"How does the lunch distribution work?"
"A volunteer brings each person his or her lunch. They come by early, give us choices on what we want, then bring it to us later. Each lunch has the author's name on it."
"So, it's possible that someone could have sneaked into the area where Portwood's lunch was, found it, and added an ingredient or two?"
"I guess that's possible. I don't know how long the lunches are there, and if there is someone keeping watch over the area all the time they set there. I never go back there once they let the people in, but I doubt if the lunches are there a long time before we get them. They are delivered by a caterer."
"Okay, let's forget about food for a minute. I know how it was when Lou and I were there, but how were things throughout the day? Did Portwood have a lot of people at his table? Did he leave it much to go to the restroom, or to stretch his legs?"
"Neither Cereal or I want to miss one of our readers, so both of us pretty much hang out at our table unless we really feel we need to leave. The only time I remember him leaving was when his brother and sister came along."
"So, you know them?"
"Only in the sense that Cereal pointed them out to me one time. See, both of us have been authors there for a long time, and we're usually seated pretty close to each other."
"They came after his lunch arrived but before he ate all of it. Am I right?"
"I think so. Yeah, I know so. I remember they both acted like they were going to do something to his lunch."
"Is it possible that they did?"
"I got busy with a couple of people wanting books at that time. But I don't think they touched it. Of course I can't be sure of that."
"Do you know anything about Portwood's relationship with his brother and sister?"
"I know he had none. He only saw them at the book fair, and as far as he was concerned that was too often."
"What about his finances? Did he ever talk about that?"
"Never. But I know enough to know that he didn't support himself from his book sales. And I don't think he was hurting, but I can't tell you how much money he had."
"What about you? Do you make enough from writing to support yourself?"
"No. And most of us don't. But with all the ways we can sell books these days I'm getting close. I just retired last year from the state government."
"I've heard that you and Portwood had a rivalry about who sells the most books at the event each year. Did you ever bet on it?"
"Never. It was always in fun, although both of us wanted to sell the most."
"Who usually won?"
"Most of the time he did, but I beat him a couple of times. Most years it was pretty close."
"I know that Lou and I were mainly interested in mysteries, although we did buy some books that weren't mysteries. Do most people know what they want before they come, or do they wander up and down the aisles selecting a book from time to time?"
"It's some of both. Many people who live in and around Frankfort see a brochure before the event each year, so they know what authors are going to be there, and what kind of books they write. Some people will come with a written list of books they are going to buy. Some won't vary from that list one iota, while others will also buy other books they find interesting."
"So some people kind of have a grocery list."
"You might say that. Which reminds me of something. I noticed a few people this year that had identical lists, who only bought from the other two authors at Cereal's table. Most people will write their list on a piece of paper. Others will type it on a computer and print it. But there was more than one person who seemed to have an identical list. I tried to get a couple of those people to buy my books, but they said they were only to buy the books on the list. Now this is common, provided those people were buying for a library or were part of a book club, but the two people I asked said they weren't affiliated with either. I wondered who had given them the list and told them what books to buy."
"And you saw the list?"
"Yeah, one of them even flipped her list down on my table, told me she was through with it and I could have it. I looked at it and then tossed it in the trash."
"And all of them bought from only those two authors?"
"As far as I could tell. I know they didn't buy from anyone else nearby."
"Did anyone buy from one of those authors, but not the other one?"
"Oh, yeah. And several people bought from one or both of them and Cereal, too. He had a good following. And there were some who bought from every mystery author there, but that didn't include the people who had the typewritten list of those two authors."
"You knew Portwood fairly well. Right?"
"Probably as well as one person can know another, only having contact with them two or three times a year."
"Were you aware that Portwood drew $50,000 out of the bank each year?"
"No. Why would I be?"
"Would you possibly have any idea what he did with that money?"
"Well, he didn't give it to me. And I don't think he gave it to his brother or sister. I know he had a lady friend who lived next door to him. He might have given it to her. But then I'd heard rumors that Cereal was well off and was known to give money to people he felt needed it from time to time. And I think he supported certain charities, although I have no idea which ones. Like I said, we never talked about money."
"Do you think he might have given money to an up-and-coming author, someone whom he thought had talent?"
"I guess that's possible, but I don't remember him commenting about someone like that. Like I said, I have no idea what his finances were like, except I'm pretty sure he always knew where his next meal was coming from."
"And how about you? How are you doing?"
"Well, like I said, I'm doing okay. Unless the bottom falls out, I think I'll be able to live out the rest of my years here in my house."
"Can you remember who the two authors were who shared a table with him at the KBF?"
"Let's see. Yeah, it was two women. Lori Wildwood and Jonnetta Jarvis. I believe it was Lori's second time at the book fair, Jonnetta's first time."
I should have remembered that. They both write mysteries and I bought a book from each of them.
"How well do you know them?"
