Wells’s corrugated face turned a bright pink. It was like seeing Inspector Battle blush.
He made a strangled noise deep in his throat, and Laurel, of course, took it for assent. She stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with her lips.
Chief Wells fled.
As the class began to file out, Jessup paused by the lectern. “Mrs. Darling, I don’t understand how you knew Kelly was Deep Throat.”
Laurel surged to join them. “Dear Mr. Jessup.” Annie thought the little man might faint from happiness on the spot. “Don’t you see, there never was a Deep Throat!” She whirled toward her daughter-in-law. “That’s what confused everything, didn’t it, dear?”
That was one way of putting it, and, Annie thought, as good a way as any.
“That’s right,” Annie agreed. “Kelly had made friends with poor Emily, who was, obviously, always starved for attention from anyone. He must have flattered her, told her she had the makings of a wonderful reporter. When she trusted him, he persuaded her to make him a copy of the keys to the office and to the confidential files. He may have stressed what a service this would be, uncovering the evils in the department—for example, Crandall’s relationship with Georgia. You can bet that would have pleased Emily, to see Georgia and Crandall in trouble. So, she gave him the keys. He probably crept in late one night and had all the time he needed with the files. Emily, of course, had no idea there was anything discreditable in Mrs. Porter’s file. She would have laughed had anyone suggested it. As for Kelly, he showed what a bastard he was, because he used that for his first story, and, as a matter of fact, the files included the reason why Porter took the money. He didn’t use that because the story was stronger without it, indicating a real cover-up on the part of Burke. When the story came out, Emily was devastated. When Mrs. Porter died, she was hysterical. And that wasn’t a normal response, even if Mrs. Porter had been her only friend. The violence of her reaction indicated more than grief. It indicated guilt. What could Emily be guilty of? She couldn’t be Deep Throat herself. She thought too much of Mrs. Porter.
“But Emily had access to the keys. Not a single faculty member needed keys to obtain that information. Whom did that leave? Brad Kelly.
“And Brad Kelly was the only one with everything to lose if it came out that he had been in the files. He could be charged with theft. If he went to jail—and you can bet Burke would have bent every effort to send him there—he would lose his post as editor. Further, it would probably cost him his Fulbright. So when Burke wormed the truth out of Emily, he signed his own death warrant. After killing Burke, Kelly once again did his best to focus the crime on the faculty, by stealing the confidential files. And where were they found? In the men’s room right across the hall. And that’s where Kelly claimed he’d gone when he left Emily in his office.” Annie turned and traced the path on her blackboard. Then she pointed at the faculty offices on the second floor. “There they all were, but there they stayed. Here was the murderer,” and she crossed an X in Kelly’s office.
“As for the bomb, that was part of Kelly’s long-term plan. First he obtained the information and broke the story. That attracted attention. Then he splashed blood on the office door. It was fortunate for him that Georgia Finney once again was where she shouldn’t have been. He threw the blood. It was seen as another attempt to frighten the stalwart young editor of The Crier. His fame was spreading. Then he prepared the bomb. He planned, of course, for it to go off when no one was there, but it would look as though an effort had been made to kill Brad Kelly. Instead, driven by desperation, when Emily came into the building, he diverted her to his office, perhaps with some story that Burke was going to join them there and Kelly was going to write a story admitting the hoax and apologizing. Emily followed right along. The bomb was there. He triggered it, then excused himself, saying something like he’d go and tell Burke she was there. He went down the hall into the men’s room, waited, and bang, Emily was dead. And as a delicious plus, Brad Kelly was hailed for his bravery in persisting in his efforts to reveal the truth about the journalism department.”
“Not a very nice young man. Wanted his own way at all costs. Reminds me somewhat of Jacqueline de Bellefort in Death on the Nile,” Henny observed sagely. “And without even love as an excuse.”
“But it’s love or the lack of it that caused so much of the unhappiness here,” Laurel murmured throatily. “As Mary Roberts Rinehart would have understood so well.”
“An interesting exercise,” Miss Dora said sourly, “but nothing to match any of Miss Sayers’s books. No intellectual conversations.” She sniffed, rummaged in her carryall, and plucked out a sheet from an old-fashioned children’s writing tablet. She thrust it at Annie.
