Murder at the Book Fair (6 page)

"They are. A table leaf. And
they are using it to bat someone over the head."

"I thought you said Portwood
was poisoned. Did someone hit him over the head in order to get the poison to
go down."

"Say goodnight, Gracie. And
I'll pick you up much too early in the morning. How does
8:00
sound?"

"It has always sounded better
to me than it has to you."

"You got that right. I always
was the smart one. See you at
8:00
."

+++

"Herb. Cy. It turns out both
you and the Doc were right."

"How could we both be
right?"

"Well, he died of carbon
monoxide poison, but if he had lived a little longer he would have died of the
other poison in his body. Anything you might want to tell me before I get
started?"

"Have you read the journal
yet?"

"Yes. I went ahead and read
it in case Portwood was murdered and we needed to get busy. There was nothing
in there that pointed toward a particular person. It was pretty much an
itinerary of what he planned to do that week."

"Did Frank have any idea
where and when he was poisoned?"

"Sometime between late Friday
afternoon and Saturday night. So, more than likely it happened at the book
fair, but it could have happened after he got home. But if it did, whoever
poisoned him poisoned him in the garage, or before he got to it. His body
wasn't moved after he died."

"Well, I don't know who might
have done it in
Frankfort
. I guess you will have to find
that out. But I know about the people around here. It looks like you might have
to work in a trip to
Frankfort
and one down here into your
schedule. And let me know when you're coming this way. Maybe we can do lunch.
Like I said, Cyril Portwood had a lot of money. Start with his lawyer, Bert
McHugh, who incidentally is in
Frankfort
where Portwood is from, not down here. He can tell you who will inherit. I
assume you'll talk to anyone who might have seen Portwood during the last week.
And I don't want to tell you how to run your investigation, but don't forget
his girlfriend down here. I still think she saw him on Saturday night. Whether
he was already dead or dying I don't know. But I guess it's possible she could
have poisoned him when he got home, and that's the reason she didn't report him
dead until Sunday morning. I do know that someone turned off the car ignition,
and it had to have been her or the neighbor across the road. It's too far out
to think Portwood did it just as he died. So, I would think that if you don't
solve it in
Frankfort
then you at least need to talk to
both of his neighbors. Under the circumstances I don't think anyone else down
here could have done it."

"Give me their names. He
didn't mention either one of them in the journal."

"The girlfriend is Millie
Longacre. The guy across the road is Bob Barney. You're not familiar with this
area, but Portwood lived way out in the country, at the end of a dead-end road,
and almost on top of the
Ohio
River
. I know both
of these people, and both of them are part bloodhound. The only way anyone else
got near Portwood's house was if they were on foot or came down the river on a
boat. The river is roughly a quarter of a mile from Portwood's house, which
means it was far enough away that a boat couldn't have been heard, but there
aren't any good landing places near his house. And either of those two
neighbors would have heard any car coming down the road. Especially since I
doubt if over a half dozen cars go down that road in a month. Well, a half
dozen other than the three of them, and I doubt if anyone else drives it in the
winter. Period. Of course this didn't happen in the winter."

"Any idea where the Colonel's
brother and sister live? The ones he doesn't speak to?"

"Well, he never talked about
them, but I'm pretty sure neither of them moved away from
Frankfort
."

I thanked Herb and hung up. I
would be heading somewhere near
Westport
,
Kentucky
and to
Frankfort
for sure. I wasn't sure where
else I would be going. I planned to talk to anyone mentioned in the journal,
and see about talking to someone who had something to do with the Kentucky Book
Fair. I know those events don't happen by themselves, and someone had to invite
the Colonel and all those other authors. I wanted to know how well any of them
knew Portwood, and if any of them were disgusted enough with him to murder him.

I picked up Lou early Tuesday
morning. We stopped for breakfast at Jerry's Drive-In Restaurant in
Paris
. We could both remember when you
could find a Jerry's in many towns, and all over
Lexington
. My parents talked about spending many a night at
different Jerry's when they were teenagers. They would drive to one nearby town
or another. They would have spent more nights at Jerry's if we had had one in
Hilldale.

We left Jerry's and took the
picturesque drive from Paris to Lexington, past a few horse farms, although
none of the famous ones are on that road.

"What's today's clue? Or did
you get another one?"

"Of course I did. It's a huge
chunk of change."

"A huge chunk of
change?"

"Who do you think you are?
Carnac
the Magnificent?"

"No, he's the only person I
know who's smarter and funnier than I am."

"He died, you know."

"I wonder if he saw it
coming."

"I don't know, but I heard
Aunt Blabby warned him."

I'm sad that most of the truly
funny people are no longer living. At least we have DVDs to help people today
know what real humor is like.

+++

According to Portwood's journal he
left home late on Tuesday morning and checked in the Capital Plaza Hotel that
afternoon. He spent the rest of the day in his room and ate dinner in the hotel
that night. I was sure that Lou and I wouldn't be able to finish our
investigation and get a confession in one day, as magnificent as we are. So, we
too would take a couple of rooms at the hotel and check to see if anyone in the
capital city noticed anything out of the way regarding Portwood's demeanor the
first couple of days. I had already called a couple of people and lined up my
first two interviews. I figured others would stem from those.

