Mint Julep Murder (9 page)

Annie glowered. “If we have to close down your booth—”

Kenneth Hazlitt’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Think of it, a poor ol’ publisher thrown out into the street. Why, I suppose I’d just have to get my lawyer to talk to your lawyer, and, honey, you know how that goes. This Festival will be over before they’ve cleared their throats twice at a couple hundred dollars an hour, and you know what? I’ll be right here at my booth the whole time. Except for when I’m at the party this afternoon and the open house tomorrow.” He held up another fistful of flyers, waggled them at the crowd. “Come on, all you folks, come to Mint Julep’s open house and find out why the Festival’s trying to snub me. Find out what’s going on behind the scenes. I promise a book bash you’ll never forget, the best bash—”

“Bash. That’s what it is all right!” Annie shouted. “This is lousy, cheap exploitation. What right do you have to embarrass—”

“Embarrass?” Astonishment wreathed his big, amused face. “Why, honey, you do me a disservice.” He bowed from the waist, while still handing out flyers. “I am the first and foremost admirer of these fine writers. It is my humble hope to catch even a reflection of their greatness in my own novel. But I know that we can learn much from their lives,
and it is my privilege to join in the fine tradition of the roman à clef. Why, sweetheart, we’re talking
Literature”
And then he brushed past Annie, reaching out to offer his flyers. “Come one, come all. Don’t miss the open house that will be the most talked-about book event this year. All day tomorrow in the White Ibis Room of the Buccaneer Hotel!”

“Annie, it’s not your problem.”

“Max, I could kill that man! That’s the most—“

“Shh, we’re filming.”

A crush of television cameramen clogged the hotel lobby.

Annie peered around film crews.

Jimmy Jay Crabtree gestured with his fist. “I’m telling you right now. Nobody scares Jimmy Jay Crabtree. It’s a liberal plot, trying to scare booksellers into dropping my book. But it ain’t going to work. And I’ve got news for the lousy, chickenhearted scum who’re sending those letter bombs—Jimmy Jay Crabtree doesn’t scare.” His eyes narrowed. His skinny chin jutted forward. “I’m here at the Festival, and here I’ll stay. And threats don’t mean birdshit to me. I’ll accept my Medallion, and I’m going to go right on carrying the word to the American people. We don’t have to put up with the sick, muddleheaded liberals who want to make country clubs out of our prisons. We can take this country back and make it a country Daniel Boone and Robert E. Lee would be proud of.”

Annie paced the floor.

“Annie,” Max said once again, “it’s not your problem.” He added a final fizz to the mug of cappuccino.

Annie was torn between appreciation of a husband who had brought to the hotel their small cappuccino machine plus a box of Godiva raspberry truffles, and her still bubbling fury at Kenneth Hazlitt.

“Max—thank you.” Her eyes told him that she appreciated more than just a cup of coffee.

Max grinned and flung himself comfortably on the couch. His eyes told her he foresaw more than book discussions in this hotel suite, which just happened to be the Honeymoon Suite. Max had booked it. Max liked honeymoon suites.

So did she, of course.

But right now, she had to think. Later—

“Max, I’m the author liaison. I represent the Festival.”

He sipped his cappuccino. “Maybe a little more cinnamon?”

He found the cinnamon in the picnic hamper and sprinkled the froth.

Annie took a gulp of cappuccino. Oh, yes. Good, good, good. Suddenly, as smoothly as Laurel engaging in automatic writing, Annie retrieved a truffle. That was better, better, better.

But her eyes kept returning to the glossy square invitation they’d found slipped beneath the door to their room. “Max, I don’t get it. Why a small party in his suite for the Medallion honorees? He’s got the open house bash”—she snapped it out—“set for the White Ibis Room tomorrow.” Absently, she finished the truffle, scarcely even noticing the mellow, dark chocolate and the succulent raspberry. “You don’t suppose he’s idiot enough to think the Medallion honorees approve of his plans for the novel?”

Max returned to the couch. His face was pensive. “I don’t think Kenneth Hazlitt is any kind of an idiot.”

