Murder at the Book Fair (3 page)

When I regained my composure after
receiving Lou's surprising offer, I told him that would be fine. We agreed to
eat breakfast at home, since Lou is picky about someone dropping crumbs in his
car. And so, at
9:27
the next morning Lou pulled up
into my driveway.

I walked out smiling, walked
around the car, and started to get in the backseat, where I always sat with
Jennifer.

"Not this time, Buddy Boy.
I'm not your chauffeur, and we aren't going on a date."

"I'm glad you're not thinking
about our outing as a date. That makes me feel so much better. And I'm sure
Jennifer will appreciate that, too."

Lou backed out of the driveway and
headed out of town. We wouldn't see the interstate until we got to
Lexington
. We would be traveling in an
old-fashioned car the old-fashioned way. On country roads.

There's one thing about a classic
automobile. Everyone notices it. There aren't a lot of '57 Chevys on the road,
unless there's a car show nearby. By the time we got to
Frankfort
several people had honked their
horns and waved at us, and more than one car carrying two or more women had
flirted with us. Walking a dog isn't the only way to pick up a woman. A nice
looking car can do the same thing. We had offers from everyone, from college
girls to women much our senior, but our hearts were with the women we had left
behind in Hilldale.

The Convention Center in
Frankfort
isn't that hard to find, and Mrs.
E. had told us there was plenty of free parking. But I was with Lou. In Lou's
car. It took him a little longer to find a parking place with no other cars
within miles. But find one he did, and we hopped out and headed where everyone
else was headed, or the place where people were leaving with both arms full.

We followed the crowd, walked in
the front door, and past where everyone was paying for their purchases. Well,
not everyone was checking out. Once we got past the registers I got a look at
the layout. It was built like an arena, with seats all around the perimeter,
and with authors and tables covering most of the floor space. All of the tables
had books stacked high enough that I knew that Lou and I weren't too late. When
I scanned the room I found four long lines, many short lines, and a few authors
who looked like they wanted to hide under the table because no one was wanting
their autograph. Actually, most of the authors looked content just being there.
Later in the day it would hit them, that they hadn't sold out of the books they
brought, but then some of them would be happy to sell just a few. I figured the
long lines were four mystery authors, and the short or no lines were people who
wrote less interesting books. I wondered if either of the mystery authors were
Mary Higgins Clark or Lee Child. I made eye contact with someone who looked
like the reason she was there was to answer the rookie's question. She walked
over to assist me.

"I notice that there are four
long lines, but two of them have no author there to sign books."

"Those are for the people
waiting for
Coach
Cal
or Coach P. They should be here shortly."

Living in Kentucky, I had heard
those two names just enough that I knew both of them coached basketball, but I
had never gotten interested in the sport, so I wouldn't know either man if he
descended upon me. I contemplated asking another question or keeping my mouth shut.
I decided to err on the side of no caution.

"Which line is which?"

"You're not from around here,
are you? And evidently you don't know much about basketball. The long line
where everyone is wearing blue is for
Coach
Cal
. He coaches at
Kentucky
. The line where everyone is
wearing red and black is for Coach P. He coaches at
Louisville
. They are big rivals. They are
always trying to get the best of one another, although neither of them will
admit it.
Coach
Cal
heard that Coach P was bringing his son Richard with him.
Richard is also a college basketball coach. When
Coach
Cal
heard about that he invited
Ashley Judd to sit with him."

I wasn't about to ask her who
Ashley Judd was, but I assumed he or she was a successful basketball coach
somewhere. 

"And we know how rabid both
fan bases are, so we made sure that both coaches have the same amount of books
to sell. We didn't want one faction saying their coach sold more books."

"What if one coach doesn't
sell all of his books?"

"You really aren't from
around here, are you?"

I wanted to change the subject, so
I asked another question, hoping it wouldn't be as stupid as my first one.

"Who are the two older people
with long lines on each side? Did they use to coach basketball?"

"No. The woman over to the
right is Loretta Lynn. The man on the left is Nick Clooney. Both of them have
written a book and were gracious enough to join us this year. Have you heard of
them
?"

"Half of them."

"Which half?"

"I know Loretta Lynn is a
singer. She was popular back when I was a kid. I have no idea who the guy
is."

"He's George's dad."

"Oh," was all I could
manage to say. When I got home I planned to Google George Clooney and see who
he was.

"Is George here today,
too?"

"I wish. You don't hear any
ladies screaming, do you? Well, some of the older ones are infatuated with
Nick. It's obvious where George got his looks. Is there anything else I can
help you with?"

"Just one. Is there any
particular way we're supposed to walk around this place?"

"Just go whatever way you
want. I see someone handed you the KBF catalog. There is a seating chart in
there, in case you are looking for someone in particular. And there are signs
on the end of each row, in case you get lost. And thank you for coming."

As she started to walk away I
heard a band start to play.

"What's that?"

"That's the
UK
fight song. That means that Coach Cal is entering
the arena. See how all the people in the one line are clapping. I have to go
get him seated. And Coach P is due to be here in thirty minutes."

