Murder at the Book Fair

by Steve Demaree

  I began gently by asking them about the KBF, and what they did for the event, before I mentioned any authors' names. I focused on authors in general before I got to dead authors we all might know. They were shocked to hear that Portwood had been murdered, and more shocked when I told them it could have happened at the KBF. Neither knew of any enemies he had, and neither of them seemed to know about his bank account. I thought they were telling the truth so the words "$50,000" never came up. Both of them told me they knew Portwood, but never saw him away from the KBF. Then I asked them about Jake Cartwright. I was surprised they didn't know him any better than they did Portwood, since he lived in the same county they did. When I brought this up I learned that Cartwright lived on the other side of the county. Actually, I already knew this, but I learned that they knew it, too. The Hammonds said that they liked both men, and that most of the authors they had met, famous or infamous, were nice people, and not full of themselves. I figured those who were full of themselves were invited to inferior book fairs instead. Or not invited anywhere. The only clue I received from them was when I asked if they spotted anything out of the ordinary. They said that someone was there posing as a volunteer, but they didn't think the person had gone through the volunteer training, and maybe was there for some other reason. Neither noticed the young man, whose name they didn't know, go near Portwood or do anything out of the way, but he was helping out on Portwood's row. But then both Mr. and Mrs. Hammond said that they were responsible for a long row of authors and something could have happened when they were on the other end. I remembered how long the row was and agreed that someone could be murdered on one end of a row without anyone on the other end knowing it had happened unless someone screamed. Of course both of the Hammonds pointed out that there were other volunteers there too, so they weren't the only ones helping out. I got a description of the fictitious volunteer, but thirty minutes later I hadn't gathered any information to make me zero in on any one person. I planned to talk to some of the authors who sat on the same row where Portwood sat. I would see if any of them noticed anything out of the ordinary from one of the volunteers. I still had trouble believing that anyone poisoned Portwood in front of hundreds of people. If his water or lunch was poisoned, my guess was that it happened before he received it. I would ask the other authors at Portwood's table and see who might have handed him a bottle of water. With everyone paying attention to the people in front of them, I doubted if anyone could tell me much about what happened to Portwood.

  Neither of the Hammonds knew exactly where Jake Cartwright lived, but when I gave them the name of his road they wrote down directions for me to get there. Sometimes a local's directions are better than following a GPS. But then I'd had friends who had told me stories about ending up on a dead-end street or next to a grassy field after following a GPS or a local's directions.

  17

  If there had been somewhere where we could have stopped for provisions for our trek back to Lawrenceburg I would have stopped, but most of what we saw were farmhouses, and I didn't know if the people who lived in them were the shooting kind or the neighborly kind. God was with us so we didn't come up behind anyone seated on a tractor seat or a horse-drawn carriage carrying Amish or English. In a couple days time we found highway 127 and headed north past Lawrenceburg in hopes of finding Cartwright's house. When I got back to a place where I had a signal I called Amy Smith to see if any of her volunteers matched the description Susie Hammond had given me of the fake volunteer. She said no one matching that description had gone through volunteer training. I wondered if someone matching that description had gone through poison training.

  When we finally found Jake Cartwright's house in an area as remote as the one the Hammonds lived in, I could see why they didn't socialize with each other. I think I could have taken the Martha Layne Collins Bluegrass Parkway and been in Lexington before I navigated my way from one rural home to the other. And from what I had heard, I wasn't through seeing rural Kentucky. Outside of Westport sounded more remote than outside of Lawrenceburg, provided that was possible. But then I had to cross a river to get from the Hammonds house to Cartwright's place, and I was sure that all of my investigation anywhere near Westport would be south of the Ohio River.

  Most of the time a guy's best friend isn't the one who murders him, but sometimes it is. For that reason I didn't call Cartwright to tell him we were coming and to put some cookies, or bologna, cheese, and crackers, or hog jowls on a plate, so I hoped he would be home when we got there. From what little I know about authors, I assumed that most of them write during the day, and most of them do their writing at home. Unless Cartwright does most of his writing in the barn, we didn't disturb his writing time. The barn door opened when Lightning pulled up into what served as a driveway. Cartwright probably thought we were two lost guys who sold insurance. He approached my side of the car, and informed me that the dog that had followed him out of the barn wouldn't bite. He didn't say anything about the bull that was on the other side of a fence.

  "You guys look familiar, but I can't place where I've seen you. You don't live around here, do you?"

  "We bought the old Purdy place."

  "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the Purdy place."

  "We weren't, either. Otherwise we wouldn't have bought it. I opened the door and the whole house fell down. I'm going back to see if I can get my money back."

  Cartwright looked over at Lou.

  "He's kidding, isn't he?"

  Lou nodded.

  "So, where is it I know you from? Wait! Now I've got it! You two came to the book fair and bought some of my books, didn't you?"

  "You'd be good at picking people out of a lineup."

  "Did you come to get more books? You could have called. I would have mailed them to you."

  "No, we came about Cyril Portwood."

