Mint Julep Murder by Carolyn G. Hart

of.”
    Annie paced the floor.
    “Annie,” Max said once again, “it’s not your problem.” He added a final fizz to the mug of cappuccino.
    Annie was torn between appreciation of a husband who had brought to the hotel their small cappuccino machine plus a box of Godiva raspberry truffles, and her still bubbling fury at Kenneth Hazlitt.
    “Max—thank you.” Her eyes told him that she appreciated more than just a cup of coffee.
    Max grinned and flung himself comfortably on the couch. His eyes told her he foresaw more than book discussions in this hotel suite, which just happened to be the Honeymoon Suite. Max had booked it. Max liked honeymoon suites.
    So did she, of course.
    But right now, she had to think. Later—
    “Max, I’m the author liaison. I represent the Festival.”
    He sipped his cappuccino. “Maybe a little more cinnamon?”
    He found the cinnamon in the picnic hamper and sprinkled the froth.
    Annie took a gulp of cappuccino. Oh, yes. Good, good, good. Suddenly, as smoothly as Laurel engaging in automatic writing, Annie retrieved a truffle. That was better, better, better.
    But her eyes kept returning to the glossy square invitation they’d found slipped beneath the door to their room. “Max, I don’t get it. Why a small party in his suite for the Medallion honorees? He’s got the open house bash”—she snapped it out—“set for the White Ibis Room tomorrow.” Absently, she finished the truffle, scarcely even noticing the mellow, dark chocolate and the succulent raspberry. “You don’t suppose he’s idiot enough to think the Medallion honorees approve of his plans for the novel?”
    Max returned to the couch. His face was pensive. “I don’t think Kenneth Hazlitt is any kind of an idiot.”
    “So, why—”
    “Annie,” he said again gently, “it isn’t your problem. You’ve made it clear the Festival opposes what Hazlitt is doing. But he’s right. There’s nothing at all you can do to stop him.”
    “I just wish—”
    There was a brisk knock at the door. “I’ll get it.” Annie put down her coffee mug. It was probably one of her authors, and what could she say?
    But she didn’t know the stocky man standing in herhallway. In his mid-forties, he had a weathered, sensible face, short brown hair flecked with gray, and cool gray eyes. He looked neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He looked capable, the kind of man who could fix a car, coach a team, chair a meeting. He wore a light tan cotton suit, a blue shirt, a tie. Not, obviously, a tourist.
    “Mrs. Darling?” His voice was soft, southern, confident:
Miz Darlin’.
“I’d like to visit with you for a moment. I’m Detective Clarence Wheeler from the Southern Division of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department.” He held open his billfold.
    She glanced down at the identification.
    No frog could jump to a lily pad faster than Annie could jump to a conclusion.
    “Has someone sent a letter bomb to my store? Come in, Detective Wheeler.” She held the door. “Detective Wheeler, this is my husband Max. I can’t believe what’s happening! Fake letter bombs to bookstores all over the place. It’s insane. Although I can certainly understand how Jimmy Jay Crabtree might make a few enemies …”
    The men shook hands. Detective Wheeler accepted a chair, but he sat as crisply as a Parris Island drill sergeant.
    Annie joined Max on the couch, still holding forth. “… he’s just obnoxious. Odious. Right on a level with a ‘gator. He has the same kind of eyes, dangerous and shiny and—”
    “You don’t much care for Mr. Crabtree, Mrs. Darling?”
    Annie nodded, ready to launch into a further description of the origin and habits of Jimmy Jay Crabtree, but Max cut her off.
    “Annie, let’s see what Detective Wheeler wants.”
    Annie’s mouth closed. There was the faintest edge of warning in Max’s voice. She looked at her husband and read the message in his eyes:
Careful.
    “Detective Wheeler?” she asked.
    Those cool