Mint Julep Murder (29 page)

“So who
did
poison Kenneth Hazlitt? At first, I was sure it had to do with Kenneth’s plans for his novel, that one of the authors was willing to kill to avoid public revelations about the past.

“I knew the murderer wasn’t Jimmy Jay Crabtree. Jimmy Jay needs money. Jimmy Jay could use any kind of publicity to sell his books. He’s not likable, he doesn’t try to be likable. And I think he’ll do whatever he can to get attention. Like send letter bombs threatening himself.”

Jimmy Jay’s mouth opened.

Annie nodded. “Yeah. I figured it out, Jimmy Jay. You swaggered around, giving press conferences, one tough
dude. No way were letter bombs going to stop you. Huh-un. But Saturday, you were scared witless when somebody’d been in your room and filched your gun. So, you aren’t a big, brave hero. That meant your swagger over the letter bombs was phony. Which meant the letter bombs were phony. And who would that benefit?

“So I scratched Jimmy Jay. Then I looked at Missy. So Kenneth threatens to unveil part of her past. So what? She refuses to live in any past other than one she’s created. Why would she care what Kenneth might write? It wouldn’t budge her out of the world she makes up.

“As for Emma—”

Cornflower-blue eyes dared Annie.

“—she’s lived down ugly rumors for years. Why should she get nervous now?

“And Leah? She knew Carl wouldn’t read Kenneth’s novel if she asked him not to. She didn’t want any discussion of a possible affair, but it wasn’t a matter that could ruin her.

“And that left Alan Blake. Yes, he would kill to hide his past. But he made no effort to shoot me. So I knew that it wasn’t the book that Alan feared. And why didn’t he?

“Because, of all the authors, Alan knew Kenneth best. Kenneth published Alan’s first book. Alan had known him for many years, and obviously Alan felt sure Kenneth didn’t really have a handle on his past in Hollywood, however sordid it might be. But more important, Alan knew Kenneth’s character.

“And that is the most crucial point of all. What do we know about Kenneth Hazlitt? Kenneth craved excitement. He loved a good party. He was a cheapskate. What could be more fun than to announce plans to write a very damaging novel? It would fascinate book people, attract everybody to the party. It didn’t matter that Kenneth never had any intention of writing that book.”

A chair squeaked.

Annie looked into guilty eyes.

“Kenneth made it so easy for his killer.”

Detective Wheeler was poised to move.

“Yes, I thought Kenneth was poisoned at the book festival because that was where the Medallion winners were. I was absolutely right. That’s exactly why he was poisoned here.

“Wasn’t it, Willie?”

Willie Hazlitt no longer looked handsome. Or youthful.

“Your big bud, Willie. The man who’d always bullied you, the man who controlled the income from your mother’s estate, the man who was fed up with your ne’er-do-well, lazy, irresponsible life. Kenneth ordered you to come home and go to work, and a few weeks later he’s dead. In a particularly nasty, vicious, hidden way.

“Who left the door to the suite unlocked?

“Willie.

“Who gets control of his trust fund because of Kenneth’s death?

“Willie.

“And who egged Kenneth on with the plans for the big party, lots of laughter back there in the office in Atlanta? There never was going to be a book, was there, Willie? And you knew that all along. The hype about a big, gossipy novel was just a great way to kick off a party.

“A party to die for.”

Annie tucked the cordless phone between her chin and shoulder and considered which books she might choose for a classic mystery display. As she wandered down the aisle, stopping occasionally to pluck a volume from a shelf, she made noncommittal murmurs into the receiver. She carried her choices to the coffee bar and ranged them face-up.

She poured a mug of cookies-and-cream-flavored coffee. “Henny, really, June’s such a busy month—”

Trent’s Last Case
by E. C. Bentley certainly would please many readers.

Henny’s voice sharpened.

Annie held the receiver away.

Yes,
The Amateur Cracksman
by E. W. Hornung was a superb selection.

Henny ended with almost a plaintive note.

Annie capitulated. “Okay, Henny. I know. Yes, of course.” Annie glanced up at the calendar behind the coffee bar. “How about June eleventh?”

