“So,” Foley said, looking back at me. “Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill Miss Wynncliffe- Jones?”
He leaned back in his chair in a way that suggested a grand finale to the interview. Of course, perhaps that was just an act, and he’d be watching me all the more carefully, now that he thought he’d thrown me off guard. Little did he know that I was wise to the tricks cops play when interrogating suspects, thanks to a mystery buff father who regularly bullied me into reading his favorites so he’d have someone to discuss them with.
So I didn’t blurt anything out immediately; I frowned and gave the question serious consideration.
“No enemies?” Foley said, after a few seconds. “What was she, Mother Theresa?”
“No, more like
“Take your time,” he said.
“Time is running out!” the parrot squawked. “This special offer ends at midnight tonight!”
My paper missile missed the parrot entirely, but then I did have the excuse of being distracted.
“Well, she’s been beastly to the hotel staff, the convention organizers, and any fans unlucky enough to cross her path,” I said. “But—wait, I have an idea.”
I pulled my copy of the convention program out of my purse, flipped it open to the alphabetical list of guest biographies, and handed it to him.
“One of these three people?” he said, glancing down at the page.
“Not just that page, the whole guest list,” I said. “All twelve of them. Well, eleven; I suppose you can rule the QB out. They all had something to do with the TV show, so they all had reason to hate her. You even have pictures of most of them.”
He flipped slowly through the bios with one hand while tossing and catching a freshly wadded ball of paper with the other. I wasn’t sure if he was reading the program, or just double-checking the number of suspects. Or possibly lulling the parrot into complacency.
“Know where I could find any of them?” he asked.
“Let me see the program a sec,” I said. When he handed it back, I flipped to the Friday schedule.
“At the contest,” I said, checking my watch. “Most of them are judging or watching the look-alike contest. That was supposed to go on at eight, for an hour. They probably started late, so it might still be on. And after that, I suppose some of them will stay around for a performance by the Amblyopian Minstrels, whoever they are. The rest will either wander through the hotel from party to party till dawn or go to bed.”
“That late?” Foley said, frowning.
“These people keep vampire hours,” I said. “I don’t know what they do at home, but when they’re at a con, they stay awake till dawn. In fact, I suspect some of them don’t sleep at all until they go home.”
Foley didn’t look as if he believed me. Well, he’d learn.
“Where is this contest?” he asked.
“Down in the ballroom. I can show you, if you like,” I offered, and then wondered if that was a mistake. What if he assumed my eagerness to end the interview was a sign of guilt?
“Yeah, let’s check out the ballroom,” he said, pegging the parrot with another paper wad as he stood up. “Lead the way. Oh, and we’re trying to keep Ms. Wynncliffe-Jones’s death as quiet as possible until tomorrow. I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid discussing it with anyone.”
Keep it quiet? Was he kidding? What were the odds that when he turned loose the thirty or so people sitting next door in the other commandeered room, none of them told anyone where they’d been for the last hour? I’d lay odds that the whole convention would know within minutes of their general release, and at least a few unofficial fan sites would have the news posted by morning. But he looked serious, and I actually liked the idea of telling curious questioners that the police had ordered me not to talk.
“No problem,” I said.
“Particularly details that might not be widely known,” Foley said.
“Like the parrot?” I said. “Or the piece of paper in her hand?”
“Yes,” Foley said.
I nodded gravely at that and meekly listened to the expected instructions not to leave town without notifying him. Then I led the way to the ballroom.
The look-alike contest was wrapping up when we arrived. The winners and runners-up from several categories cluttered the stage—half a dozen assorted Michaels stood stage left with a small band of Maggies, while a clump of Walkers milled around on stage right with the impersonators of minor cast members. In the center, a dozen pseudo-Porfirias anxiously awaited the decision of the judges. Michael, Maggie, Walker, and Nate. I noticed that the contestants included three men in drag, and wondered whether the QB would have kicked them out if she had emerged for the contest. In her absence, not only did no one object to their presence, one of them walked away with a well-deserved third place ribbon.
As I expected, the four judges awarded first place to the youngest, prettiest Porfiria clone. But then, they still expected the original to second-guess their decision in the morning, no doubt with a killer hangover to sharpen her tongue. They had no way of knowing she was dead.
“We want to thank all of you for coming,” Michael announced, while Walker and Maggie shook the final winner’s hand and held up her trophy. “Contestants, please gather in the lobby for your group photos.”
“And don’t forget, the Amblyopian Minstrels will be playing as soon as the tech crew finishes the setup,” Walker added.
A cheer went up at this announcement. Michael thanked the crowd and left the stage, heading my way.
“Much as I hate to disappoint Walker, I don’t think I can stay up to hear his band,” he said, yawning. “I’m all in.”
“Oh, so that’s who the Amblyopian Minstrels are,” I said. “I wondered why they were so popular.”
“Yeah, the fans love them, and they’re actually not bad, but I can hear them another time. So, even you couldn’t talk the miserable troll out of her lair.”
I glanced around to see if the detective was within earshot, and took a deep breath.
“No, even I can’t raise the dead,” I said.
“Dead?” he said. “What do you mean, dead?”
“Someone killed her.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” he said, suddenly looking much more awake. “Are you sure?”
“I found the body,” I said. “Yes, I’m sure she’s dead, and not from natural causes. I’ve been talking to the police for the last hour. They’re probably going to want to talk to you and everyone who knew her well enough…well enough to be useful.”
“Well enough to be a suspect, you mean,” he said. “So I suppose there’s no use going back to the room.”
“It’s part of the crime scene, anyway,” I said.
“She was killed in our room?”
“No, but she had her security latch on,” I said.
“So whoever killed her got in by climbing over from our balcony,” he said, nodding.
“In, maybe,” I said. “Out, definitely.”
“And my card key’s been missing since this morning,” he said. “And who knows whether Nate was careful with yours before he gave it back to you. At least I assume he gave it back to you.”
“Actually, he left it lying around in my booth.”
“Figures,” Michael said, nodding. We stood watching as the police officers drew various people aside. Maggie, Nate, Chris—most of the Porfiria cast and crew.
“Of course, we shouldn’t worry too much,” I said. “There’s no shortage of suspects.”
“No, there isn’t,” Michael said. “Poor woman.”
“Who, the QB?” I asked.
He nodded.
“That’s the sad part,” he said. “As far as I could see, she was a wretched human being. I’m sure there’s someone, somewhere, who will grieve over her death, but I can’t think who. A few people will be pleased, though most of them wouldn’t admit it, even to themselves. And a lot of people will pretend to be shocked when they’re really only dying of curiosity. And some people will be upset, but mostly because they’re worried about how her
