Murder at the Book Fair Read online

  Murder at the

  Book Fair

  Steve Demaree

  Copyright ã 2014

  Steve Demaree

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is dedicated to the two people I love the most and whose love I deserve the least, my wife Nell and my daughter Kelly. May God continue to bless me with their presence in my life.

  This book is also dedicated to those people who I see each year at the Kentucky Book Fair; those on the committee, volunteers, and those who stop by my table each year to get the new books I have written. If you are not yet a Facebook friend, send me a request to become friends.

  May each of them and each of you enjoy this book.

  Bought by Maraya21

  Kickass.so/1337x.org/h33t.to/thepiratebay.se

  The cover photo was provided by professional photographer Gene Burch of Frankfort, Kentucky.

  The cover layout was provided by Jimmy Gibbs.

  Books by Steve Demaree

  Dekker Cozy Mystery Series

  52 Steps to Murder

  Murder in the Winter

  Murder In The Library

  Murder at Breakfast?

  Murder at the High School Reunion

  Murder at the Art & Craft Fair

  Murder in Gatlinburg

  Murder at the Book Fair

  Off the Beaten Path Mystery Series

  Murder in the Dark

  Murder Among Friends

  A Bridge to Murder

  Other Mysteries

  A Smoky Mountain Mystery

  Aylesford Place Series

  Pink Flamingoed

  Neighborhood Hi Jinx

  Croquet, Anyone?

  Non-Fiction

  Lexington & Me

  Reflecting Upon God’s Word

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  1

  When Lou and I decided to attend the Kentucky Book Fair I didn't know that I would be asked to solve a murder. A few weeks earlier, I didn't even know there was such a thing as the Kentucky Book Fair, let alone that it was the top author event in the state. I thought authors only signed by themselves, and those events only happened in bookstores in large cities, like New York and Los Angeles. But a lot of other things happened after Lou and I retired, but before we attended the Kentucky Book Fair. So I'll tell you about those and share more about the Kentucky Book Fair and the murder later.

  +++

  Lou and I had gotten used to not be homicide detectives anymore. Retirement for Cy Dekker and Lou Murdock didn't mean we spent all of our time relaxing in a recliner with our feet propped up. After Lou and I returned home from our retirement vacation in Gatlinburg we discovered a golf course like the one where we played in the mountains, and we played on this new golf course once a week. While this one wasn't on the side of a hill, there were similarities between the two courses. Both had greens and holes. Retirement had invigorated us. Sometimes we played thirty-six holes and never rented a cart. We walked the entire course. We attributed it to the fact that we were in better shape since we started exercising and watching what we ate. Our friends attributed it to the fact that they had never found a miniature golf course that rented carts. The new course where we started playing is unique. At least I think it is. Each numbered hole had two actual holes. The one you wanted to hit your ball into, and the one your ball always found. The course was indoors, so we could play even if there was a foot of snow on the ground, which there hadn't been so far, since in our neck of the woods snow only falls in the winter.

  +++

  It was the first part of June when Lou and I returned from Gatlinburg, and it was the last Saturday in June when our good friends from the Hilldale Police Department, Heather Ambrose and Dan Davis tied the knot. The Hilldale Police Department was more accommodating to the people who worked there than a lot of employers are, because they let soon-to-be husband and wife, Dan and Heather, replace us as the homicide division.

  Lou and I weren't about to miss their wedding, and from the looks of the turnout, neither was anyone else who worked for the police department. I didn't take Jennifer to the wedding, because I didn't want her to get any ideas about marriage, plus I planned to kiss the bride. As Lou and I went through the receiving line at the reception, Heather reached out and planted a big kiss on my lips before I could initiate the proceedings, then whispered in my ear that if I'd been quicker on the draw I might be standing beside her. I laughed, because I knew she was kidding, but I enjoyed the kiss just the same.

  Dan and Heather didn't let anyone know where they were going on their honeymoon, but on the day they returned home I checked Facebook to find a picture of Dan and Heather on the beach in Maui. Heather looked quite nice in her bikini. Dan was just so-so in his trunks. I thought of using Photoshop to replace Dan's head with mine, printing the picture, turning it into a 2x3' poster, and taking it to Heather to get her to sign it for me. Of course I had no idea how to do any of those things except get the autograph.

  +++

  Enjoying miniature golf was fun, but not as much fun as another change that happened in my life. My next-door neighbor had given up on hitting on me, at least for a while, and had gone on an extended vacation. Word was that Heloise and Hortense Humphert's father had paid for a six-month vacation for his ugly daughters, in hope that both of them could find someone who would marry them. If I had thought of it, I would have suggested that they go to a deserted south seas island and keep sending out bottles with notes until a couple of guys showed up, or one guy showed up and the two sisters could battle to the death to claim him. I wasn't sure if Heloise's mutt, Twinkle Toes, went with them. I just knew that I wasn't about to offer to board her for half a year. Luckily, I was away the day she left, so she didn't have a chance to come over and kiss me goodbye and give me Legionnaires' disease, and so far I haven't gotten any postcards or Facebook posts showing Heloise in a bikini beside the Dead Sea.