Unfolding the paper, Annie saw the spidery, spiky handwriting. She was enchanted. Wait until Henny saw this: Miss Marple to the life. Then she began to read. As she did, she realized a crisp voice was echoing the very same information in her ear and there was a scratchy sound of chalk against the blackboard.
“First painting: File for Record by Phoebe Atwood Taylor writing as Alice Tilton.
“Second painting: Home Sweet Homicide by Craig Rice.
“Third painting: God Save the Mark by Donald Westlake.
“Fourth painting: Fletch by Gregory Mcdonald.
“Fifth painting: Malice in Maggody by Joan Hess.”
Annie looked at Henny, standing by her side, gesturing victoriously at the paintings.
“Certainly gave me a run for my money. But I came up with it. I certainly did. Fletch. I knew I’d track it down.” Henny sighed, almost giddy with relief. “Sure glad I figured it out first, saved my autographed copy of The Mysterious Affair at Styles. I would be sick if I lost it. Plus, I get a bonus. That great copy of The Beast Must Die.”
Annie hated to puncture her euphoria. “Henny, gosh, I’m sorry, but just the instant before you told me, Miss Dora handed me the answers. See,” and she proffered the tablet paper with the spiky handwriting.
Henny grabbed the sheet and her bony shoulders slumped. “Oh.” She swallowed. “Oh, well. That happens, doesn’t it. I’ll get the book for you.”
“Oh no, no, this was a tie, Henny. I wouldn’t dream of taking your Styles away from you.”
“Annie, you are a sport!”
“And you were so much help with the class and solving the murder, why, you can have your bonus book!”
“Annie!” Henny embraced her.
The staccato thumping of the cane broke them apart. Miss Dora, her eyes glittering with bloodcurdling determination, demanded, “And my bonus book?”
“And mine, I should think,” a husky voice warbled from the blackboard as Laurel pointed winsomely at her own list of titles. They were, of course, right on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAROLYN G. HART is the author of the Death on Demand mysteries featuring Annie Darling, including Something Wicked, for which she won an Agatha and an Anthony; Honeymoon with Murder, which won an Anthony; and A Little Class on Murder, which won a Macavity. She is also the author of the Henrie O mysteries. She lives in Oklahoma City with her husband, Phil.
If you enjoyed A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER, you will want to read Carolyn’s mystery, MINT JULEP MURDER. Available now!
Here is a special look at MINT JULEP MURDER.
MINT JULEP MURDER
A Death on Demand Mystery
by
CAROLYN G. HART
Annie Lawrence Darling almost sideswiped a cleaner’s van when she neglected to yield at the Sea Pines traffic circle. Although she didn’t know how anybody could be expected to master the intricate give-and-take of the circle, in her view as complex as the instructions for assembling a computer. In a word, the damn traffic circle wasn’t user-friendly. Despite its evident problems, however, island residents tenaciously refused to approve a change to stoplights. Annie gritted her teeth and lifted her hands briefly from the wheel in a mea culpa apology to the indignant driver of the cleaner’s van. If bumper-to-bum
per cars weren’t bad enough, the island’s stubborn retention of the two traffic circles at the beginning and end of Pope Avenue hopelessly aggravated the problem.
But she managed to make the swing around and peel off onto Pope without smacking into another vehicle, even taking time to notice the ducks who inhabited the small pond and the sign cautioning traffic to watch for crossing ducks. She glanced at her watch and picked up speed.
She would be making this trip a lot today, each time with an author. She tried to see the landscape with a stranger’s eye and smiled with almost proprietorial pride at the dense pockets of huge pines, the always appealing compact palmettos, the blooming oleanders in the grassy median, the carefully homogenized commercial buildings in shades of beige, tan, and lime.
She would have enjoyed taking her charges to Broward’s Rock with its quiet lanes and equally gorgeous beach, but Hilton Head, though bustling, was just as lovely. May was a perfect month on any of the Sea Islands. The air was balmy, the temperature in the seventies, and no humidity. Hilton Head’s fourteen miles of beaches were never really crowded, even at the height of the tourist season.
