up an opportunity like this.
Annie darted to the wet bar and grabbed a tumbler from the glass shelf. She took the wastebasket near thedesk, upended it, placed it on the floor directly behind the partially open door, and set the glass on it.
That should give her at least a moment’s warning.
She returned to the table. It only took a moment to rifle through the open boxes, but she found nothing that mentioned Hazlitt’s proposed book except the pink flyers. She glanced at the sealed box. SONG OF THE SOUTH was scrawled in bright orange marker on its lid. Beneath that, a card was taped. On it was the notation:
Bright red chalk footprints through bookroom? Place these sheets on table by BACK
wall.
Annie’s fingers itched to open the box. But she didn’t have any sealing tape with her, and it would be very obvious if she tampered with the lid. Even Perry Mason might think twice here.
Regretfully, she moved away from the table, glancing around the living room area. No more boxes, no loose sheets of paper.
She glanced toward the partially open door, then impulsively ducked into the first bedroom. A beach towel hung over a chair back; damp swim trunks were lying on the floor. An open suitcase rested on a luggage rack.
Annie checked the suitcase and the closet. Nothing book-related at all.
In the second bedroom—the larger one—she found a pile of Festival material addressed to Kenneth Hazlitt. “Bingo,” she said softly. She went through the open luggage and the chest of drawers and closet in a flash.
But she didn’t find a manuscript entitled
Song of the South.
And she didn’t find any other promotion material mentioning the book, although she found plenty of pamphlets and flyers on the autumn titles from Mint Julep Press.
Annie returned to the living area.
That’s when she saw the Limoges platter on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Annie skirted the sofa, stared down at the platter. A card lay propped against it. She would know that spideryhandwriting anywhere, curlicues and furbelows and many words heavily underlined:
Dear Mr. Hazlitt,
Please enjoy the
delicious
candies, provided courtesy of Miss Dora Brevard of Chastain, South Carolina, and author of
Miss Dora’s Delectables
, a cookbook of
authentic
South Carolina recipes. This manuscript is
available
for
purchase.
Just some of the wonderful recipes: Hoppin’ John, Divinity (samples included here), Apple Pan Dowdy, and She Crab Soup. Ail are
authentic culinary masterpieces.
Annie looked around the room, half-expecting Miss Dora to materialize in her black silk dress with her coal-black, frighteningly intelligent eyes, her shaggy silver hair, and her wizened, parchment-pale face.
But there was only the platter with its note.
The postscript looked like an inebriated spider had decided to dance a polka:
This is not only your opportunity to achieve
lasting
success with the
finest
Southern cookbook ever proffered, it is a day of
glorious
opportunity, to wit, YOU have offered to you here (see either end of the platter) two exquisitely
tasteful
and
brilliant
manuscripts:
Simplicity
by Laurel Darling Roethke
and
The Quotable Sleuth
by Henrietta Brawley
You will find excerpts from these fine works on the platter.
It was the P.P.S. that made Annie shake her head in wonder.
P.P.S. We will be
available
to sign contracts
at your convenience
(Room 405). And, though we know you have many tasks to accomplish after we have executed our agreements, we three (authors) would appreciate notification prior to the appearance of our books on the bestseller lists.
Annie lifted the plastic wrap from the platter. Hmm. She picked up a piece of Divinity from the middle. It wouldn’t be missed.
The candy melted in her mouth. She licked her fingers. Unable to resist temptation, she scooped up a second piece, then, shrugging, picked up a foil-decorated square. A mock-up of a page from Laurel’s book, of course.
Call
Annie darted to the wet bar and grabbed a tumbler from the glass shelf. She took the wastebasket near thedesk, upended it, placed it on the floor directly behind the partially open door, and set the glass on it.
That should give her at least a moment’s warning.
She returned to the table. It only took a moment to rifle through the open boxes, but she found nothing that mentioned Hazlitt’s proposed book except the pink flyers. She glanced at the sealed box. SONG OF THE SOUTH was scrawled in bright orange marker on its lid. Beneath that, a card was taped. On it was the notation:
Bright red chalk footprints through bookroom? Place these sheets on table by BACK
wall.
Annie’s fingers itched to open the box. But she didn’t have any sealing tape with her, and it would be very obvious if she tampered with the lid. Even Perry Mason might think twice here.
Regretfully, she moved away from the table, glancing around the living room area. No more boxes, no loose sheets of paper.
She glanced toward the partially open door, then impulsively ducked into the first bedroom. A beach towel hung over a chair back; damp swim trunks were lying on the floor. An open suitcase rested on a luggage rack.
Annie checked the suitcase and the closet. Nothing book-related at all.
In the second bedroom—the larger one—she found a pile of Festival material addressed to Kenneth Hazlitt. “Bingo,” she said softly. She went through the open luggage and the chest of drawers and closet in a flash.
But she didn’t find a manuscript entitled
Song of the South.
And she didn’t find any other promotion material mentioning the book, although she found plenty of pamphlets and flyers on the autumn titles from Mint Julep Press.
Annie returned to the living area.
That’s when she saw the Limoges platter on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Annie skirted the sofa, stared down at the platter. A card lay propped against it. She would know that spideryhandwriting anywhere, curlicues and furbelows and many words heavily underlined:
Dear Mr. Hazlitt,
Please enjoy the
delicious
candies, provided courtesy of Miss Dora Brevard of Chastain, South Carolina, and author of
Miss Dora’s Delectables
, a cookbook of
authentic
South Carolina recipes. This manuscript is
available
for
purchase.
Just some of the wonderful recipes: Hoppin’ John, Divinity (samples included here), Apple Pan Dowdy, and She Crab Soup. Ail are
authentic culinary masterpieces.
Annie looked around the room, half-expecting Miss Dora to materialize in her black silk dress with her coal-black, frighteningly intelligent eyes, her shaggy silver hair, and her wizened, parchment-pale face.
But there was only the platter with its note.
The postscript looked like an inebriated spider had decided to dance a polka:
This is not only your opportunity to achieve
lasting
success with the
finest
Southern cookbook ever proffered, it is a day of
glorious
opportunity, to wit, YOU have offered to you here (see either end of the platter) two exquisitely
tasteful
and
brilliant
manuscripts:
Simplicity
by Laurel Darling Roethke
and
The Quotable Sleuth
by Henrietta Brawley
You will find excerpts from these fine works on the platter.
It was the P.P.S. that made Annie shake her head in wonder.
P.P.S. We will be
available
to sign contracts
at your convenience
(Room 405). And, though we know you have many tasks to accomplish after we have executed our agreements, we three (authors) would appreciate notification prior to the appearance of our books on the bestseller lists.
Annie lifted the plastic wrap from the platter. Hmm. She picked up a piece of Divinity from the middle. It wouldn’t be missed.
The candy melted in her mouth. She licked her fingers. Unable to resist temptation, she scooped up a second piece, then, shrugging, picked up a foil-decorated square. A mock-up of a page from Laurel’s book, of course.
Call
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