"I don't. I've never seen either one anywhere other than at the book fair the other day. And I think they said they met each other for the first time at the reception on Friday night, so they didn't know each other beforehand."
"Do you know if Portwood knew either of them?"
"I can't say for sure, but I don't think he did. If he knew either of them he didn't let on that he did."
"So, you have no idea why someone bought books written by only those two women?"
"None whatsoever. Now, a lot of people bought books from Cereal and me, and I think it's the same way with Duffy Brown and Laurien Berenson. Both of the women with Cereal write mysteries, but, like I said, one of them has written only a couple of mysteries and the other one only one. So, it's not like they have a big following yet. And I'm not sure why so many people bought a book from each of them and no one else. Because others of us at the KBF write mysteries. You were there. You saw them. Bill Noel's been coming for a few years now. Duffy Brown has been there a couple of times. Laurien Berenson, who writes the dog mysteries, has just started coming, but she's been writing books for years. And David Baldacci and Sue Grafton have been there. And boy did both of them sell a lot of books. I mean Cereal and I sell a lot, but not compared to those two. They sold more in a couple of hours than the two of us did all day."
I was silent, trying to think of anything else to ask Cartwright. I couldn't think of anything. So I thanked him for his time, told him I might see him again, looked at my watch and saw that the morning was mostly gone.
As soon as we got to someplace that looked like civilization I called Herb Wainscott to let him know it would be a late lunch. I also wanted to call Bill Noel and ask
him about Saturday breakfast. I didn't want him to be the murderer. He had made it to my Favorite Authors list, which was now up to around twenty-five authors. I didn't want him to have to write his next mystery from prison. but I forgot about him for a minute and called Herb Wainscott.
"Cy, you do realize that Portwood lived outside of Westport, but I'm in LaGrange, don't you?"
"No, I didn't realize that."
"It's in the same county, but you need to come here to eat. There's nowhere to eat in Westport, unless you catch your own lunch out of the river. There's a really good place here called 119 West Main. They'll fix you up with a Locomotive and some Kentucky Bacon Pie for dessert."
"Do what?"
"Trust me. It's good. And you won't leave there hungry. And when you leave I'll point you in the right direction to get to Portwood's place. You can't miss it, unless you turn the wrong way."
"Well, I've been known to turn the wrong way once or twice."
Herb laughed. We said goodbye and ended the call. I was getting a little more comfortable using a cell phone.
While I drove I had Lou check to get Bill Noel's number. He did and I dialed on my hands-free Bluetooth. He answered after a couple of rings. He admitted to eating breakfast with Portwood and another author and his wife, but not to poisoning anyone. He was pretty sure the other author didn't poison Portwood either, but he couldn't vouch for the guy's wife.
19
Once we got on a straight, wide road, I felt safe talking to Lou.
"So, what do you think?"
"I think it's nice to see this part of the state."
"What about the murderer?"
"I don't think it will be as nice seeing the murderer."
"Do you think we've already seen the murderer?"
"I don't know yet. I've narrowed it down to 'yes' and 'no.'"
"You know, Lou, the prison in LaGrange said they could use a new inmate."
"Well, if that's what you want to do, Cy, I'll see that Lightning gets home all right. Don't you worry! And I promise to write once a week and come and see you once a month."
"I wonder how long they would give me for murdering a former friend, if the murder was premeditated."
"Probably longer than you would want to stay. I doubt if the food is as good as what you are used to."
"So, let's try this again, and this time I'll be specific. What do you think about the mysterious volunteer, the $50,000, and the book buying list?"
"Why didn't you say so? I don't think the mysterious volunteer got the $50,000, and I don't think that the books on anyone's list that day cost that much."
"Lou, how do you feel about an Ohio River baptism?"
"You know someone getting baptized today?"
"Maybe you. I'd even be willing to provide an anchor so you can get totally drenched."
"I've already been baptized, and as an adult, too. But without an anchor. I think it took the first time. And I wouldn't want to go into that river without a boat. It's big, and it might be muddy. There's no telling who might have drowned in that river."
"So, what you're telling me is that in your limited wisdom you have no idea who might have done what to whom?"
"Au contraire, my good friend. I know to whom it was done. I even know what was done to him. However, the who did it escapes me at the moment."
"I think a lot of things escape you at the moment."
"So, you think you know who did it?"
"No. I'm waiting until I talk to everyone involved. Then I will decide."
"Well, I doubt if one of those people involved will be able to help you much. Don't count on Portwood helping us solve his murder."
"I know where I went wrong now. I should have asked Heather to come with me today."
"What about Jennifer?"
"I told you before. She's not in law enforcement. Heather is."
"I bet if you had brought Heather that Jennifer would be in law enforcement, too."
"And that's the reason I brought you. No one is jealous of you."