“So, why—”

“Annie,” he said again gently, “it isn’t your problem. You’ve made it clear the Festival opposes what Hazlitt is doing. But he’s right. There’s nothing at all you can do to stop him.”

“I just wish—”

There was a brisk knock at the door. “I’ll get it.” Annie put down her coffee mug. It was probably one of her authors, and what could she say?

But she didn’t know the stocky man standing in her
hallway. In his mid-forties, he had a weathered, sensible face, short brown hair flecked with gray, and cool gray eyes. He looked neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He looked capable, the kind of man who could fix a car, coach a team, chair a meeting. He wore a light tan cotton suit, a blue shirt, a tie. Not, obviously, a tourist.

“Mrs. Darling?” His voice was soft, southern, confident:
Miz Darlin’.
“I’d like to visit with you for a moment. I’m Detective Clarence Wheeler from the Southern Division of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department.” He held open his billfold.

She glanced down at the identification.

No frog could jump to a lily pad faster than Annie could jump to a conclusion.

“Has someone sent a letter bomb to my store? Come in, Detective Wheeler.” She held the door. “Detective Wheeler, this is my husband Max. I can’t believe what’s happening! Fake letter bombs to bookstores all over the place. It’s insane. Although I can certainly understand how Jimmy Jay Crabtree might make a few enemies …”

The men shook hands. Detective Wheeler accepted a chair, but he sat as crisply as a Parris Island drill sergeant.

Annie joined Max on the couch, still holding forth. “… he’s just obnoxious. Odious. Right on a level with a ‘gator. He has the same kind of eyes, dangerous and shiny and—”

“You don’t much care for Mr. Crabtree, Mrs. Darling?”

Annie nodded, ready to launch into a further description of the origin and habits of Jimmy Jay Crabtree, but Max cut her off.

“Annie, let’s see what Detective Wheeler wants.”

Annie’s mouth closed. There was the faintest edge of warning in Max’s voice. She looked at her husband and read the message in his eyes:
Careful.

“Detective Wheeler?” she asked.

Those cool gray eyes gave nothing away. He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Mrs. Darling, I understand you had access to Mr. Crabtree’s suite today.”

“I certainly did not—” She broke off. “Oh, well, yes, I did pick up the keys for all the authors. To have them ready when they arrived.”

Detective Wheeler’s voice was smooth as Tennessee sippin’ whiskey. “You didn’t give Mr. Crabtree his key.”

Annie’s eyes flashed. “If he hadn’t been such a butt—”

Max’s voice was crisp. “Detective Wheeler, why does it matter?”

“We’re investigating a death threat found on the table in Mr. Crabtree’s suite, and Mrs. Darling is among those who could have—”

Annie jumped to her feet. “Did that sorry little jerk suggest I put it there? I’ll death-threat him the next time I—”

Wheeler rose, too. “Mrs. Darling, you were observed quarreling with Mr. Crabtree at the airport.”

“I wasn’t quarreling. I simply kicked him—and his nasty cigarette—out of my car. Then I drove straight to the hotel and left his packet—key included—at the desk. I never set foot in his suite then or ever. And—you can put it in the bank—I never will.”

Annie dived into a wave. She came up in the foam, welcoming the taste of brine on her lips, the kiss of the sun on her face. Max came up beside her with a float.

They clung to its side and kicked their way out past the first wave.

The water was milky warm, the sunshine soft as a caress, the sky a Monet blue. And they had this stretch of ocean all to themselves, another pleasure of Hilton Head.

Annie smacked the water. “You’re right. I feel a lot better.” The water washed away all of the day’s frustrations. Who cared what Jimmy Jay Crabtree said? Not she.

Max’s arm slipped around her waist.

And yes, when they got back to the room—

Max looked gorgeous in his striped cotton shirt and cream slacks. Annie glanced in the hall mirror. Her crisp new floral print dress was fine, too.

“We,” she said determinedly, “are going to have a good time. After all, everybody says he gives great parties.”

“Are you sure—”

She touched his lips with her finger. They’d been over it and over it.

No, she hadn’t taken the authors to raise.

Yes, these were savvy, sophisticated people who should be able to handle themselves in a clinch.

