Mint Julep Murder Read online

  READERS LOVE CAROLYN G. HART’S AWARD-WINNING

  DEATH ON DEMAND MYSTERIES:

  SOUTHERN GHOST

  “Pleasing … chillingly effective … remarkably satisfying.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Annie and Max] make one of the most attractive pairs of sleuths since Dashiell Hammett’s Nick and Nora Charles.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “If you like your mysteries suspenseful, with clues strewn everywhere, you’ll love this one.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  “A true modern-day Gothic … The Darling duo is as winning as ever, and the book contains a marvelous bonus.”

  —The Sun, Baltimore

  “Carolyn G. Hart’s large following will likely hail this latest Darling caper as—what else?—simply darling.”

  —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  MORE PRAISE FOR CAROLYN G. HART:

  THE CHRISTIE GAPER

  “A clever, intricately plotted story, as well as a lovely romp through the mystery world.”

  —Mostly Murder

  “Carolyn Hart has constructed a puzzle for mystery buffs, a classic whodunit, and a loving homage to Agatha Christie—and put them into one book. All this and witty dialogue, believable relationships and an unpredictable ending, too.”

  —Mystery News

  “Christie fans should love the trivia that fills this book. This is a great mystery with a terrific twist.”

  —Mystery Books

  “A sharp and witty examination of what can happen when fans of each type of mystery confront one another … The Christie Caper is the best entry yet in Ms. Hart’s pleasurable series; eminently logical and meticulously plotted, it does justice to the Mistress of Mystery herself.”

  —The Sun, Baltimore

  “Agatha Christie devotees will be enchanted with The Christie Caper, as will mystery fans who relish a wickedly clever plot sprinkled with gentle wit and beguiling characters. Carolyn G. Hart has written a marvelous tribute to her mentor.”

  —Joan Hess, author of Death by the Light of the Moon

  DEADLY VALENTINE

  “Carolyn G. Hart is the new shining star in the mystery galaxy…. Deadly Valentine [is a] marvelously plotted mystery.”

  —Clarion-Ledger, Jackson, Mississippi

  “Ms. Hart is on target once again with Deadly Valentine. Annie and Max are … one of the most charming and intelligent teams in fiction.”

  —Mostly Murder

  A LITTLE GLASS ON MURDER

  “A classy mystery with … more twists than a Low Country river.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Mystery readers will find this series a delight. Hart is on to a good thing.”

  —The Drood Review of Mystery

  “Hart has a light touch with her characters, a fresh heroine in Annie, and a delightfully different setting.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  “Irresistible! Expertly written. Hart drops big names from the mystery world like murderers drop clues, and it’s all great fun. The plotting is classic perfection. Annie and Max are the most endearing new pair of sleuths since Tommy and Tuppence. More, please!”

  —Nancy Pickard, author of I.O.U.

  ALSO BY CAROLYN G. HART

  Death on Demand

  Design for Murder

  Something Wicked

  Honeymoon with Murder

  A Little Class on Murder

  Deadly Valentine

  The Christie Caper

  Southern Ghost

  Dead Man’s Island

  Scandal in Fair Haven

  AVAILABLE FROM BANTAM BOOKS

  To Phil,

  who loves Hilton Head Island, too.

  Author’s Note

  It was a pleasure to set a mystery on Hilton Head, the island that inspired the creation of Broward’s Rock in Death on Demand. I hope I’ve provided enough of a glimpse of the island to bring happy memories to my readers who have vacationed there and to encourage others to discover its spacious beaches, moss-draped live oaks, and tranquil lagoons.

  Everything in the book is true to the island except the Buccaneer Hotel, which I have placed just to the north of the Coligny Beach entrance, where the Breakers Villas stand, and Benedict Books, which is a composite of the several charming bookstores on the island.

  The Dixie Book Festival is my own creation. It would be a tight fit on the Coligny Beach entrance plaza, but it could be done. And wouldn’t it be fun!

