faulted. Blake’s kind of ail-American good looks—wavy chestnut hair, blue eyes, regular features—would have invited adulation throughout his life. And she thought she recalled from his bio sheet that he was an accomplished tennis player. Of course, football was the route to hero status in the South, but any letter jacket would be a plus.
He ran lightly down the steps. He stopped on the runway, his eyes swiftly scanning the welcomers behind the fence.
Annie waved and called, “Mr. Blake.”
He returned her wave, but his eyes kept right on looking. His smile was automatic, meaningless. Then he was through the gate, shaking her hand. There was a little more effort to charm.
“Annie, this is a real pleasure. I’ve heard about your wonderful bookstore—no, this is all the luggage I have—So you just sell mysteries. Who are your favorite writers in the genre? I really enjoy Tony Hillerman.”
This conversation Annie could do. “He’s one of my biggest sellers. If you like his books, you’d enjoy the Cherokee mysteries by Jean Hager. And Judith Van Gieson’s New Mexico books.”
They talked mysteries—Caroline Graham and Betty Rowlands, Max Allan Collins and Ed Gorman, Barbara D’Amato and Maxine O’Callaghan, Marilyn Wallace and Jeffery Deaver—all the way to the parking lot.
Blake continued to scan his surroundings.
It wasn’t the eager gaze of a tourist.
It was wary, defensive—and very alert.
Even when they were in the car, he continued to look around the parking area.
Annie reached into her carryall. “Mr. Blake—”
“Alan,” he interrupted immediately, “by all means.”
Annie smiled. “All right, Alan. Here’s your packet. It has your schedule, including your panel and book-signing times.” She gave him a few minutes to look it over, then, with a deep breath, she retrieved a pink sheet from her purse. “This brochure is being distributed by Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.”
And she handed it to Blake.
As he read it, Annie quickly repeated her defense of the Medallion selection process, concluding, “The Festival is outraged on behalf of its honorees, and we’re doing everything we can to prevent Mr. Hazlitt from continuing his harassment.”
The Volvo segued into the proper lanes as she curved around the Sea Pines Circle. Smoothly. She was so busy congratulating herself on this success that she was startledand almost swerved into the lagoon when Blake demanded sharply: “What
are
you doing?”
In mysteries, Annie especially admired the nimble-witted protagonist never at a loss for an answer. Tommy Hambledon never sputtered in a reply.
Unprepared, she blurted, “I’m going to tell Hazlitt he has to stop harassing our honorees or I’ll bar him from the Festival.”
“That won’t do anything about the book.” Blake’s voice was bleak.
“No one can do anything about that.” She concentrated on negotiating Coligny Circle. As she turned into the hotel parking lot, she asked briskly, “Is there anything you need for this evening?”
Alan Blake rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked suddenly older, not quite so pretty. “Where’s Kenneth Hazlitt staying?”
There was an undercurrent to his question.
But that, as far as Annie was concerned, was solely the problem of Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.
“This hotel. Room 500.”
As they rode up in the elevator, he glanced at his folder with the electronic cardboard key. “Same floor as Kenneth?” He gave her a swift, suspicious look. Now his tone was hostile.
Annie told the truth. “Hazlitt engineered that. He convinced the director of the Festival that he was very excited about the honorees and wanted to have a party in their honor, so she put him on the same floor.”
Blake didn’t say anything until they stood in the living room of his suite. “So Kenneth conned the Festival, huh?”
“Mr. Blake, I’ve never met Kenneth Hazlitt. I don’t have any idea what he’s doing. I’ve told you all I know about it.”
But Blake
He ran lightly down the steps. He stopped on the runway, his eyes swiftly scanning the welcomers behind the fence.
Annie waved and called, “Mr. Blake.”
He returned her wave, but his eyes kept right on looking. His smile was automatic, meaningless. Then he was through the gate, shaking her hand. There was a little more effort to charm.
“Annie, this is a real pleasure. I’ve heard about your wonderful bookstore—no, this is all the luggage I have—So you just sell mysteries. Who are your favorite writers in the genre? I really enjoy Tony Hillerman.”
This conversation Annie could do. “He’s one of my biggest sellers. If you like his books, you’d enjoy the Cherokee mysteries by Jean Hager. And Judith Van Gieson’s New Mexico books.”
They talked mysteries—Caroline Graham and Betty Rowlands, Max Allan Collins and Ed Gorman, Barbara D’Amato and Maxine O’Callaghan, Marilyn Wallace and Jeffery Deaver—all the way to the parking lot.
Blake continued to scan his surroundings.
It wasn’t the eager gaze of a tourist.
It was wary, defensive—and very alert.
Even when they were in the car, he continued to look around the parking area.
Annie reached into her carryall. “Mr. Blake—”
“Alan,” he interrupted immediately, “by all means.”
Annie smiled. “All right, Alan. Here’s your packet. It has your schedule, including your panel and book-signing times.” She gave him a few minutes to look it over, then, with a deep breath, she retrieved a pink sheet from her purse. “This brochure is being distributed by Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.”
And she handed it to Blake.
As he read it, Annie quickly repeated her defense of the Medallion selection process, concluding, “The Festival is outraged on behalf of its honorees, and we’re doing everything we can to prevent Mr. Hazlitt from continuing his harassment.”
The Volvo segued into the proper lanes as she curved around the Sea Pines Circle. Smoothly. She was so busy congratulating herself on this success that she was startledand almost swerved into the lagoon when Blake demanded sharply: “What
are
you doing?”
In mysteries, Annie especially admired the nimble-witted protagonist never at a loss for an answer. Tommy Hambledon never sputtered in a reply.
Unprepared, she blurted, “I’m going to tell Hazlitt he has to stop harassing our honorees or I’ll bar him from the Festival.”
“That won’t do anything about the book.” Blake’s voice was bleak.
“No one can do anything about that.” She concentrated on negotiating Coligny Circle. As she turned into the hotel parking lot, she asked briskly, “Is there anything you need for this evening?”
Alan Blake rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked suddenly older, not quite so pretty. “Where’s Kenneth Hazlitt staying?”
There was an undercurrent to his question.
But that, as far as Annie was concerned, was solely the problem of Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.
“This hotel. Room 500.”
As they rode up in the elevator, he glanced at his folder with the electronic cardboard key. “Same floor as Kenneth?” He gave her a swift, suspicious look. Now his tone was hostile.
Annie told the truth. “Hazlitt engineered that. He convinced the director of the Festival that he was very excited about the honorees and wanted to have a party in their honor, so she put him on the same floor.”
Blake didn’t say anything until they stood in the living room of his suite. “So Kenneth conned the Festival, huh?”
“Mr. Blake, I’ve never met Kenneth Hazlitt. I don’t have any idea what he’s doing. I’ve told you all I know about it.”
But Blake
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