No, she couldn’t duck the party. No matter what happened, she had to represent the Festival. Blue had said, “Work it out.”

Yes, they were going to be fashionably late. They hadn’t hurried when they’d come in from their swim. There was the Jacuzzi and a king-size bed and matters of much more import and delight than arriving at the Mint Julep Press cocktail party at the stroke of five.

As they stepped out of their suite—and they could hear the rumble of voices down the hall and see the open doors to 500—Annie said, “We’ll just stay for a little while, then grab my authors and go to Harbour Town for dinner.”

Kenneth Hazlitt welcomed them with hearty handshakes and a friendly smile. “Come right on in. Pick up our fall catalog, right by the snacks.” Beads of sweat glistened on his big face. A touch of too much sun had turned his cheeks pink. His planter’s white suit was heavily wrinkled. “See, honey, I told you this would be fun.” His smile was friendly. “And the Medallion winners are here. I knew they wouldn’t want to miss it.” He gulped from the tumbler in his hand. Annie caught the sweet whiff of bourbon. The sprig of mint was probably at the bottom of the glass.

The suite was jammed. Despite the open doors to the balcony, it was getting hot. Annie looked over her shoulder, then pointed toward the balconies. Max nodded.

As they wove their way across the room, Annie caught snatches of book talk:

“… free freight’s the ticket, believe …”

“… Marilou Awiakta’s poetry is the most lyrical …”

“… mark my words, Tina McElroy Ansa is a writer to …”

“… actually talked to Jesse Hill Ford!”

“… when she was interviewed on Rebecca Bain’s show last …”

Annie scooted past two women in identical crimson dresses and reached the wet bar. Several trays contained glasses already filled with wine. There were alternating trays of white or red. Annie remembered Willie’s revelation about cheap peanuts. Probably this was fairly cheap wine provided by Kenneth Hazlitt. It would certainly cut the cost of entertaining if you did it without waiters and brought your own alcohol and snacks. She wondered if the hotel knew. Annie picked a glass of red, took a sip, and looked for a spot to put her glass down. She edged to the side of the wet bar and tucked the glass behind the counter.

And saw a fifth of bourbon.

A warm arm slid around her shoulders. Willie Hazlitt bent close and yelled in her ear. “Sweetie, if you want the real stuff, just say so. You’ve got friends in high places.”

Annie refused to be rattled. So she was caught discarding her wine; hadn’t Kenneth Hazlitt been revealed as a niggardly and self-gratifying host? She slipped free of Willie’s arm.

“Thanks, Willie. I’m not thirsty. Willie, I want you to meet my husband, Max.”

The two men shook hands. And eyed each other pleasantly, but with an undertone.

Ah, the male animal. Annie enjoyed it thoroughly. Really, this was turning out not to be such a downer day, after all. “Great party, Willie,” she called over the increasing din. “Got to find my authors.”

She turned away and scanned the crowd.

Leah Vixen Kirby stood only a few feet away, holding an almost-full glass of red wine. Annie wondered if she, too, had tasted the wine and found it wanting. Leah looked
cool and fresh in a pale green organdy dress. Her titian hair cascaded to bare, creamy shoulders. She stood with her head bent, her narrow face attentive, then her mouth curved in a triumphant, victorious smile. She lifted her glass in a toast.

The woman facing her didn’t look the least bit triumphant. She looked nervous, uncertain, and edgy. It was the same blonde Annie had seen Leah talking to earlier at the Festival booths. But as Leah lifted her glass, the woman’s plain, worried face relaxed.

Leah sipped, made a face at the wine’s taste, then laughed.

The blonde managed a wan smile.

Leah leaned close, her face conspiratorial, and whispered in her companion’s ear.

A hand touched Annie’s elbow. “My, my, I wonder what Leah’s up to?” Missy Sinclair’s drawl was cool and amused.

Annie looked down.

The plump little author’s mouth curved in a sly smile. Her unwinking dark eyes glistened. “When Leah gets that look, you know she’s up to something. And the marvelous Carl’s not handy to keep her in line.”

Annie felt a flicker of distaste. “I don’t know what you mean.”