Lou and I stepped aside, saw a man
walk in, smiling and waving to everyone. I wanted to see if he was
Coach
Cal
or a politician. My money was on
Coach
Cal
, because the election was last week.

"Well, Lou, which way do you
want to go?"

"How about to the mystery
section? Do you know which way it is?"

I looked at the signs at the end
of each row. And pointed to the section Lou and I were interested in.

"Do you want to look at the
other books, too?"

"Might as well."

"Then let's wait until last
for the mysteries. That way we won't have to carry our books as long."

I noticed that most of the outside
tables had two authors, and the rows of inside tables had three authors per
table. I guessed that meant that the authors at the table with only one other
author were somewhat famous, and the authors with two other authors were lucky
to be there. Then I looked at the seating chart and noticed that Bill Noel was
sitting with two other people, so that ruined that theory. He had written
several books about murders on an island I hadn't been to. Of course I knew
about
Charleston
,
South Carolina
, but I had never heard of
Folly
Beach
. Maybe that's where this George
Clooney and Ashley Judd live.

"I've got an idea. Why don't
we make one pass through, and unless some mystery author only has a couple of
copies left of a book that we might be interested in, we'll buy our books after
we check the place out."

"You know, Cy, we've been
spoiled by Mrs. E. All we have to do is show up and she has our books all ready
for us."

"I guess we should have brought
her with us today."

We both laughed and decided to
work the room from right to left.

Neither Lou nor I ever left a
bookstore without leaving a large chunk of change behind, so we weren't
concerned about how much money we would spend that day. Besides, Mrs. E. had
told us that the money went to help libraries and schools, so it was for a good
cause.

I turned my catalog to the page
with the seating chart. As we walked up one row and down the next, whenever
either of us spotted a book that looked like something we should give a new
home to we made a mark next to the author's name. After one circuit, I counted
the marks. There were eleven of them. The rest of the authors would have to
rely on someone who liked a different type of book. Not all of our purchases
were mysteries. We each bought next year's calendar and two books that were
mostly photographs, the kind of book people sit on a coffee table, provided
they have one. And both of us bought three other nonfiction books. One was
about the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire that took the lives of many innocent
people. It happened when Lou and I were growing up. I remembered that it
happened somewhere in northern
Kentucky
,
about an hour west of where we live. It was quite a tragedy. Another book we
both purchased was titled
Kentucky
's Two Presidents.
It was about Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis. And a third one was
written by a comedian who introduced himself to us as Lynwood Montell. He was
friendly and quite a character. He told us jokes that I figured he had been
telling everyday for the last fifty years. He had quite a collection of books,
and Lou and I decided to try two of them. One was called
Haunted Houses and
Family Ghosts of Kentucky,
and the other was
Tales From
Kentucky
Funeral Homes.
After enjoying ten delightful
minutes of his banter while he signed books for us and others, we strolled away
and allowed him to make more new friends and receive some old ones, back to buy
more of his books. If we enjoy the two we were buying, we would return to buy
more of his books, because he wrote books of tales about lawyers, sheriffs,
teachers, and doctors, too. I imagine that people in each of those professions
can tell some good tales.

While we bought  more nonfiction
than we thought we would, most of our purchases were made going down the aisle
where the mystery authors were seated. We arrived at Bill Noel's table, and I
was able to put a face with the name. We happened to get there just as someone
else was turning away with a bagful of books. We made eye contact and I spoke
to him.

"Hey, I'm familiar with you.
I've read one of your books."

He thanked me and offered me some
candy. I had already planned to buy another of his books, but the offer of
candy caused me to opt for two books. And when I saw that his candy was Hershey
Kisses and Hugs, two of my favorites, I upped the ante to three books. I
thought about buying all of his books and seeing if he would throw in the
cylindrical container of candy, but the other two authors at his table didn't
have anyone talking to them. I was afraid they might cry if I bought each Folly
book and didn't buy any of theirs. And I didn't want theirs, because theirs
weren't mysteries.

We found Laurien Berenson at
another table. I had read the first one in her series and enjoyed it, so I
decided to purchase a couple more. She writes mysteries that have dogs in them.
I don't want dogs in my yard or running around inside my house, but they are
fine in my mysteries, especially when the author writes as well as Laurien
Berenson. One of the other ladies at her table was Duffy Brown. I asked her
which was her first book and she pointed at one. I asked her to sign it.

All of the three-to-a-table
authors seemed like regular people. That was until I got to an author whose
placard said Col. Cyril Portwood. He looked like the twentieth-first century's
version of Col Sanders, minus the tie that the Colonel always wore. He called
me young fellow, even though I was no more than ten years younger than he was.
He had more books than both of the other author's at his table. I counted the
books. Twelve titles.

"Looks like you've been
busy."

"Busier than this. This is my
seventeenth Kentucky Book Fair, and I've written seventeen books. People love
my books, and there's no reason why you won't like them, too. I can sign each
of these for you, and mail you the other five when I get home."

"So they're free?"

"No, but what a bargain. When
you get home and read one, you'll wish you'd bought all the others, too."

"How many series do you
have?"

"Two."