Free Mint Julep Murder by Carolyn G. Hart

everyone saying?”
    Annie would have sworn that Emma’s broad mouth twitched.
    “That …” Annie looked at Max for inspiration. His face was sympathetic, but he didn’t say a word. Annie knew she only had one hope, a diversionary tactic.
    “Emma, what was the deal with Kenneth Hazlitt and goldfish?”
    Amusement flickered briefly in Emma’s cool blue eyes. “Oh, yes. The famous goldfish caper. Kenneth was throwing a party for a Mint Julep book on Indonesia. And don’t ask me why a Georgia press would buy that title. Anyway, the author had arranged for Indonesian delicacies to be delivered by air freight from Los Angeles. For some reason, the stuff didn’t show up. So an hour before the party started, Kenneth scooped up eight goldfish—the big ones—out of a pond in his backyard, smoked them in his barbecue, chopped them up, and served them at the party on wheat thins. People raved about the great taste. Of course, Kenneth waited until every scrap was gone, then, ho ho ho, he announced what he’d done. It became the most famous book party of the year.”
    For just an instant, a faint smile touched Emma’s square face. Then she leaned forward and picked up the invitation. Slowly, she crushed it in that strong, capable hand.
(Did he fall? Was he pushed?)
She stared at the crumpled invitation for a moment. “Kenneth always likes to top himself. I’m afraid that’s what he has in mind for today. But I don’t like the idea of being served up like cubed carp.”
    “Don’t go,” Annie said briskly.
    Emma’s chilly eyes moved from the invitation to Annie.
    Annie nodded emphatically. “It’s like, What if they had a war and nobody came? If the authors don’t come, his party will be a flop.”
    “I’d like to think so.” Her gruff voice was thoughtful. “But, Annie, what if it isn’t?”

Chapter 8
    “Oh, Max, isn’t it gorgeous!” Annie spread her arms wide as if to encompass all of the Dixie Book Festival.
    Red-and-white-striped awnings projected over the booths that dotted the broad wooden plaza leading to the public beach. Every booth was crammed with books. Country music blared from loudspeakers. An area near the boardwalk offered delicacies from island restaurants, and a large poster announced signing and reading times. The air was as silky and soft as cat fur. A gentle sea breeze fluttered the awnings. Sand gritted underfoot on the gray wooden planking. The tangy smell of the ocean competed with the sour and sweet scents wafting from the hot dog vendor and the cotton candy stand. And the books!
    Annie stopped in front of the poster. “Max, look! Marilyn Schwartz is speaking at four. She is
so
funny. We can’t miss that.”
    People swarmed and thronged and milled. It was a sight guaranteed to delight the Chamber of Commerce and annoy the growth-curbing mayor.
    Annie spotted Leah Kirby deep in conversation with a slim blond woman, who stood with her hands jammed in the pockets of her dirndl skirt. Leah gestured emphatically. The author’s face was flushed with anger. Her companion shook her head vigorously.
    Annie glanced around. Carl Kirby wasn’t there.
    A fan shyly stepped up, holding out a copy of Kirby’s latest book. The author looked blank for a moment, then she forced a smile. She nodded, reached out for the book.
    Annie tugged on Max’s arm. “There, Max. Over by the third booth. That’s Leah Kirby.” Annie’s grip tightened. “And look, coming up behind them, that good-looking guy in the orange polo shirt, the one who looks like he’s spoiling for a fight, that’s Alan Blake.” Quickly she told Max about the videos. “I wonder if he’s hunting for Kenneth Hazlitt? Maybe I should let Blake take him on.”
    But she’d promised Blue Benedict she’d handle it.
    Annie headed for the information booth and a large map indicating exhibitors’ stalls. She nodded in approval. Blue had done a great job. The book booths were easily accessible. Reading and autograph sessions were set