Henny was mannerly enough not to chortle. “Excellent,
Annie. You won’t regret it. Oh, I’ve got a bit more to do with the manuscript before I mail it off, but I’ll be in this afternoon. Has anyone won the book contest yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

Annie’d no more than hung up, nodding at her choice of
The Red Thumb Mark
by R. Austin Freeman, when the phone rang again.

This time Annie didn’t even pretend to resist. “June eleventh, Miss Dora. It will be a lot of fun.”

Annie hung up and balanced the Father Brown omnibus in her hand. No. She’d do a clerical mystery display next month—

The phone rang.

Annie answered. “Death on Demand. How are you, Laurel?”

Her mother-in-law, of course, wasn’t fazed. “So clever of you, my dear. I know it’s simply because you have been in my thoughts, if not my dreams.” A light waft of laughter.

Diverted, Annie pondered the question of Laurel’s dreams. She’d be willing to bet they’d make Max’s ears burn. But, of course, this was not a topic one could pursue, not even
en famille.

“… know you’ll be happy to provide a forum for us as the newest authors on Broward’s Rock, and I was wondering if we could determine when would be most convenient for—”

“June eleventh.” Annie traced Francis Iles’s name on the dust jacket of
Before the Fact.
What a wonderful book.

“My dear, it is so sweet of you. I am touched.”

They parted with mutual protestations of affection, regard, and lack of candor.

Annie hung up, sighed, and looked at the books arrayed on the coffee bar.

A sleek black shadow landed lightly on the fourth title. Agatha immediately lifted a paw and began to scrub behind one ear. She ignored Annie.

“Agatha, I was only gone for two days.” Annie reached down to stroke the glistening fur.

Agatha’s head whipped to her left and her canine teeth lightly pricked Annie’s wrist.

Annie sighed again. Abused by her cat, bullied by the Dauntless Trio. Why should Annie host a party to celebrate the sale of their books when the titles wouldn’t be out for at least a year? Why couldn’t they wait until publication?

The bell at the front door rattled.

Just for an instant, when Annie saw the two men, her heart thudded.

But Detective Wheeler was gazing around Death on Demand with evident interest as Chief Saulter proudly displayed its glories: the glossy black stuffed raven (Edgar) just inside the door, the bookshelves devoted to various kinds of mysteries—the English mystery, espionage thriller, caper comedy, psychological, romantic suspense, horror-sci-fi, and one full wall of traditional American mysteries. Agatha Christie had her own section, of course.

Wheeler was casual this Saturday morning in a red-and-orange-striped rugby shirt and faded jeans. He looked rather like a good-guy soccer coach. And his smile was friendly. So, he didn’t hold grudges.

Annie invited them to the coffee bar and poured out mugs. She listened intently to Wheeler’s report on his investigations.

“… we’ve got hard evidence against Alan Blake—the maid’s passkeys in his room, the keys to the dead man’s rental car—and we’ve traced the dead man, Jack Lesseg, to Hollywood. It’s going to be more difficult with Willie Hazlitt, but, as you said, Annie, when you know where to look, there’s plenty to find. For example, we found a trace of nicotine on the right leg of the pants he wore on Friday, and …”

Finally, Wheeler finished his tale and his coffee. He looked up and saw the display of paintings. A puzzled look crossed his face. He pushed back his chair, walked to the fireplace wall to study them.

“It’s a contest,” Annie began.

Chief Saulter chimed in. “The first person who can
identify the author and title each painting represents wins a free book and—”

“Any book at all?”

“Any book published this calendar year,” Annie said quickly. You had to have rules or collectors would eat you up alive. And sometimes, even that could get sticky. Like the year Nevada Barr’s first book sold out and collectors were anteing up bucketloads of dollars to get one.

“How about Annette Meyers’s new book?”

“Sure.”

Wheeler pointed at each painting and said without hesitation:
“Edwin of the Iron Shoes
by Marcia Muller,
Karma
by Susan Dunlap,
Indemnity Only
by Sara Paretsky, “A”
Is for Alibi
by Sue Grafton, and
Katwalk
by Karen Kijewski.”

Annie clapped in sheer delight.

This would surely teach Henny to be so cavalier about her visits to Death on Demand.

Carolyn G. Hart is the author of 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 Ma-cavity. She is also the author of two Henrie O mysteries, including
Dead Man’s Island
, which won an Agatha. With her husband, Phil, she lives in Oklahoma City.