thought I’d be out of their way.
I had no idea what I’d say if they challenged my presence, but I’d seen enough of the convention organizers’ operating style to suspect that if I looked as if I knew what I was doing, no one would question me.
At first I thought I could doze off, right there on the floor—the balcony was dark, apparently the better for the techs’ work, and every part of my body voted for sleep. Except my brain, which wanted to filibuster. I felt guilty. After all, Michael had been up as long as I had, and was sick to boot, and he wasn’t sleeping yet. He was off getting interrogated, poor thing.
I took out my camera and flipped through the pictures until I got to the ones I’d taken of the crime scene.
I skipped quickly over the ones of the body. I wasn’t even sure why I’d taken them. Perhaps a fleeting notion that Dad would find them interesting and possibly useful. I imagined, for a moment, how proud and excited Dad would be if he looked at my photos and spotted some key clue that solved the crime. But that seemed a long shot, even for Dad. No reason for me to stare at them.
I studied the shots I’d taken of the room. At first, the room’s wrecked condition had excited the police, who assumed the killer had trashed it while searching for something. I hated to disillusion them, but thought they should know that the room already looked as if a hurricane had hit it at two o’clock, when the QB was very much alive. Which didn’t mean that someone hadn’t tossed the room, of course, but I doubted if anyone could tell which piles of debris had already been there earlier and which the killer had created.
And I studied the frame from the comic I’d seen in the QB’s hand—part of a Porfiria comic. But since I hadn’t read the comics, I didn’t know what the story was about. The little screen that let me preview pictures was less than two inches square. Hard to see any details. A figure that seemed to be Porfiria reclined on a Roman-style couch, holding a wine goblet and saying…something. Possibly “Send in the Vegan ambassador!” which meant nothing to me. Then I decided it actually said Vagan ambassador. That made sense. I could see Ichabod Dilley naming a country for the vagus nerve.
But it didn’t tell me why the QB had died clutching this scrap of comic. Maybe if I could see the damned thing better.
I recalled from my nephew Kevin’s instructions that the camera had a button to let me zoom in on part of the picture. If I could do that, I might see more details. Could be useful.
I wandered over to the edge of the balcony, where the light was better, and studied the various buttons on the camera, all of them rather cryptically marked. I had the sinking feeling that I could play with buttons a long time before I figured out how to zoom in.
And what if I found the delete function instead? In my present exhausted condition, I’d better not chance it. Kevin could walk me through the zoom feature tomorrow.
Better yet, I could e-mail him the photos tonight—he’d made sure I had detailed, written instructions on how to do that—and ask him if there was a way I could get some blowups. Maybe if I could find someone at the hotel with a printer and—
“Wild thing!” boomed a voice, accompanied by crashing guitar chords, from a refrigerator-sized speaker about a foot from my head.
Chapter 17
I fumbled, and nearly dropped the camera onto the cheering crowds below. Apparently I’d failed to notice the arrival of the Amblyopian Minstrels. Walker strutted up and down the front of the stage, belting out the lyrics to the ancient Troggs hit, while his fellow minstrels blasted an accompaniment on guitar, bass, and drums.
They weren’t bad, actually. Walker had a decent voice, and more than enough stage presence to carry off the act. The other musicians were pretty good. Actually, they were damned good, and I had the sneaking suspicion that they weren’t old buddies of Walker’s but the three best studio musicians he could afford to hire. Still, they seemed to enjoy themselves, and the crowd went wild.
The volume of sound made coherent thought difficult, but it did occur to me that if the police had turned Walker loose, maybe the other members of the cast and crew would follow. I scanned the crowd for Michael.
Of course, odds were he’d find a place backstage. And I really ought to cruise by the front desk and ask about our new room before going backstage to look for Michael.
Though I found myself staring, fascinated, at the stage. Walker had been so despondent earlier in the day, and now he was positively exuberant. Yeah, he was an actor, making a professional appearance, but he wasn’t that good. His happiness looked genuine. Understandable.
But dammit, didn’t he realize how bad it looked?
Would look, anyway, when the fans found out tomorrow about the QB’s death. Assuming word had leaked out about his firing.
Or if the police saw him tonight. And they would see him, one way or the other. If they weren’t watching live, odds were the con would videotape the concert, like everything else this weekend.
Were they? Yes. Apparently the cameras pretty much ran themselves. One pointed at the stage and the other at the dance floor, and the techs only glanced over now and then—more at the readout that showed how much tape remained than at the monitor.
Did Walker realize this? Probably not. Or if he did, he probably hadn’t thought through the implications.
For that matter, Maggie, now dancing exuberantly in the middle of the floor, was going to look pretty happy on the videotapes—though I wasn’t as worried about Maggie. She was up front about the QB being her enemy. If anyone taxed her with insensitivity for dancing away the night of the QB’s murder, she could simply shrug and say, “I didn’t like her, and I wasn’t that broken up.”
After all, she hadn’t gone around all day weeping and wailing to everyone about all the horrible things the QB was doing and then, when the QB actually appeared, doing an abrupt about face and sucking up to her. Like Walker.
But still, even Maggie’s exuberance might seem a little insensitive in the cold light of day.
And what if it’s not just exuberance, a small voice inside me kept asking. What if one of them really has a reason to celebrate?
Their problem, I told myself. I scanned the floor one more time. I didn’t spot Michael, but Chris Blair was standing at the side of the stage, looking a lot less exuberant than Walker and Maggie. Just then he glanced up, saw me, and waved. I waved back, and continued scanning for Michael.
Not there. Actually, a good thing; I’d have time to check with the front desk about our new room.
But on my way down the stairs from the balcony, I ran into Chris.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s not stand here blocking the stairs.”
Not that the stairs were a high traffic area, but I could tell from his unsteady posture that the beer he held wasn’t his first. The sooner he got back on level ground the better. I didn’t believe in the old superstition that deaths came in threes, but just in case I was wrong, I’d rather see two more aging starlets buy the farm than two more members of the Porfiria cast and crew.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, breathing hops into my face. “Is she really dead?”
“Did you think it was some kind of publicity stunt? Yes, she’s dead. Didn’t the cops interrogate you about it?”
“Yeah, but I figured maybe they were just trying to scare us, you know? You’re sure? She couldn’t have just been unconscious?”
“Chris, I saw her,” I said. “I’ve seen dead people. I know what dead looks like. She was dead.”
“Damn,” he said. He stared into space, shaking his head slightly. Then he took another long pull on his beer.
“You seem pretty upset,” I said.
“I am, kind of,” Chris said. “Upset. Feeling a little guilty.”
“Guilty?” I echoed.
