“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Dad said, “meanwhile, I’ll be following a line of inquiry of my own.”
With that, he trotted off.
Chapter 22
While Steele and I opened the booth, I wondered briefly what Dad’s line of inquiry was, and whether it would unduly annoy Detective Foley. And then I decided I’d have enough to worry about, trying not to annoy Foley with my own line of inquiry, whatever it turned out to be.
And what I’d overheard Foley saying bothered me. It sounded as if Foley didn’t plan to investigate the comic fragment seriously. I couldn’t help thinking that the fragment was more significant than he realized.
Of course, maybe I couldn’t help thinking that because it was the one genuine piece of evidence that I knew as much about as the cops. And it must be important if I found it, right?
I felt a renewed temptation to pull out the camera and study the photos, a temptation I resisted, partly because I knew there wasn’t much more I could learn from the tiny little screen, and partly because the dealers’ room had opened and customers were straggling in.
Steele didn’t badger me with questions about finding the QB’s body, which increased my appreciation of him enormously. Of course, he didn’t need to ask questions, just keep his ears open for the next half hour or so while everyone I knew and not a few total strangers plied me with questions. But still, I appreciated the restraint. Almost as much as I appreciated being able to say,
“I’m sorry; the police have ordered me not to discuss that with anyone.”
I was saying this for about the seventeenth time when Dad showed up again.
“Meg,” he said, “any chance I could borrow that little tape recorder of yours? Unless you’re going to use it in your sleuthing.”
“I’m not sleuthing and the tape recorder is Michael’s,” I said. “He uses it to study lines. I don’t even know if he brought it, but you could ask him.”
“Great!” he said. “Where is he?”
I glanced at the clock and then pulled my program out of my purse.
“He’ll be in the Ruritanian Room at eleven,” I said. “If you hurry over there, you can probably catch him.”
With half an hour to spare, but I didn’t want Dad hanging around talking about rigor mortis and alarming the customers.
“Wonderful!” he said, turning to leave.
“And Dad,” I said, “please don’t go around telling people that I’m sleuthing.”
“Oh, right,” Dad said. “Keep it discreet. Check.”
He nodded repeatedly, looked around to see who might be listening, put his finger to his lips, winked, and slipped away in a conspicuously furtive manner.
“Good grief,” I muttered.
“You’re some kind of detective?” Steele asked.
“Dad wishes,” I said. “He’s a big mystery buff. I wish I was the brilliant amateur sleuth he imagines me.”
“So you could get the glory of solving Porfiria’s murder,” he said.
“The hell with the glory,” I said. “I just want the cops to solve this as soon as possible. If I could help them, I would. All this notoriety isn’t good for Michael’s career.”
“I should think an actor would welcome the publicity. Especially when he’s cleared of any suspicion, as I assume he will be,” Steele added, with a half bow.
“I’m not sure even an actor benefits from the publicity of being a suspect in a famous homicide,” I said. “But I didn’t mean the acting; I mean his career at the college. In the real world, Michael’s an assistant professor of drama at Caerphilly College. The administration’s already a little dubious about offering tenure to someone who runs around on TV every week in a pointy hat and a black velvet bathrobe. A star turn on
If this weekend’s notoriety hadn’t already, I thought, feeling a queasy sensation in my stomach. Or maybe I was just hungry.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “I could raid the buffet in the green room.”
“I had breakfast just now, thanks,” he said. “But you go ahead. And if you need to lie down or something, feel free; you had a long night. It’s not like we’re swamped or anything.”
No, and it wasn’t because there were any particularly exciting panels, either. I poked my head in the main ballroom where a woman was presenting a slide show on Porfirian costumes to a sparse and apathetic crowd.
I checked my program. Yes, she was one of the twelve unlucky invited guests.
Then I realized that this wasn’t my program—I’d given that to Detective Foley. It was Eric’s.
He’d gotten signatures from seven out of the twelve invited guests—including the QB’s, which no one would be able to get from now on. I could use the program as an excuse to talk to the remaining five, several of whom I didn’t actually know. Not that I needed an excuse but this would put them off their guard. And I knew I could find a chance to talk to the rest, no problem. And then—
Of course, before I started interrogating people, I would need some idea what to ask.
I shook my head, and continued toward the green room.
At least I’d solved the mystery of where all the fans had gone. Most of them were milling about in the hallway and the lobby, trading misinformation about the murder and gaping at the news crews that had appeared, overnight, to besiege the hotel. Salome’s keeper loitered with the rest—the lure of staring at the media must be irresistible if he’d leave her so he could do it.
A blond reporter for one of the local network affiliates was talking earnestly at a camera in front of the main entrance and, out in the parking lot, a petite Asian woman was interviewing several costumed fans. The three red- clad musicians were singing a parody of “Car 54, Where Are You?” in the overly cheerful manner performers use when pretending not to mind the lack of an audience. Near the front desk, where the “Welcome to Amblyopia!” sign marked the entrance to the convention itself, another blond reporter was arguing with three Amazon security guards, while her cameraman stood nearby, holding his equipment at the ready. And, of course, several monkeys hovered overhead, watching intently. They seemed intrigued by any conflict or argument.
“This is a public place!” the reporter was saying.
“Not this weekend,” the senior Amazon said. “If you don’t have a ticket for the convention, you can’t come in.”
“Then I’ll buy a ticket!” the reporter said.
“Sorry,” the Amazon said, crossing her arms. “We’re sold out.”
“Sold out!” the reporter exclaimed.
The other two Amazons crossed their arms, too, as did the monkey perched on the shoulder of the taller one.
The reporter took a deep breath and was opening her mouth to protest when she suddenly began batting at her head and shrieking. Apparently one of the hovering monkeys had become fascinated with the wire leading to her head and made a grab for it, ripping the earpiece out of her ear and the lavaliere microphone from her lapel.
The reporter retreated from the lobby, shouting something rather incoherent about lawyers, rabies, and the First Amendment. One of the Amazons tried to retrieve the microphone and earpiece from the monkey, resulting in a lively game of tug of war, while the cameraman had begun filming some nut who’d shinnied up a pillar in the lobby and was doing something to one of the parrots.
I moved to where I could get a better angle and saw that it was Dad, teetering just below the lobby ceiling, his legs locked around the pillar. With one hand, he was waggling a piece of fruit, trying to catch the parrot’s eye, while the other hand held Michael’s cassette recorder as close to the parrot as possible.
“I don’t even want to know,” I said.
