“I think he cares more than he admits,” Michael said. “But getting up the nerve to kill her? Hard to buy. Just like Francis. You’d have to go a long way to find anyone as meek as the two of them.”
“No, you wouldn’t even have to leave the convention,” I said. “There’s at least one more person here who might have a good reason to confront the QB if he could get up the nerve—Ichabod Dilley.”
“I assume you mean Ichabod the younger, rather than Ichabod the dead and buried and presumably rather smelly by now.” Michael said. “What quarrel would he have with her?”
“He’s been researching his uncle’s work, remember? Maybe he didn’t like what he found out. Maybe he read the comics, saw one of the episodes they’re constantly running in the fan lounge, and decided to tell her she can’t do something or other because it’s a blight on his uncle’s legacy, or some such thing.”
“And she tells him that she owns them, meaning the comic books,” Michael said. “Yeah, that fits, too.”
We pondered a while in silence.
“So which of our three mild-mannered Dr. Jekylls is actually the murderous Mr. Hyde?” Michael asked.
“Beats me,” I said, rubbing my tired eyes. “There’s always the possibility that the parrot just paired those words and the death rattle at random.”
“Which takes the suspect list back up to just about everyone,” Michael said with a sigh. “Should we share all this with the police?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure they care,” I said. “When I told Foley what the parrot said, he didn’t sound too interested.”
“Maybe he’s just playing it cool,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t like to have to put a parrot on the witness stand.”
“Yes, and I don’t think Foley likes birds,” I said. “He spends a lot of time looking over his shoulder for them.”
“Don’t we all?” Michael said, glancing up at the ceiling in a gesture that had become habitual for all of us.
“Yeah, but most of us are just annoyed, and trying to avoid bird droppings,” I said. “He looks nervous.”
“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll solve the murder and show him up,” Michael said.
“No way,” I said. “I know Dad will be disappointed, but I have no intention of solving the murder.”
“So all this brainstorming is just for the fun of it,” Michael said, suppressing a grin. “You’re just trying to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Something like that,” I said.
Although that was a lie. I had good reason to want the killer caught quickly. I didn’t think the police seriously suspected Michael. But they didn’t have to suspect him to hurt his career—his real career, as a drama professor.
I could imagine how the murder would look to the Caerphilly College Board of Regents, whose mindset was something out of the fifties—the eighteen-fifties. They already found Michael’s role on Porfiria vaguely distasteful. The longer the police investigation went on, and the more publicity it generated, the greater the probability that it would hurt his chances at tenure.
But I wouldn’t mention this to Michael. If he hadn’t thought of it, why worry him? And if he had, why add to his stress by letting him know I was worried?
So I’d keep it light when he was around, and while he paneled and signed autographs, I’d do anything I could to help the police wrap things up quickly.
Handing them the killer would be nice.
“I should run,” I said aloud. “Unlike some people, whose panels don’t begin until eleven, I have to be in the dealers’ room at ten.”
“Have fun,” he said.
Chapter 21
A good thing the convention hadn’t scheduled any 9:00 A.M. panels today, I thought, as I picked my way through the lobby. The squatters had returned, and most of them were still fast asleep—including the tuxedo-clad groom, nestled down between the his-and-hers suitcases. I didn’t see the bride anywhere.
And, of course, since I was in a hurry, I ran into Mother.
She was standing in a clearing, gazing up at something.
Probably a monkey doing something amusing, I thought, joining her.
But no. She was staring at part of the lobby decoration. Someone with more ambition and energy than artistic skill had constructed, out of papier mache, the facade of a ruined jungle temple—the sort of thing you’d see on the set of a Tarzan movie, or maybe one of the Indiana Jones sagas. It didn’t look all that bad if you half closed your eyes and squinted.
“Amazing,” Mother said, tapping her chin thoughtfully with a finger.
“Yes,” I said. “Though it’s hard to decide which is more puzzling: that anyone would actually spend the time to do that, or that having done so, they’d embarrass themselves by exhibiting it in public.”
“Oh, I know the workmanship is inadequate,” Mother said, waving her hand dismissively. “But the concept…”
She began slowly turning in a circle, looking around her. I picked up her train and shifted it as she turned, so she wouldn’t get tangled up.
“Yes,” she said. “You know, Meg, the problem with most decorators these days is that they think small.”
I made a noncommittal noise. I didn’t like the sound of this. Mother had toyed for years with the idea of becoming a decorator, and in the last few months I’d begun to fear that she would actually go ahead with the plan. The one benefit of her coming to the convention was that it would distract her for a few days from her decorating ambitions, and here she was, back on the same subject again.
“Yes,” Mother said. “They think small. They change a lamp here, a pillow there, instead of coming up with a truly revolutionary concept. Decorating should not be about creating pretty little rooms. We should be creating environments! Stage settings for more dramatic lives!”
She flung out her arms with enthusiasm as she said this, startling several spider monkeys on the face of the temple into flight.
“I can see it now,” she said, staring at the ruin.
So could I. I backed up, quietly, and slipped out of the clearing.
“Meg, when you and Michael finally move into that house—Meg? Meg, where did you go? Eric, come here and pick up my train; I need to find your Aunt Meg.”
I sprinted through the lobby and down the corridor toward the various meeting rooms.
Unfortunately, Eric must have been close at hand. I saw Mother emerge from the underbrush not far behind me.
“There she is,” I heard her tell Eric. “Now hold Grandma’s dress very tight and—”
“Oh, Lord,” I muttered, and looked around for someplace to hide. I ran through a vine-covered opening, then turned and watched the entrance. After a few moments, when no one else entered, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“You can’t stay here,” a voice said.
I turned and found myself staring into the eyes of Salome the tiger.
After a few moments her keeper’s voice broke the spell.
“We’re not open yet,” he said. “We’re only open from eleven to two. The crowds make her overexcited if we’re open too long.”
As if to demonstrate, Salome curled back her mouth in a growl, but I didn’t hear anything.
“She has a soft growl, doesn’t she?” I said.
“She’s not growling, she’s flehming,” the keeper said. “When they open their mouths like that, they’re actually sucking in air and sampling it with this extra scent organ in the roof of their mouths. It helps them sense things.”