Annie pulled into the Buccaneer’s parking lot. The Festival Committee couldn’t have assigned her charges to a nicer hotel. The Festival events were occurring at open-air, tented booths on the public entrance to Coligny Beach, just a short stroll from the Buccaneer. Authors were also quartered at the beachfront Holiday Inn and at several other luxurious beachfront hotels.
The Buccaneer was one of Annie’s favorite hotels. Small, elegant, and charming, it was built like an Italian villa with dusky mauve stuccoed walls and arched windows.
She hurried up the oyster shell path between fragrant banana shrubs. Brilliantly flowering hibiscus flamed in clay pots by the side entrance.
She had a hand on the door when the six-foot-tall pittosporum bush quivered. Henny Brawley darted out into the path. “Annie, I’m so glad to see you.”
Broward’s Rock’s most accomplished reader of mystery fiction wore a scarlet linen suit. A slender gold necklace supported an oblong ceramic likeness of Agatha Christie. Henny’s gray hair was swept back in soft waves. Her expression of surprise mingled with delight would have done justice to Jessica Fletcher upon finding a corpse. Annie wondered how long Henny had lurked behind the bush, waiting.
“How’d you know I’d come in by the side door?”
Henny’s eyes narrowed, then she capitulated. “You had to park,” she said tersely. “Look, I wanted to give you this.” She thrust a two-by-three-inch piece of cardboard into Annie’s hand. “I know this will hit the bestseller list. I’m thinking a little book, with a single quote on each page. You know, like Life’s Little Instruction Book or Everything I Know I Learned from My Cat. A book doesn’t have to be big to succeed, just big in scope!” She nodded in undisguised self-congratulation. “The Quotable Sleuth can’t miss, Annie. You can leave a message for me at the desk. Room 403.” She smiled brightly and turned away, paused, called back, “I plan to use Miss Marple on page one: ‘The great thing to avoid is having in any way a trustful mind.’
“Then at the bottom of the page, it will say: Jane Marple, A Pocket Full of Rye. Isn’t that wonderful? Annie, I’m so excited!”
With a wave of her hand, Henny disappeared behind the pittosporum bush.
Annie almost called out to tell Henny about a terrific collection, The Mystery Lovers’ Book of Quotations by Jane Horning. Then, with a decided headshake, she dropped the piece of cardboard into her purse. No reason to deflate Death on Demand’s indefatigable reader. Henny’s book would have its own flavor. Still, Annie had other things to do than focus on her best customer’s search for a publisher. Now all Annie needed to top off her morning would be for Miss Dora to be waiting inside.
A long, cool hallway with meeting rooms—Snowy Egret, White Ibis, Great Blue Heron, Brown Pelican—led to the central lobby and a rectangular reflecting pool. Whitewashed walls gave the lobby a bright, fresh aura. Brilliant scarlet bougainvillea bloomed in yellow terra-cotta urns.
Annie went directly to the desk. The assistant manager greeted her cheerfully. Jeff Garrett’s carrot-hued hair sprigged in all directions. Freckles spattered his snub nose. His wide mouth spread in an infectious grin that Annie returned despite her preoccupation. She felt she and Jeff had forged a bond, she’d been there so often in recent days.
“Everything’s just as you ordered, Annie. Fruit baskets and a magnum of champagne in each room. And, let’s see, a manicurist will be up to Ms. Sinclair’s room at four, the six-foot pine board’s in place beneath Mrs. Kirby’s mattress, the foot massage appliance is in Mr. Crabtree’s suite.” Jeff paused, leaned forward, and his voice dropped. “Got a call this morning with a special request from Mr. Blake. I made a special trip off-island to pick up three ‘adult’ videos for his suite.”
Annie merely nodded, but she felt a twinge of surprise. Alan Blake’s charming, boyish persona didn’t square with the X-rated video request. But as Miss Dora was wont to remark: You can’t always tell a package from its cover. In any event, Annie was glad Blake hadn’t asked her to get the videos. There was a limit to how helpful she intended to be.
Jeff’s eyes widened. “Do you know how much those kind of movies cost? Wow. If my wife finds out I’ve been in that place, I’m in deep trouble”—he glanced down at a list—“and I’ve got the keys ready for you.” He pulled out a manila envelope from a drawer. “You’ll find the room numbers inside with the keys. And do you want the key to your suite?”
