Murder at the Book Fair

by Steve Demaree

  "Fine. And we won't talk to all the other authors. Authors who write children's books usually aren't murderers. Look at Aileen Stewart. I doubt if she would kill an ant. We'll probably narrow it down to the ones who were near Portwood. I've already trimmed Lynwood Montell from my suspects list."

  "What about Bill Noel?"

  "I think I'll leave him on there for a while. He can't say he was in on or around Folly when it happened."

  "What kind of a fool names an island Folly anyway?"

  +++

  I was enjoying my last peaceful evening for a while when Frank called.

  "Cy. Frank. I didn't wake you, did I?"

  "No, I just got through instructing my assistant as to the proper way to peel my grapes. So, what's the verdict?"

  "The verdict is guilty, but it will be up to you to find out who's guilty."

  "So, he didn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning?"

  "Well, he did and he didn't."

  "You mean he was bleeding from a gunshot wound when he keeled over from the poisonous gas?"

  "Something like that. See, he died from carbon monoxide, but if that hadn't gotten him another poison in his body would have taken care of him. Someone certainly wanted to hasten his demise. And not only was he given a slow-acting poison, but he was given a mild sedative, too. The sedative didn't have anything to do with his death, but it would have made him sleepy eventually. If it happened in his garage, he might have gone to sleep before the carbon monoxide did its thing. All I can tell you is that the body wasn't moved after death. Wherever he was found was where he died."

  "So when was the poison administered, and how?"

  "I can only guess at the first, but the second was in some kind of food or drink. If I had gotten him sooner I could be more accurate. All I can say is that it could have been sometime Friday night, but more than likely it was between breakfast on Saturday morning and sometime Saturday night, and it was given to him in something he ingested and digested. Food or drink, not medication."

  "I guess that means Lou and I are suspects. We saw him on Saturday."

  "You question Lou and have him question you. Either you can find the murderer quickly, or eliminate two of the suspects."

  "And that will narrow it down to four thousand or so others."

  "Cy, you should become a medical examiner. The gunshot wounds and knifings are easy. And you can always guess at the other stuff. You don't have a problem seeing internal organs and sniffing smells that would turn a skunk away, do you?"

  "No. Lou has ridden in my car."

  "I'll tell him you said that. And I didn't know you've seen Lou's internal organs."

  "Just one of them. I can't remember if it's a Wurlitzer or a Yahama."

  "You need to take up playing the bagpipes and the accordion, so you can offend more people."

  "You mean you haven't bought any of my CDs?"

  "I need to talk to someone more intelligent. I'm going back to the corpse."

  9

  I hung up and called Lou.

  "Lou, it's official now. We're going back to work."

  "You mean Dan and Heather quit already."

  "No, I mean Frank called. It was murder. Someone poisoned Portwood."

  "I hate it when my Portwood has been poisoned."

  "Am I going to have to put up with you for the next few days?"

  "Are we going through this again?"

  "No. Let's leave early so we can get a good bit done tomorrow."

  "Maybe we won't have to. Maybe the first person we see will confess."

  "Has that ever happened before?"

  "No, but this is only our second murder since we retired. Maybe the guilty are turning over a new leaf."

  "They are. A table leaf. And they are using it to bat someone over the head."

  "I thought you said Portwood was poisoned. Did someone hit him over the head in order to get the poison to go down."

  "Say goodnight, Gracie. And I'll pick you up much too early in the morning. How does 8:00 sound?"

  "It has always sounded better to me than it has to you."

  "You got that right. I always was the smart one. See you at 8:00."

  +++

  "Herb. Cy. It turns out both you and the Doc were right."

  "How could we both be right?"

  "Well, he died of carbon monoxide poison, but if he had lived a little longer he would have died of the other poison in his body. Anything you might want to tell me before I get started?"

  "Have you read the journal yet?"

  "Yes. I went ahead and read it in case Portwood was murdered and we needed to get busy. There was nothing in there that pointed toward a particular person. It was pretty much an itinerary of what he planned to do that week."

  "Did Frank have any idea where and when he was poisoned?"

  "Sometime between late Friday afternoon and Saturday night. So, more than likely it happened at the book fair, but it could have happened after he got home. But if it did, whoever poisoned him poisoned him in the garage, or before he got to it. His body wasn't moved after he died."

  "Well, I don't know who might have done it in Frankfort. I guess you will have to find that out. But I know about the people around here. It looks like you might have to work in a trip to Frankfort and one down here into your schedule. And let me know when you're coming this way. Maybe we can do lunch. Like I said, Cyril Portwood had a lot of money. Start with his lawyer, Bert McHugh, who incidentally is in Frankfort where Portwood is from, not down here. He can tell you who will inherit. I assume you'll talk to anyone who might have seen Portwood during the last week. And I don't want to tell you how to run your investigation, but don't forget his girlfriend down here. I still think she saw him on Saturday night. Whether he was already dead or dying I don't know. But I guess it's possible she could have poisoned him when he got home, and that's the reason she didn't report him dead until Sunday morning. I do know that someone turned off the car ignition, and it had to have been her or the neighbor across the road. It's too far out to think Portwood did it just as he died. So, I would think that if you don't solve it in Frankfort then you at least need to talk to both of his neighbors. Under the circumstances I don't think anyone else down here could have done it."