We arrived at the hotel and were
told that our rooms wouldn't be ready for a few minutes. I asked if I could
speak to anyone who talked with Cyril Portwood when he checked in a few days
earlier. A couple of minutes later Lou and I were face to face with the
manager. I explained why we were there. The manager left, then returned a
couple of minutes later.

"You're right that Cyril
Portwood, the author, stayed with us last week, but I spoke to the person in
charge of booking the authors' rooms and found out that he called on Monday,
said that he was ill and wouldn't arrive until Thursday. I checked and he did
check in on Thursday afternoon and checked out Saturday morning. Most authors
who stay here check in on Friday and check out Saturday morning early before
the Book Fair starts, but some come in on Thursday or stay until Sunday."

"And you're sure that he
didn't check in until Thursday. I have something in writing that says that he
checked in on Tuesday."

"Well, evidently that was his
plan, before he became ill. But I'm sure he didn't get here until
Thursday."

"And did anyone notice
anything out of the way during his stay? Or did anyone ask for him at the
desk."

"I wouldn't know if anyone
asked for him. Of course we don't give out room numbers. But no one reported
anything out of the way about any guest's stay last week."

I thanked her for her time and
turned away for Lou and I to share our puzzlement by ourselves.

"I know he was quite a
character, but how many guys write in their journal before something
happens?"

"None that I know of."

I guessed that I could toss out
Wednesdays meanderings, too. There was no need for me to check with Daniel
Boone to see if Portwood visited his grave on Wednesday, or to check at the
Capitol to see if he caused a ruckus while he was there. And I guessed that the
carriage ride during the Candlelight celebration was out, too. No shops
visited. No restaurants to check. It really didn't matter. Frank didn't think
he was poisoned before late Friday afternoon or Friday evening anyway, so
whatever he was given wasn't responsible for him being sick on Monday.

We were told our rooms would be
available in a few minutes, so we waited in a couple of comfortable chairs in
the lobby until we could unload our luggage. A short time later, I was up on
the eighth floor, looking out the window at the view of the river, wishing I
hadn't made plans for the afternoon, so I could nap on my king-size bed
instead. But Lou and I were back in work mode again. Only this time if felt
different.

A few minutes later Lou and I were
seated across from one another at Gibby's, a place that was recommended to us,
a place that Portwood didn't go to on Wednesday, even though his journal said
he did. I didn't care whether he went there or not. The food was good, and
there were a variety of options. There was even a choice of three types of
salads for a certain price. And lots of choices of deli sandwiches, and even
spaghetti and meatballs if we were so inclined.

It didn't matter to me or the
owner of Gibby's that Portwood didn't make it when he said he would. Provided
last week was similar to this week. They wouldn't have had room for him. Lou
and I slipped into the last booth, which was only available after someone left
it while we were in line ordering. Evidently, a lot of people who work downtown
and had never seen Portwood's journal thought highly of Gibby's, too. And it
wasn't as if Gibby's was the only place to eat. There was a pizza place next
door, which I overheard someone saying was worth checking out, too. And there
was an Italian place nearby that someone said served the best food in
Frankfort
.

I had made an appointment to talk
with Bert McHugh, Portwood's lawyer, for
2:00
, and with Connie Crowe, the manager of the Kentucky Book Fair at
3:00
. I like to be punctual, so we arrived at the lawyer's
office at
1:50
. He had just gotten back from
lunch and had his secretary motion us on in.

McHugh had already heard of
Portwood's death before I contacted him, but only learned that someone had
helped it along when I called him for an appointment. I knew his time was
valuable, as was mine, so we refrained from comparing our golf games. Besides,
the course I play on allowed my ball to go from tee to green much quicker than
a ball would on the course that McHugh plays.

"What can you tell me about
Col. Cyril Portwood?"

"How long do you have?"
he asked, and then laughed.

"Just hit the high spots that
might be a motive for murder."

"Well, I don't know how much
you know about him, but he was loaded. And his money didn't come from book
sales. His grandfather inherited a lot of money and added to it during his
lifetime. By grandfather I mean his mother's father. Amelia Cooksey married
Reginald Portwood, who died long before he could spend all of her vast fortune.
But he was around long enough to provide Amelia with three children. Amelia
believed in the biblical sense of inheritance, and provided for most of her
fortune to go to her oldest son Cyril when she died. She doted on him and he
doted on her. She more so on him when he went through a sick spell as a child.
He more so on her when she became bedridden with cancer. It wasn't as if she
neglected her other two children, but everyone knew that Cyril was her favorite,
and that included her other two children. From the time I first met Amelia,
when her children were adolescents, Cyril was quite a character and by far the
most outgoing of the three. I have no idea if how they were treated had
anything to do with it. Cyril never met a stranger and was always telling tall
tales. He did it to entertain rather than take advantage of another person.
Amelia was never lavish in her spending, and neither was Cyril. If you happen
to visit his home up on the
Ohio River
you will see that while there is some acreage that accompanies it, it is a home
that many people can afford. Cyril wasn't lazy, but he never worked. He was
more about having fun and making others' lives better than adding to a fortune
that didn't need any addition. His fortune was well over a million or two.
Incidentally, none of Reginald and Amelia's three children ever married.