  "Oh, Cereal. He doesn't live with me. Only at the book fair. I bet you tried to read one of his books and now you want to know where you need to go to return those you bought from him. I always call him Cereal, but only because it infuriates him. He's probably the only man outside of England with a first name like that."

  "Oh, he's a changed man now. I don't think your calling him that will bother him anymore."

  "Oh, you don't know Cereal the way I do."

  "How well do you know him?"

  "Oh, as well as a guy can who only sees a fellow author two or three times a year. We usually eat together at least once while we're at the book fair."

  "What about this time?"

  "You mean eating? Well, if you don't count the fact that our tables were right next to each other on Saturday, we ate lunch together on Thursday after we dropped our books off, and then went and grabbed a bite to eat on Saturday before we both headed home. Why so many questions about Cereal?"

  "You don't know, do you?"

  "You sound like something's happened to him."

  "Something has. He's been murdered."

  "Someone shot him. Who would want to do that?"

  "I imagine his brother or sister would entertain that idea, but I'm not saying whether he was shot or not."

  "You're not kidding, are you?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "If this was in a book, if he was shot with a small caliber gun, it's usually a woman. A more powerful gun usually means a man did it. They say poison is a woman's crime. A man would hit him over the head, shoot him, or slide a knife into his gut."

  "What about if he was pushed off a balcony?"

  "Where was Cereal near a balcony? Did he go somewhere after I left him, before he headed home?"

  "I don't know. I didn't check his gas gauge."

  "Well, I'm sticking to my guns. S0, if there was a large hole in him, more than likely a man did it, but if he was poisoned, my guess is cherchez la femme."

  "You've mentioned poison twice now. Why poison? Most people who are murdered aren't poisoned."

  "Oh, I guess it's the author in me. I read a lot of Agatha Christie growing
up and a lot of her victims were poisoned."

  "So you think maybe I should include her on my list of suspects?"

  "From what I understand, I think she had a great alibi for last Saturday."

  "But let's compare the likelihood of poison or shooting someone. If he died at the book fair, there's much more chance of him being poisoned, because of all the witnesses. Some people will turn if they hear a gunshot. Poisoning someone doesn't make a lot of noise."

  "Well, I can tell you he wasn't killed at the book fair. Remember, he and I went to eat together afterward."

  "So you didn't poison him until afterward."

  "Ordinarily I would admit to the crime, but you seem to be serious, so I'm not admitting to poisoning him just in case he was poisoned."

  "I'm just saying that either a man or a woman might have chosen poison if there was a crowd around. And some women can be violent and shoot guns as well as men can sometimes."

  "You sound like a man with three ex-wives."

  "More like a cop who has worked a lot of murder cases. But I'll go ahead and tell you, this time the guy was poisoned. Whether a man or a woman did it, we still don't know. That's why we're out and about talking to everyone who knew him."

  "Are you really a cop?"

  "Over thirty years worth."

  "And someone poisoned him?"

  "So the autopsy said."

  "And there were a lot of people around when he was poisoned?"

  "I don't know about that. We just know that he was poisoned sometime between late afternoon on Friday and Saturday night when he got home."

  "I see. And you know that I was around him part of that time, and so you came to see me."

  "Something like that. I'm not saying you did it. I'm checking with anyone who was around him during that time. Maybe you saw someone or something suspicious."

  "Not that I can think of. Like who or what?"

  "Well, we think poison was put into something he ate or drank. At least that's usually the case. If we include every time he ate between Friday afternoon late and Saturday night, that would include the authors' reception, Saturday morning breakfast, which I assume he ate in the hotel dining room, goodies volunteers brought to him during the book signing, lunch, dinner after it was over, and maybe a snack after he got home. You were around for most of those times."

  "Pretty much all of them, except we didn't eat breakfast together on Saturday morning and I didn't go home with him. I went on over to the convention center Saturday morning and helped myself to some pastries the committee set out for us. I like to get there early, even though there's no one to buy that early. They don't open the doors to the public until 9:00."

  "These pastries, did people leave them for you on your table?"

  "No, they're in the hospitality area set aside for the authors. They're real nice to us there."

  "How hard would it be for someone to sneak into that area?"

  "Not very. But I don't think anyone would know which drink or pastry Cereal would drink or eat."

  "You didn't happen to notice if someone put something on his table, did you?"

  "Well, all of us were given a goody bag, with little treats and trinkets. Jeannie Oldham and St. Catherine's College are good enough to do that for us each year."

  "Is she the murdering type?"

  "I'd say more the tormenting type. Naw, she's real nice. Does a lot for the book fair."

  "Okay, let's go back to the beginning, but forget about anything that happened prior to the author's reception. Tell me about that."

  "Well, each year the KBF invites each of the authors to a reception on Friday night. It's not always at the same place. Many of the authors attend. We really enjoy getting together with each other and on Saturday there's not a lot of time to socialize outside of the authors at our table. Particularly during the morning and early afternoon. That's when most people come. So, many of us look forward to the reception each year. They serve several finger foods, and many of them are quite tasty. Most of us make a supper out of it. Also, they have wine, mixed drinks, soft drinks, and bottles of water to drink. We go through a line and get whatever we want and take it to a table and sit or stand around and eat and talk."