  Chapter 1

  The flurry of faxes began a week before the Dixie Book Festival. Sherry Felton’s first fax was circumspect. Sherry was well aware of her bestselling author’s temperament. She had a queasy feeling that she was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t, but a long-distance outburst was infinitely to be preferred over a face-to-face explosion.

  FAX 1 - FROM: Sherry Felton

  TO: Leah Vixen Kirby

  Dear Leah,

  Biddy Maxwell tells me a Georgia publisher named Kenneth Hazlitt has approached her with an idea for a novel, a steamy sex-and-tell piece, all about some famous Southern writers and their indiscretions at a conference. He hinted to Biddy that it’s a roman à clef. She’s shopping the idea around.

  Your latest sales figures are super. The paperback of Love’s Lost Splendour is shipping like hotcakes.

  See you at Hilton Head.

  Best,

  Sherry

  It came as no surprise to Sherry when her fax machine signaled incoming material.

  FAX 2 - FROM: Leah Kirby

  TO: Sherry Felton

  Dear Sherry,

  Kenneth Hazlitt is a mediocre publisher and he couldn’t write a decent novel if somebody handed him a mouse with an IQ of 200-plus. He’s a buffoon who loves Dracula, Frankenstein, and Little Orphan Annie with the Statler Brothers bellowing in the background. But who gives a damn about quality? How much sex and who are the main characters?

  If I could get a spot on Oprah, Love’s Lost Splendour would sell five times what it’s doing now. I must talk to you about publicity. And whose idea was it to schedule my Festival signing at four o’clock? They’ve got to be kidding. I want nine a.m. And I mean it.

  As ever,

  Leah

  Sherry read as the fax paper oozed out. Damn. It was too late to change autographing times. The conference program was already printed. Leah knew that, of course. But who expected the world’s most famous author of Civil War novels to give a damn about minor facts like printed programs? Sherry debated calling the Festival programmer. Maybe they could put up a sign announcing a time change at the information booth…. Oh, hell, what a bother. She didn’t reach for the phone. Instead, her eyes glinting with malice, she waited thirty minutes, then dispatched a reply. As always, she used her author’s full name. One had to take pleasure where one found it.

  FAX 3 - FROM: Sherry Felton

  TO: Leah Vixen Kirby

  Dear Leah,

  The programmer regrets being unable to change your autographing time. The committee wants the most famous author available at four p.m. The local TV promises a crew, and they feed to CBS.

  Lots of sex, according to Biddy. And the cast of characters includes the most famous author of Civil War novels; the author of the latest male romance novel a la Bridges and Love Story; the author of Southern sojourns of the soul; the author of good-old-boy diatribes against blacks, Jews, feminists, and women in general; and the world’s bestselling mystery writer.

  Oh, and congratulations upon your receiving a Medallion at the Festival. I’ll be sure and attend the ceremony.

  Best,

  Sherry

  FAX 4 - FROM: Leah Kirby

  TO: Alan
Blake

  Missy Sinclair

  Jimmy Jay Crabtree

  Emma Clyde

  Dear Fellow Medallion Honorees,

  FYI, Kenneth Hazlitt is shopping a proposal using thinly disguised (if disguised at all) characters patterned after all of us. Remember Wynne wood?

  The sorry bastard.

  Leah Kirby

  FAX 5 - FROM: Emma Clyde

  TO: Leah Kirby

  Alan Blake

  Melissa Sinclair

  Jimmy Jay Crabtree

  Dear Fellow Honorees,

  I smell a Medallion-sized rat.

  Best regards,

  Emma

  FAX 6 - FROM: Errol Beatty, publicist

  TO: Leah Kirby

  Emma Clyde

  Dear Ms. Kirby and Ms. Clyde,

  Mr. Crabtree is presently on a book tour. I will bring your faxes to his attention when I speak to him this evening.

  Best wishes,

  Errol Beatty

  FAX 7 - FROM: Alan Blake

  TO: Leah Kirby

  Emma Clyde

  Dear Leah and Emma:

  Let’s talk when we arrive at the Festival. They’re putting me up at the Buccaneer.