  "Give me their names. He didn't mention either one of them in the journal."

  "The girlfriend is Millie Longacre. The guy across the road is Bob Barney. You're not familiar with this area, but Portwood lived way out in the country, at the end of a dead-end road, and almost on top of the Ohio River. I know both of these people, and both of them are part bloodhound. The only way anyone else got near Portwood's house was if they were on foot or came down the river on a boat. The river is roughly a quarter of a mile from Portwood's house, which means it was far enough away that a boat couldn't have been heard, but there aren't any good landing places near his house. And either of those two neighbors would have heard any car coming down the road. Especially since I doubt if over a half dozen cars go down that road in a month. Well, a half dozen other than the three of them, and I doubt if anyone else drives it in the winter. Period. Of course this didn't happen in the winter."

  "Any idea where the Colonel's brother and sister live? The ones he doesn't speak to?"

  "Well, he never talked about them, but I'm pretty sure neither of them moved away from Frankfort."

  I thanked Herb and hung up. I would be heading somewhere near Westport, Kentucky and to Frankfort for sure. I wasn't sure where else I would be going. I planned to talk to anyone mentioned in the journal, and see about talking to someone who had something to do with the Kentucky Book Fair. I know those events don't happen by themselves, and someone had to invite the Colonel and all those other authors. I wanted to know how well any of them knew Portwood, and if any of them were disgusted enough with him to murder him.

  10

  I picked up Lou early Tuesday morning. We stopped for breakfast at Jerry's Drive-In Restaurant in Paris. We could both remember when you could
find a Jerry's in many towns, and all over Lexington. My parents talked about spending many a night at different Jerry's when they were teenagers. They would drive to one nearby town or another. They would have spent more nights at Jerry's if we had had one in Hilldale.

  We left Jerry's and took the picturesque drive from Paris to Lexington, past a few horse farms, although none of the famous ones are on that road.

  "What's today's clue? Or did you get another one?"

  "Of course I did. It's a huge chunk of change."

  "A huge chunk of change?"

  "Who do you think you are? Carnac the Magnificent?"

  "No, he's the only person I know who's smarter and funnier than I am."

  "He died, you know."

  "I wonder if he saw it coming."

  "I don't know, but I heard Aunt Blabby warned him."

  I'm sad that most of the truly funny people are no longer living. At least we have DVDs to help people today know what real humor is like.

  +++

  According to Portwood's journal he left home late on Tuesday morning and checked in the Capital Plaza Hotel that afternoon. He spent the rest of the day in his room and ate dinner in the hotel that night. I was sure that Lou and I wouldn't be able to finish our investigation and get a confession in one day, as magnificent as we are. So, we too would take a couple of rooms at the hotel and check to see if anyone in the capital city noticed anything out of the way regarding Portwood's demeanor the first couple of days. I had already called a couple of people and lined up my first two interviews. I figured others would stem from those.

  We arrived at the hotel and were told that our rooms wouldn't be ready for a few minutes. I asked if I could speak to anyone who talked with Cyril Portwood when he checked in a few days earlier. A couple of minutes later Lou and I were face to face with the manager. I explained why we were there. The manager left, then returned a couple of minutes later.

  "You're right that Cyril Portwood, the author, stayed with us last week, but I spoke to the person in charge of booking the authors' rooms and found out that he called on Monday, said that he was ill and wouldn't arrive until Thursday. I checked and he did check in on Thursday afternoon and checked out Saturday morning. Most authors who stay here check in on Friday and check out Saturday morning early before the Book Fair starts, but some come in on Thursday or stay until Sunday."

  "And you're sure that he didn't check in until Thursday. I have something in writing that says that he checked in on Tuesday."

  "Well, evidently that was his plan, before he became ill. But I'm sure he didn't get here until Thursday."

  "And did anyone notice anything out of the way during his stay? Or did anyone ask for him at the desk."

  "I wouldn't know if anyone asked for him. Of course we don't give out room numbers. But no one reported anything out of the way about any guest's stay last week."

  I thanked her for her time and turned away for Lou and I to share our puzzlement by ourselves.

  "I know he was quite a character, but how many guys write in their journal before something happens?"

  "None that I know of."

  I guessed that I could toss out Wednesdays meanderings, too. There was no need for me to check with Daniel Boone to see if Portwood visited his grave on Wednesday, or to check at the Capitol to see if he caused a ruckus while he was there. And I guessed that the carriage ride during the Candlelight celebration was out, too. No shops visited. No restaurants to check. It really didn't matter. Frank didn't think he was poisoned before late Friday afternoon or Friday evening anyway, so whatever he was given wasn't responsible for him being sick on Monday.

  We were told our rooms would be available in a few minutes, so we waited in a couple of comfortable chairs in the lobby until we could unload our luggage. A short time later, I was up on the eighth floor, looking out the window at the view of the river, wishing I hadn't made plans for the afternoon, so I could nap on my king-size bed instead. But Lou and I were back in work mode again. Only this time if felt different.