+++
We saved a few minutes by taking I-64 and bypassing Shelbyville. Eventually we arrived at LaGrange and found the sheriff's office. Later we would head northwest to Westport. I still thought about dropping off Lou at the prison in LaGrange so he could try it out and see if he liked it, but I didn't want to make that trip to unfamiliar territory by myself, so I planned to let him make the rest of the trip. If he misbehaved at lunch I could always drop him off before I left for Westport and ask Herb if he wanted to go to Portwood's place with me.
+++
I didn't want Lightning to be towed, so I found a place to park and then Lou and I found Herb Wainscott's office. After we picked him up, we walked through a park to get to the restaurant. Even though it was almost 1:30, there were still people enjoying their lunch. Lou and I took Herb's suggestion and soon found out that a Locomotive was a hamburger with about everything on it. And the Kentucky Bacon Pie didn't have bacon in it. But both of them were good. And filling. Eating all that reminded me of the way Lou and I used to eat. I thought about leaving Lightning in LaGrange and walking to Portwood's place in order to lose the weight I gained at lunch, until I found out it was far enough that it might take me a few days to get there.
Getting to Westport wasn't a problem. It was a straight shot from LaGrange. But getting to Portwood's place was a little more difficult. I turned onto a tree-lined narrow country road, and then onto the road that led to Portwood's place. Eventually I found a mailbox shaped like a book with Portwood's name on it, so I figured I'd come to the right place. That was good because the road dead-ended a few feet past Portwood's place. I pulled Lightning into Portwood's driveway and got out. I enjoyed the country smell. I could also tell that we were near the river. I assumed that's why the road dead-ended. I noticed one house to the right, and another house across the road. Herb told me both neighbors would probably be home, and he was right.
"Well, Lou, are you ready to meet Portwood's neighbors?"
"Sounds better than your suggestion of prison or another baptism."
"I haven't ruled those out."
"I have, sight unseen."
"So, do you want to go with me or sit here and see if someone stops by to poison you?"
"If I go, will I get to say anything?"
"Of course not."
"Then I'll go. Which one first?"
"Let's start with the one who's most likely to be innocent, the guy across the road."
Lou figured if I said a man was innocent he was surely guilty, so he started looking for his handcuffs until he remembered we were sort of retired. Unless we were doing a favor for a friend.
We crossed the road least traveled without looking both ways. Bob Barney's place was a small house on the side away from the river and set back only thirty or so feet from the road. I had found out that Barney farms, but doesn't have it as rough in the late fall, so he answered shortly after I knocked. I think it helped that he stood near the picture window and watched us approach the house. I remembered that Herb had told me that no one could sneak up on either of Portwood's neighbors.
20
The man who answered the door was slightly above average in height and his full head of hair was a mixture of brown and gray. Mixed together it looked sand colored. I pictured him to be in his early sixties. He looked to be in good shape for his age.
"Don't get many visitors out this way. You boys lost?"
"Not if you're Bob Barney."
"Then I guess you're not lost. Have we met?"
"Not until now. I'm Lt. Cy Dekker and this is Sgt. Lou Murdock. We're investigating Cyril Portwood's death."
"You're not from around here. Why are you investigating?"
"I know Sheriff Wainscott. He asked me to look into Portwood's death."
"Mind waiting here at the door while I give the sheriff a call?"
"As long as it doesn't take you a long time."
Barney closed the door and walked away. Lou listened to me
whistle the Jeopardy theme twice before Barney returned. I was thankful he didn't have to stop and check something on the stove.
"Sheriff says you're okay. You might as well come in and be comfortable. But folks around here say the coroner says the Colonel's death was an accident."
"The medical examiner where I'm from, who did an autopsy, says he was murdered. The sheriff's inclined to agree with him, so he asked for my help."
"Well, I didn't kill him. Have a seat and tell me what I can help you with?"
Barney sat down in what I figured was his chair and Lou and I took seats on the couch. I sat down and fluffed my pillow before continuing, but I didn't wait to see if we were going to get an invitation to supper. I started with a little small talk.
"Nice place you have here."
"I like it. It's home."
"I bet it's quiet, too."
"Well, the Canada geese can be a little noisy when they fly over, but other than that, it's pretty quiet. Not a lot of traffic. Not a lot of neighbors."
"One less neighbor now. Tell me what you know about Portwood."
"Not much to tell. Nice enough guy. Talked a lot. Wrote books. Dated the woman next door to him. Never caused anyone any trouble. Not the kind of guy you'd murder."
"What kind do you murder?"
"One who is full of hatred, threatens you or someone you love, someone who brightens a room when he leaves."
"Who do you love?"
"It's just me here. I asked a woman to marry me once. She said 'no.' I never asked another one."
"I asked a woman to marry me once. She said 'yes,' so I never asked another one."
Barney laughed.
"How often did Portwood have visitors?"
"You mean someone who didn't live on this road?"
"That, and the two of you. Visitors. Someone who showed up at his house. And did any of his visitors ever come by way of the river?"
Murder at the Book Fair Page 8