  Fondly,

  Alan

  FAX 8 - FROM: Melissa Sinclair

  TO: Leah Kirby

  Emma Clyde

  Ladies,

  I’ll call Kenneth.

  Ciao,

  Missy

  FAX 9 - FROM: Melissa Sinclair

  TO: Leah Kirby

  Emma Clyde

  Dear Leah, Emma,

  The dolt’s excited out of his mind. He says Barker, Dun-woody & Kell is interested. This is all on the basis of a three-page proposal. I can’t believe this!

  By the way, who picked us as Medallion winners? Does anybody know? Kenneth swears the Medallions have NO connection with his book. And the Republican National Committee is proposing Clinton for the Nobel Peace Prize.

  I am not a happy camper. Should we cancel?

  Missy

  On a separate sheet faxed solely to Leah Kirby, Missy appended the following:

  P.S. The writer of Civil War novels is a redhead who always wears green—and there’s a broad hint of sexual dalliance NOT with her spouse.

  In her Belle Meade mansion in Nashville, Leah Kirby savagely crumpled the fax. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, tall and slender with hair as fiery as molten lava. Today’s silk suit was a soft jade.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

  Leah jammed the fax into her pocket as her husband, Carl, entered the room.

  Carl Kirby was slender, sixty, with thinning gray hair. His face was pale and drawn, but when he saw Leah, his mouth curved into a cheerful smile. “It looks good on the interview with People. They’ll focus on you as the greatest living writer of tender love stories.” His voice was full of pride. For Leah. Of Leah. “The People crew wants to follow us around for a week or two. Maybe right after the Festival. They want to get the flavor of our true-life love story.”

  He stepped close, held out his arms.

  Leah moved into his embrace, pressed against him.

  The fax crackled in her pocket.

  Chapter 2

  “What do you mean, they want to give me less for the next contract?” Jimmy Jay Crabtree smacked the table and shifted the wad of chewing tobacco in his right cheek with his tongue. “That’s a mother lode of crap, Harold. No way am I going to accept less than a half mil.”

  “You aren’t selling, Jimmy Jay. That’s the bottom line. The returns on your book are running around eighty percent. You’re lucky they’re even willing to talk a new contract. And Buzzy’s not positive he can get it by the editorial board even if your advance is cut in half.” A thoughtful pause. “Truth is, things go in cycles in publishing, Jimmy Jay. Limbaugh. Grisham. Nobody could believe their sales figures. Outer space. So everybody started publishing down-home think pieces and lawyer books. Limbaugh and Grisham are still at the top of the charts.”

  Jimmy Jay waited.

  But his agent didn’t go ahead to say the obvious: The clones weren’t coming through. Readers wanted the real thing.

  Jimmy Jay’s mean little mouth closed in a tight hard line. He couldn’t trust himself not to fire Harold on the spot.

  But Harold was one of the best literary agents in New York.

  If Harold couldn’t get him a new contract …

  “Talk to you later.” Jimmy Jay slammed the phone down. It wasn’t his fault. He was just as good as Limbaugh. Better. Because he really laid it on the line. He didn’t bother to try and be cute. He told it straight out, and if people didn’t like it, they could take a flying leap.

  If his book wasn’t selling, well, the asshole, knee-jerking liberals would laugh themselves silly if the word got out. Jimmy Jay knew they hated him for telling the good old unvarnished truth, like what a joke it was for the bleeding hearts to moan about poor little mamas on welfare. The bleeding hearts squealed like stuck pigs when he said it was time to cut those ladies off the dole if they kept on having babies. Look at it: If those sorry broads didn’t want Uncle’s check every month, they’d sure as hell figure out what made babies. It wasn’t like it was a state secret. And all this crap about AIDS. As far as he was concerned, it was time to worry about ordinary, everyday Americans, not rejects who played Russian roulette in their sex lives.

  But The New York Times had sure had it in for him ever since Straighten Up and Fly Right came out.

