Murder at the Book Fair by Steve Demaree Read Free Book Online

on Thursday afternoon and checked out Saturday morning. Most authors
who stay here check in on Friday and check out Saturday morning early before
the Book Fair starts, but some come in on Thursday or stay until Sunday."
    "And you're sure that he
didn't check in until Thursday. I have something in writing that says that he
checked in on Tuesday."
    "Well, evidently that was his
plan, before he became ill. But I'm sure he didn't get here until
Thursday."
    "And did anyone notice
anything out of the way during his stay? Or did anyone ask for him at the
desk."
    "I wouldn't know if anyone
asked for him. Of course we don't give out room numbers. But no one reported
anything out of the way about any guest's stay last week."
    I thanked her for her time and
turned away for Lou and I to share our puzzlement by ourselves.
    "I know he was quite a
character, but how many guys write in their journal before something
happens?"
    "None that I know of."
    I guessed that I could toss out
Wednesdays meanderings, too. There was no need for me to check with Daniel
Boone to see if Portwood visited his grave on Wednesday, or to check at the
Capitol to see if he caused a ruckus while he was there. And I guessed that the
carriage ride during the Candlelight celebration was out, too. No shops
visited. No restaurants to check. It really didn't matter. Frank didn't think
he was poisoned before late Friday afternoon or Friday evening anyway, so
whatever he was given wasn't responsible for him being sick on Monday.
    We were told our rooms would be
available in a few minutes, so we waited in a couple of comfortable chairs in
the lobby until we could unload our luggage. A short time later, I was up on
the eighth floor, looking out the window at the view of the river, wishing I
hadn't made plans for the afternoon, so I could nap on my king-size bed
instead. But Lou and I were back in work mode again. Only this time if felt
different.
    A few minutes later Lou and I were
seated across from one another at Gibby's, a place that was recommended to us,
a place that Portwood didn't go to on Wednesday, even though his journal said
he did. I didn't care whether he went there or not. The food was good, and
there were a variety of options. There was even a choice of three types of
salads for a certain price. And lots of choices of deli sandwiches, and even
spaghetti and meatballs if we were so inclined.
    It didn't matter to me or the
owner of Gibby's that Portwood didn't make it when he said he would. Provided
last week was similar to this week. They wouldn't have had room for him. Lou
and I slipped into the last booth, which was only available after someone left
it while we were in line ordering. Evidently, a lot of people who work downtown
and had never seen Portwood's journal thought highly of Gibby's, too. And it
wasn't as if Gibby's was the only place to eat. There was a pizza place next
door, which I overheard someone saying was worth checking out, too. And there
was an Italian place nearby that someone said served the best food in Frankfort .
     
     
11
     
     
    I had made an appointment to talk
with Bert McHugh, Portwood's lawyer, for 2:00 , and with Connie Crowe, the manager of the Kentucky Book Fair at 3:00 . I like to be punctual, so we arrived at the lawyer's
office at 1:50 . He had just gotten back from
lunch and had his secretary motion us on in.
    McHugh had already heard of
Portwood's death before I contacted him, but only learned that someone had
helped it along when I called him for an appointment. I knew his time was
valuable, as was mine, so we refrained from comparing our golf games. Besides,
the course I play on allowed my ball to go from tee to green much quicker than
a ball would on the course that McHugh plays.
    "What can you tell me about
Col. Cyril Portwood?"
    "How long do you have?"
he asked, and then laughed.
    "Just hit the high spots that
might be a motive for murder."
    "Well, I don't know how much
you know about him, but he was loaded. And his