Murder at the Book Fair Read online

  "So you think the chances that we'd run into Agatha Christie there are remote?"

  "Pretty much so. She wasn't there last year, either."

  "Do you really think it would be something we'd be interested in? We only read mysteries, you know."

  "There are usually five to ten mystery authors there, and some of them are quite good. More than likely there won't be anyone there you have read, but David Baldacci and Sue Grafton have been there, so there could be. Wait a minute! There might be a couple there you've read. You've read Bill Noel and Laurien Berenson, haven't you?"

  "Yeah. Will they be there?"

  "Probably."

  "Then Lou and I might go. It's only an hour and a half drive from here."

  We got the information from Mrs. E., then looked over the books she had ordered for us. As usual she had stacked the classic mysteries on top. I was familiar with the top book, even though I hadn't read it. Everyone knows about Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie. Underneath it was The Case of the Stuttering Bishop, one of Erle Stanley Gardner's more acclaimed mysteries. And my favorite classic mystery author is S.S. Van Dine, and Mrs. E. had included one of his, The Garden Murder Case.

  Most of what I read are contemporary mysteries, and she included several of those in my stack; All Around the Town by Mary Higgins Clark, Mint Julep Murder by Carolyn Hart, I Is For Innocent by Sue Grafton, The Sudoku Puzzle Murders by Parnell Hall, The Street Lawyer by John Grisham, Stone Cold by David Baldacci, One Shot by Lee Child, Hold Tight by Harlan Coben, and The Accident by Linwood Barclay. There was also a short stack of second books by authors I had read only once. I nodded that we would take them, too. So we also left with Don't Tell a Soul and First Degree, two different kinds of mysteries by David Rosenfelt, A Fatal Grace by Louise Penny, and The Killing Hour by Andrew Gross. True, none of them had come out within the last year, but Lou and I didn't get started reading until we were almost ready to retire, and most of these authors started writing a long time before Lou and I started reading.

  All in all it was quite a haul. Mrs. E. made enough from us that day to pay a year's worth of electricity for the bookstore. And Lou and I didn't do too badly ourselves. I had contemplated paying Mrs. E. in pennies, but I knew that I couldn't lift that many pennies without being taken to the hospital afterward. Instead I tossed two one hundred dollar bills on the counter.

  "How much more are you taking me for, Mrs. E?"

  It'll be another thousand if you want the victim returned unharmed."

  "Lou, you pay the rest. You always did like her better than I did."

  We shared a few more laughs with Mrs. E., thanked her for letting us know about the Kentucky Book Fair, and asked her where the wheelbarrow was, so we could cart out our books. She told us it was in the same place we had left it on our last visit, but I suspected that Lou and I weren't the only customers of the Scene of the Crime who read a lot.

  4

  Two weeks passed quickly. I had some good books to read, and the weather sucked enough that Lou and I got to rest our cornhole arms. We had read and discussed three of the books we got from Mrs. E., and it was time to head off to Frankfort to see how many books we would cart home.

  Lou and I had changed in some ways since we retired, but one of the ways I hadn't changed was I still was in no mood to wake up the rooster. From what I knew about the Kentucky Book Fair they weren't giving away books to the first so many people to arrive. And Mrs. E. assured me that we could visit with all of the authors in far less than a day. Besides, I didn't want to visit with all of them. I had no reason to check out the children's books, and I was sure that I would walk by some of the other authors without stopping. I hoped that none of them would take it personally.

  On Friday night, before we left for Frankfort on Saturday morning just after breakfast, Lou called and surprised me.

  "Cy, would you like for me to drive tomorrow?"

  Lou didn't sound like he had been drinking. And I'd never known Lou to drink an alcoholic beverage. But neither had I known him to volunteer to drive anytime except when we double-dated. And he only volunteered then because we didn't want to subject our girlfriends to my less than cavernous yellow VW bug, affectionately known as Lightning, as in lightning bug. Instead, we rode in his immaculately clean red-and-white 1957 Chevy that he had failed to name, because he lacked my imagination. I tried to remember if Lou had ever driven his car out of town. We had rented a van when we took the girls to Gatlinburg, but had we ever taken Lou's pride and joy out of town? I couldn't remember it if we had.

  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 b
lack 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."

  5

  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 g
et 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."

  "Both series mysteries?"

  "Are there any other kind of books other than whodunits?"

  "You've sold me. I'll take the first two in each series. If I don't like them I'll camp out on your doorstep and demand twice my money back."

  He laughed and stuck his hand out to shake mine.

  "You're my kind of guy," Portwood said. "I'm surprised no one has written a series about you yet."

  "Who says they haven't?"

  He laughed again.

  As Col. Portwood started to sign my books, I looked over at the next table where an author motioned for me to come over there.

  "When you get home, you'll just toss Cereal's garbage in the fireplace. I don't want you to think your trip here was for naught, so let me fix you up with some fine mysteries, written the way people used to write."

  Col. Portwood heard this and retaliated.

  "The name is Cyril, not Cereal, but I'm affectionately known as the Colonel. At least until I'm knighted, which I don't think is far away."

  "He means charged, not knighted."

  "Yeah, get some of his books if you like your books stale. People have been picking his up all morning, then going up into the stands to sit down and read a page. Then they come back and toss them back down on his table. That's the reason why he has so many left. See how dog-eared the pages are. The only way to enjoy his books is to have some John Barleycorn handy."

  I looked at the books. They looked in mint condition, not dog-eared, and he had no more books on the table than the man who referred to himself as the Colonel.

  "Well, the only way to truly judge the two of you is to buy an equal amount of both."

  I looked down at the man's name.