Annie took both the envelope and her own key and thanked him. She opened the larger envelope. Five folders with oblong cardboard electronic keys were enclosed. She handed the folder for Room 506 to Garrett. “Emma Clyde will pick her key up at the desk.” At least, Emma should—if she would. Annie added calling Emma to her mental list of responsibilities. She tucked the other four folders back into the envelope. “I understand Kenneth Hazlitt is staying here. Has he checked in?”
Jeff stepped to a computer, punched in the name. “Yes. Could I call for you?”
She felt a tiny spurt of irritation. For heaven’s sake, she was hardly a security risk. Jeff knew who she was. He had just handed her the oblong cardboard room keys for five expected guests. To be fair to Jeff, that was different. The Festival was paying for the accommodations for the honorees. And it was contrary to hotel policy to provide inquirers with the room numbers of guests. So okay, Jeff was just following the rules.
“Yes, please.”
Jeff nodded toward an alcove. “The house phones are over there, Annie.”
“Thanks.” She crossed to the alcove, picked up a receiver.
The desk rang the room.
‘Hello.” The deep drawl was instantly attractive.
“May I speak to Mr. Hazlitt, please?”
“Which one?”
“Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.”
“Ken’s not in. This is Willie. Can I help you?”
Damn. Annie looked again at her watch. “I need to speak with Mr. Hazlitt. Do you know when he will return?”
“Who knows? If he’s found a good party, it may be a while. But we’ve got our own little party this afternoon, and a book open house all day tomorrow. You can count on catching him one time or the other. Ken never misses a party, especially not his own.”
“Do you know anything about the book he’s writing?” She had reached that level of desperation.
“Not much,” Willie replied cheerfully. “But I can paw through the stuff we brought. See if I find anything. I think maybe there’re some flyers he’s going to have at the booth. Kind of a teaser, you know? For the open house. Are you press?”
Annie would have claimed membership in the Mafia if she thought it would help. She gave it some consideration (she credited a vicious second-grade teacher with helping her shed any compunction always to tell the truth), but in this instance, she didn’t see any advantage to be gained. “No. I’m a bookseller, and I’m serving as an author liaiso
n.” It sounded official even if it didn’t have a thing to do with Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt’s literary aspirations. “Could I have a flyer?”
“Sure. Come on up. Room 500.”
Annie was halfway across the lobby when she remembered Emma. She scooted back to the alcove, found a pay phone, and dialed Emma’s number. The answering machine picked up. Of course. But Annie knew damn well Broward’s Rock’s most famous author was in her office because Emma’s routine was invariable—a half-hour walk on the beach in front of her palatial home, then three hours at her computer. Neither war nor storms (excepting electrical failures) nor holidays nor celebrations nor illness (unless major surgery) varied Emma’s writing schedule.
Annie enunciated loudly and clearly. “Emma, the Medallions are strictly on the up-and-up. I’ve got the word straight—”
Emma picked up her phone. “From whom?”
“Blue Benedict. She swears that Hazlitt guy had nothing to do with your selection. So you’ll come, won’t you?”
The silence was frosty—and thoughtful. Emma’s voice was as cool and sharp as a dueling sword. “If that’s true, it makes Kenneth’s novel even more interesting.”
And she hung up.
Annie glared at the phone. The public might adore dear Marigold Rembrandt (“… America’s sweetest and canniest sleuth,” The New York Times. “… delights readers with her warmth and charisma,” Chicago Sun-Times. “… won the hearts of readers from coast to coast,” the Los Angeles Times), but her creator had about as much charm for Annie as the seven-foot alligator that lived in the pond behind Annie’s home. Annie knew dangerous beasts when she saw them.
Annie slammed the receiver into its cradle, jolting her fingers. “Ouch.”
All the way up in the elevator, Annie tried to figure it out. Why did it make Hazlitt’s novel more interesting? Or was Emma being supercilious?
And did Annie really give a damn?
Well, yes. She was responsible for the care and feeding of the honorees and their mental well-being throughout the Festival. So, yes. But she didn’t understand what Emma meant ….
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