Mint Julep Murder Read Free Page B

be the opening truth. Page one. Oh, Annie, I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
    The storeroom door closed.
    Annie didn’t retrieve the piece of paper.
    Not now.
    Maybe never.
    As for tomorrow …
    Tomorrow was the opening day of the Dixie Book Festival on the South’s premier holiday island, Hilton Head. There would be more than seventy Southern authors to be wined and dined and showcased at breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners. Everybody from Carl Hiaasen to Celestine Sibley.
    Booksellers from throughout the South. Publishers and editors from small regional presses. Plus a goodly number of booths from some of the big New York publishing houses.
    Several thousand festivalgoers.
    It should be a fabulous success,
would
be a fabulous success, and certainly Annie shouldn’t let small embarrassments—
    The storeroom door opened swiftly; her mother-in-law’s golden head popped out. “One for All, All for One.” Laurel’s husky voice brimmed with confidence. A final beaming smile, then Laurel withdrew, and the door softly closed.
    “Oh, God,” Annie groaned, “that’s what’s driving me—” Annie felt a prick on her ankle. She looked down. “Dammit, Agatha, you could at least ask first.”
    The pressure from Agatha’s two exceedingly sharp incisors increased, just a little.
    “Okay, okay. I’ll feed you.” Annie moved fast. Once Agatha reached the incisor-to-the-ankle stage, bloodletting wasn’t far off. As Annie pulled the tab on a can of savory salmon, she told the feline sternly, “I’ve about had enough of everybody. You, Laurel, Henny, Miss Dora, my authors.” Actually, although she’d quite soon realized that dealing with authors meant handling very fragile egos accompanied by the ability to be
creatively
demanding, she still enjoyed—mostly—getting to know five very bright andgifted people. She’d even begun to think of them proprietorially. All except Jimmy Jay Crabtree, of course.
    She picked up the coffee thermos, then turned behind the coffee bar to select a mug.
    This was one of the great pleasures of Death on Demand. Annie took pride in her collection of coffee mugs, each inscribed in red script with the name of a famous author and title. Usually, it put her in a good humor simply to pour a cup of special brew—sometimes Kona, sometimes Colombian, sometimes Kenya—into one of the mugs.
    This afternoon, however, she eyed the mugs without enthusiasm. She considered
Phantom Lady
by William Irish. Maybe she could disappear. No. It wasn’t quite that bad. She was tempted by Carolyn Wells’s
Murder in the Bookshop
because that’s what she felt like committing. First victim: Blue Benedict of Hilton Head’s Benedict Books, who’d talked Annie into serving as an author liaison. “Annie, it won’t take much time at all!” The memory of that hideously inaccurate prediction made Annie’s lip curl. Annie had spent so much time on the telephone with her authors—and charming as most of them were (except, of course, Jimmy Jay Crabtree)—it had kept her up late at night and working weekends to get her ordering done and keep Death on Demand running smoothly, especially since Ingrid Jones, her wonderful assistant, had been out with foot surgery until this week.
    But it
was
fascinating to get to know these very famous authors (except for Jimmy Jay Crabtree) and to try and make them feel comfortable and welcome. Annie had quickly read all their books, and now she felt she knew them very well indeed.
    The phone rang. Death on Demand closed at five, and it was already past six o’clock.
    The sharp peal sounded again.
    Annie ignored the rings. She felt she could count on two verities. The call wasn’t from the Georgia or Florida lotteries; the call was from one of her authors, and right now she absolutely couldn’t handle one more task. Nada.
    Annie poured coffee into
V as in Victim
by LawrenceTreat, took a sip, and sighed. The coffee was tepid. She poured it out. Finally, the ringing stopped.
    Annie