  When I heard that she left, I didn't party every day for a week, but I felt like it. I finally felt like I could go out in my yard without being accosted. I still refrain from winter campouts, partially because we hadn't experienced a winter since my neighbor left, and partially because I knew that God didn't mean for anyone to spend extended time outdoors unless the temperature was between 65-80 degrees. One day I even went out and bought a hammock and had Mark my yard boy string it between two trees. Also I bought a small table just the right size to hold a glass of lemonade and a suitable snack. I could even multitask there, swaying in the wind while reading my latest purchase from the Scene of the Crime Mystery Bookstore. All I needed was to find a robot that could make lemonade and deliver it to me in the backyard. I was sure if I found one I wouldn't be able to afford it. Maybe I could rent it out when I didn't need my food and drink delivered.

  I had contemplated having a community garden for Lou an
d me. Since Lou lives in an apartment building he is limited to window box gardening. At least we've talked about planting a small garden in the spring, and maybe planting a few flowers, too. Nothing elaborate on the vegetables. Maybe 2x6 feet. And I would make Lou Vice President in Charge of Tilling and Weeding.

  We had thought about volunteering, too, but we didn't know where to volunteer. Neither of us is very good at much of anything. If most people want a murder solved they turn to the police. Only if they are unhappy with the police department's results do they turn to the former police. And both of us are enjoying retirement, so we haven't hung out a shingle and become private detectives. Besides, what if some woman hired us to find out if her husband was cheating on her and he shot one of us when we caught him? And I'm not interested in being hired to find lost puppies.

  2

  Lou and I had settled comfortably into retirement, and a little at a time I was finding things to do to wile away my time. I'd gone back to watching some of my DVD collection, which consisted of comedy TV shows of the 1950's and 1960's. Lou had returned to working jigsaw and crossword puzzles, but reading was still our main activity. We had even taken up a hobby of sorts. One with some exercise involved, something we never would have thought of a couple of years ago.

  Quite by accident, as we were driving by a park one day, we noticed a group of people who were playing horseshoes without horseshoes. At least it looked something like horseshoes. They were tossing something underhanded, and it wasn't a hand grenade. There was no explosion on impact.

  Curious, we got out to see what the people were doing. Thus was our introduction to cornhole. Instead of a horseshoe and a stake, people threw bags of corn or pellets and tried to slide them onto a raised platform and slide each one down into a hole in that hunk of wood, plastic, or fiberglass. Those people even let Lou and me try it. It looked easy enough, so I walked up and took the bag to demonstrate my prowess.

  I didn't want to injure any of the players standing behind the other platform, so I took careful aim. I failed to factor in that I was tossing the bag into a headwind. Two-thirds of the way to its destination the bag fell to the ground like a wounded pigeon. A quick perusal of our new friends showed me that a lot of hands went up in front of mouths to stifle a grin. I went to retrieve the bag only to realize that my errant toss had eliminated an ant colony. Only those off to a picnic had been saved. All eyes were upon me. I had no direct path to the car. One of the young ladies in the group walked up and handed me another bag and took the faulty one before I could hand it to Lou to clean off the ants. She encouraged me to try again. Once again I measured the distance, allowed for the headwind, wind-milled my arm, and let go. I was so caught up in figuring out how I could get my arm back in its socket that I almost didn't hear being reprimanded by a blue jay that was trying to steal food from another bird. Evidently the platform had moved toward me as I was in my follow through. I looked on the positive side. I had set a distance record in the cornhole bag throw.

  The same young lady came up to me again. Maybe she was the Patron Saint of Cornhole Neophytes. But she didn't bless me or pray for me. Maybe she was going to trip me if I even acted like I was going to toss another bag. But instead she said something I had no trouble grasping or agreeing with.

  "Here. Watch me."

  She was easy on the eyes. And she had good form. She tossed the bag and it disappeared into the hole. At least I think it did. I was too busy watching her great form, and I was standing behind her so I wouldn't be in her way.

  "That's how you do it. Just one fluid motion."

  No matter how long I would have stayed there I wasn't going to match her fluid motion, whether I tried to toss another bag or not. But she encouraged me again. I took the bag, visualized her fluid motion, and let her rip. The bag came to a skidding halt a mere six inches in front of the platform. I received a smattering of applause from everyone except the Ukrainian judge.

  Evidently these people had a limitless collection of bags because the young woman was back at my side with another bag. But I was a quick thinker.

  "Here. Let's let my friend try."

