Annie glared at the phone. The public might adore dear Marigold Rembrandt (“… America’s sweetest and canniest sleuth,”
The New York Times.
“… delights readers with her warmth and charisma,”
Chicago Sun-Times.
“… won the hearts of readers from coast to coast,” the
Los Angeles Times
), but her creator had about as much charm for Annie as the seven-foot alligator that lived in the pond behind Annie’s home. Annie knew dangerous beasts when she saw them.

Annie slammed the receiver into its cradle, jolting her fingers. “Ouch.”

All the way up in the elevator, Annie tried to figure it out. Why did it make Hazlitt’s novel more interesting? Or was Emma being supercilious?

And did Annie really give a damn?

Well, yes. She was responsible for the care and feeding of the honorees and their mental well-being throughout the Festival. So, yes. But she didn’t understand what Emma meant. …

The elevator doors opened, and Annie confronted her own image in a huge mirror with a gilt baroque frame.

She had that instant of surprise that always came when seeing her reflection. Sandy hair. Gray eyes. Slim, athletic figure.

Annie paused.

Laurel always urged Annie to relax, to imbibe more deeply from Life’s Fountain of Joy.

Annie thought the message was clear. She frowned. Dammit, did she really look harried and intense?

She forced her shoulders to relax. Actually, she looked stylishly resortish, her smooth cotton top crisply white, her light blue chambray skirt long enough to swirl. Annie smoothed her hair and tried a casual smile. Okay.

The door to Room 500 opened immediately.

Annie looked into amused green eyes that widened with perceptible pleasure as they surveyed her.

“
Do
come in, said the lonely guy to the good-looking girl.” His voice was a pleasant baritone, and he used it to matinee-idol perfection. He thrust out his hand. “Hi, I’m Willie Hazlitt, and my crystal ball tells me you’re the author liaison who just called. I had no idea author liaisons were beautiful. What a delightful surprise.”

Willie’s hand was warm, his grin seductive.

Annie smiled, but with definite reserve. She knew all about the Willie Hazlitts of the world. Good-looking, charming, playful. And not to be trusted with either the household silver or a woman’s reputation.

“Hello, Mr. Hazlitt. I appreciate your help.” The room behind him was nice. Lots of white wicker and brightly striped pillows and a seashell motif in the sand-shaded wallpaper. If all the suites were this attractive, her authors should at least be pleased with their accommodations.

“Anything I can do, anything at all. And my name’s Willie.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Annie Darling. Now, this flyer—”

“Sure, sure, Annie.” He led the way into the living area. “Let me take a look in these boxes.”

Willie Hazlitt made it look easy to heft four big cartons onto a table near the wet bar. He was about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was also so spectacularly handsome—thick, smooth black hair, regular features, a smile that combined charm with a hint of wickedness—that not even his vivid sport shirt—emerald-beaked, crimson-feathered toucans against a bright fuschia background—could compete with his looks. And it would take a man inordinately confident of both his appearance and his masculinity to wear that particular shirt.

He kept up a nonstop chatter as he poked
through the boxes. “… more than you ever wanted to know about the fall list from Mint Julep Press:
Red Hot Tips from Hot Rod Hal, Blue Grass in My Old Kentucky Home, Press the Pedal to the Metal
—huh, now that sounds like fun, the memoirs of a long-haul trucker—
Sea Island Reverie
—oh, poems. I thought it might be a primer on how to have your very own little grass shack, which I could relate to, ma’am”—here he favored Annie with a bright, not too suggestive glance—“
Root Hog or Die
, which I do
not
relate to. Well, not this box, I guess. Let’s see.” He pushed the first box away, pulled the second one close. “Nope. This one’s got party stuff in it, nuts—the house-brand peanuts from a discount store—you can count on Ken to cut corners wherever, oh yeah,” Annie heard a remnant of a southern drawl, but she guessed Willie had spent some years elsewhere, “and paper plates, that kind of stuff. Now here’s a box that’s taped shut. That’s special for the open house. Can’t get into those yet. But I know there’s a bunch of other flyers. Unless he’s already taken them to the booth. He’s really on a high about his book.” A shrug. “My brother publishes books—I mean, we do. You’d think it would just be another day at the office. But no, Ken’s beside himself.”