  "So, if you go to a table do you pretty much stay at your table the way you do on Saturday, or do you mill around?"

  "Some of both. Some people move around and talk to a little bit of everyone. Others stay at the table where they choose to sit."

  "Did you see Cyril Portwood there?"

  "Oh, yeah. If you pay attention you can tell who's there and who didn't make it. Well, unless someone was just there a few minutes. It's possible we could miss someone"

  "And did Portwood mill around or stay seated?"

  "I think some of both. There were times when he and I were seated at the same table. Other times one or both of us wandered around, talked to friends we might not have seen since the previous book fair, or welcomed new authors who are there for the first time. First time authors are always excited and happy to be there, but some of them are shy and don't talk to people easily."

  "Does anyone attend other than authors?"

  "Well, several members of the KBF board are there, and two or three Kentucky publishers turn out to support their authors. Oh, and some of the authors bring their husband or wife or boyfriend or girlfriend, but not both."

  He laughed when he said that, to show me he was kidding about any of the married authors having someone on the side.

  "Did you pay any attention to Portwood that night? Did he spend a lot of time with anyone in particular, or have a disagreement with someone?"

  "I doubt if anyone there had a disagreement with anyone. We all get along quite well. And I doubt if one person occupied all of his time."

  "Do they ever have the reception at the hotel?"

  "Not so far, and they move it around. This year it was at the Paul Sawyier Public Library. Those people are nice, too. The library also puts on an event called A Gathering of Authors each August. Diane Dehoney and Mark Kinnaird go a great job with it, and are so good to the authors."

  "Let's get back to the book fair. How do the authors get to the event?"

  "Some drive their cars. Some who are staying at the Capital Plaza ride a shuttle over from the hotel. Cereal and I rode on the shuttle. And there is more than one shuttle trip. The shuttle goes back and forth a few times during the night. Not everyone comes over or leaves at the same time."

  "What about Portwood? Did he leave early or stay late?"

  "He was one of the last to leave. I was, too."

  "And you didn't notice anything out of the way on Friday night?"

  "Not a thing."

  "What about when you went back to the hotel? Did you ride on the same shuttle?"

  "We did. And it wasn't full like it was when I rode over."

  "What did he do when he got back to the hotel?"

  "We both took the elevator up to our room. Our rooms were on the same floor. I didn't see him open his door, because my room was closer to the elevator, but I'm sure he went on to his room. Probably didn't stay up too late, either."

  "That's a nice hotel. Lou and I are staying there now."

  "I like it. That's the reason why I always stay there during the book fair. Even though I live only a short distance away."

  I wasn't going to debate with him about whether or not he lived a short distance away, but I wouldn't want to make that drive so far out in the country at night.

  18

  "When was the first time you saw him on Saturday morning?"

  "When he showed up at his table. I'd say he got there somewhere around 8:20. Even though they don't let the public in until 9:00, they like for all of us to be in place by 8:30."

  "And how did he seem on Saturday morning?"

  "I thought something might have been bothering him, but if so he quickly dismissed it and put on his bookselling face."

  "Portwood made some notes in a book, and in it he wrote that the two of yo
u had breakfast together on Saturday morning."

  "What kind of a book?"

  "A journal."

  "I didn't know that Cereal kept a journal. But that doesn't matter. We didn't eat together at breakfast. I'm always so excited about getting over to the convention center that I never stop for breakfast."

  "Do you have any idea who he might have eaten breakfast with?"

  "Possibly Bill Noel. And there was another author who usually ate with him, but you won't be able to find him this week. He and his wife left for Gatlinburg on Sunday. His books are really big down there and he told me that some of the stores that carry them were running low, so he and his wife decided to turn it into a business trip slash vacation."

  I made a note to call Bill Noel to see if he poisoned Portwood, then continued my questioning.

  "So what do you do when you get to the event?"

  "Introduce ourselves to the other authors at our table, if we don't know them. A lot of times they pair up veteran authors with newcomers. Some of us will head to the hospitality room or ask a volunteer to get something for us. Some will wander around and see what books are similar to the ones they write, or ones they might want to buy that day. And most of us will head to the restroom before things begin, because people start coming in right at 9:00, and by 9:15 most of us have someone at our table. A lot of times that doesn't let up until mid-afternoon. We can leave our tables to eat lunch if we want, but most of us choose to stay there and talk to anyone who comes to see us. We think we sell more books if we're at our table. And besides, if people come for us, we don't want to miss them. Some people come for a few particular authors only. If you are a popular author it may take you an hour-and-a-half or two hours to finish eating your lunch, because people are constantly coming up, picking up a book (or several), and asking you to sign it for them. Of course taking a while to finish eating your lunch is a good problem to have. For some of us it's the one time we get a feel for what it's like to be a big-name author."