  I wanted Lou's self esteem to take a hit, too.

  He walked up with a smile that matched the one on my face. I stepped back, made sure he had plenty of room, and no excuses for a misfire. When the bag Lou tossed landed on the platform a couple of inches from going into the hole, all but one of those in the group applauded vigorously. I would have too, but my arm still hurt from my record-setting throw. I had heard of beginner's luck and took a bag from the young lady and quickly handed it to Lou before he could strut away, victorious. I watched as the bag took flight, collided with Lou's other bag, and followed it into the hole. It was enough to make me want to find a hole of my own to crawl into. To Lou's credit, he didn't gloat until we were safely back inside of Lightning, and all he did then was say, "Cy, before we take off, don't you think we should say a little prayer for that ant family?"

  That night I thought I heard a noise at my back door. I'd never had prowlers, except for my next-door neighbor, so I thought I was hearing things and dismissed the thought. I had just returned to my recliner when I heard a knock at my back door. Curious as to whom it might be, I rushed to the door and flung it open. There was no one there. But I did find two cornhole platforms, one with a ribbon around it, and eight cornhole bags. There was a card too, but when I opened it the only words written on that card was, "I think you need lots of practice." It didn't take me long to get the hang of it, and, with daily practice, in less than three months I managed to toss a bag that landed on the board. I thought with all that practice I had to be better than Lou. It wasn't until a couple of weeks later, after Lou and I had played a few times at my place, that I found out that Lou and the old ladies who live in his building had been playing cornhole a couple of mornings a week.

  3

  Fall had set in and winter would be here before we knew it. One full season and parts of two others had come and gone since Lou and I retired in early May. We had enjoyed our retirement vacation in Gatlinburg so much that we returned in October to see if turning leaves in Gatlinburg look like turning leaves in Hilldale. I found out what I suspected. The leaves looked the same, but most of the trees we saw in Gatlinburg were on mountains. I know there are some of those in Kentucky too, but not in my neighborhood.

  On our second trip to Gatlinburg we took along our girlfriends, Jennifer and Thelma Lou. Lou had his timeshare unit. I had mine. And we found a third one with two bedrooms that the girls could enjoy for a week. We took them places we had loved on our first trip there. And we discovered some new ones with the girls in tow. Both Jennifer and Thelma Lou discovered that God meant for women to shop, and He meant for them to shop longer than He did men. Sometimes Lou and I waited for them on benches near the shopping area. Other times we camped out in our suites back at Westgate, while the women spent hours trying to decide if it was worth spending the money on the latest trinket they had found. I understood buying. I had yet to understand shopping.

  While we were there someone mentioned that we needed to return at Christmas, and take a side trip over to the Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina as part of the same trip. I learned that the Biltmore is the largest house built as a residence in the U.S. and that it looks so beautiful when it's decorated for Christmas. I can't remember how many Christmas trees they decorate each year, but it's more than are decorated in my neighborhood.

  +++

  The four of us had just returned from the Smokies when Lou and I realized that we had neglected one of our friends far too long. It had been a couple of months since we had visited our good friend Myrtle Evans, owner of the Scene of the Crime Mystery Bookstore.

  Rather than pull into the parking lot behind the store and go in through the back door, I parked on the street in front of the bookstore. As always, I could tell we weren't the only readers paying the store a visit that day. The bookstore is located in a residential neighborhood, in a large, t
wo-story, frame house with rooms that house tens of thousands of books. All mysteries. And each type of mystery has its own room. Traditional mysteries occupied one large room, while classics, cozies, thrillers, police procedurals, historical mysteries, and other types of mysteries occupied other rooms in that large house converted into a bookstore.

  October was rapidly making its way through my life and was almost at an end, and on the day we visited the bookstore the wind had picked up and was blowing leaves across the yard. I hopped up onto the wooden porch and opened the door. There was Mrs. E. seated behind the counter, as she usually was. She smiled when she saw us.

  "I figured it was about time for you young boys to come and see me. I made sure that I had two copies of the next book in each of the series you are reading."

  "We appreciate all the work you do, Mrs. E., so we can just have fun reading."

  "And I appreciate your business. By the way, do the two of you plan to go to the Kentucky Book Fair? It's coming up in just over two weeks."

  "What's the Kentucky Book Fair. I've never heard of it."

  "It's the biggest author event in Kentucky. It's held in Frankfort each year, at the Convention Center. They've been having it for over thirty years now. There will be around two hundred authors there."

  "All mystery authors?"

  "No, a little of everything, both fiction and nonfiction. And most of the authors are from Kentucky or write about Kentucky."

  "I didn't realize there are that many authors in Kentucky."

  "More than that if you count everyone who has a book. But for an author to be invited to the Kentucky Book Fair he or she has to have a new book out."