  A few minutes later Lou and I were seated across from one another at Gibby's, a place that was recommended to us, a place that Portwood didn't go to on Wednesday, even though his journal said he did. I didn't care whether he went there or not. The food was good, and there were a variety of options. There was even a choice of three types of salads for a certain price. And lots of choices of deli sandwiches, and even spaghetti and meatballs if we were so inclined.

  It didn't matter to me or the owner of Gibby's that Portwood didn't make it when he said he would. Provided last week was similar to this week. They wouldn't have had room for him. Lou and I slipped into the last booth, which was only available after someone left it while we were in line ordering. Evidently, a lot of people who work downtown and had never seen Portwood's journal thought highly of Gibby's, too. And it wasn't as if Gibby's was the only place to eat. There was a pizza place next door, which I overheard someone saying was worth checking out, too. And there was an Italian place nearby that someone said served the best food in Frankfort.

  11

  I had made an appointment to talk with Bert McHugh, Portwood's lawyer, for 2:00, and with Connie Crowe, the manager of the Kentucky Book Fair at 3:00. I like to be punctual, so we arrived at the lawyer's office at 1:50. He had just gotten back from lunch and had his secretary motion us on in.

  McHugh had already heard of Portwood's death before I contacted him, but only learned that someone had helped it along when I called him for an appointment. I knew his time was valuable, as was mine, so we refrained from comparing our golf games. Besides, the course I play on allowed my ball to go from tee to green much quicker than a ball would on the course that McHugh plays.

  "What can you tell me about Col. Cyril Portwood?"

  "How long do you have?" he asked, and then laughed.

  "Just hit the high spots that might be a motive for murder."

  "Well, I don't know how much you know about him, but he was loaded. And his money didn't come from book sales. His grandfather inherited a lot of money and added to it during his lifetime. By grandfather I mean his mother's father. Amelia Cooksey married Reginald Portwood, who died long before he could spend all of her vast fortune. But he was around long enough to provide Amelia with three children. Amelia believed in the biblical sense of inheritance, and provided for most of her fortune to go to her oldest son Cyril when she died. She doted on him and he doted on her. She more so on him when he went through a sick spell as a child. He more so on her when she became bedridden with cancer. It wasn't as if she neglected her other two children, but everyone knew that Cyril was her favorite, and that included her other two children. From the time I first met Amelia, when her children were adolescents, Cyril was quite a character and by far the most outgoing of the three. I have no idea if how they were treated had anything to do with it. Cyril never met a stranger and was always telling tall tales. He did it to entertain rather than take advantage of another person. Amelia was never lavish in her spending, and neither was Cyril. If you happen to visit his home up on the Ohio River you will see that while there is some acreage that accompanies it, it is a home that many people can afford. Cyril wasn't lazy, but he never worked. He was more about having fun and making others' lives better than adding to a fortune that didn't need any addition. His fortune was well over a million or two. Incidentally, none of Reginald and Amelia's three children ever married.

  "When Amelia died, her will, which I drew up, allowed for Cyril to inherit vast millions of dollars, while her other two children received $50,000 each, which both of them went through quickly. When Cyril wouldn't dish out another $50,000 they grew even more distant. If that was possible. I think he sees them only once a year. Both Archie and Hazel make it a point to come to each Kentucky Book Fair and to buy a book from each author seated near their brother without acknowledging that he is there."

  "I assume that Portwood left a will?"

  "He did. And I drew up his will, too."
<
br />   "How did his brother and sister fare?"

  "They each will receive another $50,000, although I doubt if either of them has any idea whether they will receive all of his fortune or none of it. He left $100,000 to his next-door neighbor, Millie Longacre, and $25,000 to Bob Barney, his neighbor across the road. He relegated another sum of money so that each library in the state and each middle and high school in the state will receive two copies of each of his books, of which there are seventeen. His property goes to Miss Longacre, and the rest of his money will be given to charities, with the bulk of it going to the American Cancer Society and Hospice of the Bluegrass."

  "Do you know if Miss Longacre or Mr. Barney know that they will inherit something?"

  "I suspect that Miss Longacre does, but I don't know that for a fact."

  "How long ago did you draw up this will?"

  "It was a few years ago, but we met the other day for lunch and he expressed an interest in changing it. I was not in favor of that."

  "Did he propose his changes to you?"

  "He did. He talked of cutting his siblings inheritance to one dollar, and reducing the amount he would be giving to Miss Longacre. They had talked of marriage, but he told me he had called off the wedding."

  "Did he say to whom that money would be going?"

  "He was still thinking about that. We were to get together again in a few weeks after he made up his mind."

  "On what day did you get together with him?"

  "It was Friday for lunch. We went to Rick's White Light Diner. The owner of that place is even more of a character than Cyril Portwood. And you can order alligator there, which could save you a trip to Louisiana or Florida."

  "At any time in the last few days did he mention that he was upset with anyone, or that he would be seeing someone and dreading the encounter?"

  "He didn't mention anything to me."