  He’d mailed a copy of the bestseller list to The NYT Book Review for twenty-three weeks and circled his title on it.

  No answer, of course.

  Christ, he couldn’t let those Yankees have the last laugh.

  But he had an empty feeling in his gut. He aimed at the wastebasket. Tobacco juice splattered the side and dribbled onto the rug. So let the maid earn her salary.

  Yeah, Straighten Up made the bestseller list for twenty-three weeks.

  But that was based on titles shipped, not sold. His publishers had gambled that he could sell like Rush and Grizzard and Howard Stern. So the sales reps leaned on booksellers, gave special discounts to entice them to up their orders. The pub effort was great—radio spots across the country, a drive-by radio tour, signings in sixteen cities.

  But none of that mattered if Harold was right. Returns around 80 percent. The book was not selling.

  They’d toss him out like yesterday’s headline.

  Chapter 3

  Alan Blake hummed as he shaved. (“Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”) Then he stopped and grinned. Green gel dripped from his chin. Sometimes he couldn’t believe his own instincts. Jesus, that was perfect. Corny but lovable. The right touch for his upcoming Parade interview. He’d have to remember to tell the reporter in a half-chagrined way how he always hummed when he shaved. “A Day with Alan Blake.” His readers would love it. He smiled at his reflection in the steamy mirror. An engaging smile. Good, white, even teeth. Steady blue eyes. Wavy chestnut hair. A manly chin with just the hint of a cleft. He carefully eased the razor over his upper lip. A few more strokes and he was done. He heard the telephone above the rush of water. He patted his face with a washcloth and reached for the bathroom extension.

  His eyes admired the luxurious bathroom—a whirlpool, mirrors with lights that could brighten or dim, the heated towel rack—as he picked up the receiver.

  “Hi, Alan. Long time no see.”

  He felt like a boxer hit in the kidneys.

  “You there, Alan?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t believe—”

  “Come off it, man. We had a fun time in L.A. We’ll have to get together. Talk about old times. I read in the paper you’re gonna be at that book deal in Hilton Head. I’ll look you up, man.”

  Chapter 4

  Blue Benedict’s back ached. Carefully, she bent her knees, keeping her lower back muscles straight, as she hefted another box of books into her Jeep Cherokee. She couldn’t, absolutely could not, have back tr
ouble now. She picked up another box. There were dozens more boxes yet to be transported to the booth. And more boxes for the signings at the hotel. Oh, Lord, had she remembered to call and see if the book room was open today? Okay, that was—

  The startled half-scream brought Blue sharply around. The box thudded to the ground. Pain flared in her back.

  “Mother!” Ginny’s voice rose in a panicked squeal.

  Blue Benedict scrambled through the open back door, skidded around stacks of boxes, plunged into the rear of the bookstore.

  Ginny was blundering down the middle aisle, her hands held out in front on her. “Mother!” Her voice broke into a sob. “I can’t see. I can’t see! The box blew up.”

  White powder covered Ginny’s face, speckled her black hair.

  Blue reached her daughter. “This way. Into the John. Let’s wash it off.”

  “I can’t see!” Her daughter’s voice shook with fear.

  Blue didn’t hesitate. She grabbed an empty vase and filled it with warm water. “Hold your breath, Ginny.”

  Blue splashed the whole of it into her daughter’s face, then gently dabbed her eyes.

  Ginny blinked. “I—it’s smeary—but I can see. I can. I can.”

  Blue was trembling by the time she reached the front of the store and the pile of mail that Ginny had been opening. She looked grimly at the small ripped-open package. The still-hot flashcube inside it accounted for Ginny’s sudden blindness. It was clever enough: The flashcube exploding as the lid was lifted. And the now uncoiled spring had flung up whitish powder.

  Blue dampened a finger, touched it to the powder, gave a delicate lick.

  Flour.

  Flour pure and simple. A practical joke.

  But there was nothing funny about the message in all capital, cut-out letters: