So, petty as it sounds, by law, unless she wants to let some big crook take advantage of her, she has to slap around all the harmless little fans who are only having fun playing with characters they adore.”
“But she doesn’t want to slap them around,” Maggie said. “For one thing, it creates ill will, and for another, who wants to pay a bunch of lawyers to do it?”
“So nobody’s going to search every booth in the dealers’ room to see if some of them might be selling fan fic,” I said. “As long as they’re discreet, they can do whatever they want.”
“Except hand it to us,” Michael said. “Technically, we’re employees of the production company. We’re not supposed to look at the stuff. Because as long as the company doesn’t officially know it exists, it doesn’t have to do anything.”
“Besides, it creeps us out,” Walker grumbled.
“Speak for yourself,” Maggie said, with a grin. “When I find out some guy gets his jollies writing steamy fantasies about me—hell, at my age, I’m flattered.”
“Well, you don’t get the slash,” Walker said.
“That’s where I came in,” Foley said. “Maggie, someone said you broke up a group peddling slash in the lobby. That was what I wanted to hear about.”
“Slash is fan fic that takes two characters from the show who would absolutely not be involved,” Walker said, “and puts them in a…romantic relationship.”
“Usually two male characters,” Maggie said, “and for ‘romantic,’ substitute ‘erotic.’ But apart from that, yeah.”
“So this isn’t anything horrific,” Foley said. “For some reason, I got the idea it might be something like a snuff film. Or something drug related.”
“Nothing like that,” I said.
“Just fan fic written by gay fans,” Foley said.
“No, usually by women,” Maggie said. “God knows why; if I see an actor I like, I fantasize about seeing him with me, not with another guy. The name comes from the slash sign used to punctuate it. Mephisto-slash-Urushiol. For some reason, it bugs Walker.”
“Duchess-slash-Porfiria,” Walker countered.
“Point taken,” Maggie said, with a laugh.
“So we’re not talking about anything violent,” Foley said.
“No, but it does bring up an interesting possible motive for murder,” Walker said. “What if one of the fan fic people got a cease-and-desist letter from the QB’s lawyers and took it way too personally?”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Foley said, not sounding convinced. He swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the general direction of the trash can as he turned to go.
“You know,” I said. “Since Porfiria’s based on a comic book, I suppose the show’s lawyers also have to worry about fake comics, too.”
Foley stopped when he heard that, and turned back.
“You see a lot of that?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Do we see it? No,” Maggie said. “We work very hard at not seeing it. But it happens.”
“I suspect you can find a lot of it in the dealers’ room,” I said. “Most of it’s probably pretty crude and amateurish, but some of it, I bet you’d think it was the real thing.”
Foley glanced back at me and nodded. Then he turned on his heel, and this time, he made it out the door.
“What was that in aid of?” Michael said.
Okay, so maybe the cops weren’t as short-sighted about the comic scrap as I’d assumed.
“I wish they could leave the poor fans alone,” Maggie said. “Who are they really hurting?”
“It’s a legal thing,” Walker said, with a shrug.
“Oh, and as long as it’s legal, it’s perfectly fine, right?” Maggie said. “Remember that the next time you’re complaining about your contract.”
“You know what strikes me when I look at this stuff?” I said. “It’s not that different from what Ichabod Dilley was doing when he first started writing and drawing the Porfiria stories.”
“He made up his own world,” Michael said.
“Out of bits and pieces of popular culture,” I said. “Tell me you don’t see bits of Conan and Tarzan and Tolkien characters in the Porfiria comics. And I bet the early underground comics were just as crudely produced as these are.”
“Worse, from what I remember,” Maggie said.
“And come to think of it, if Ichabod Dilley were still alive, I wonder if he’d have to get the QB’s permission to do new Porfiria comics, too.”
“Is this significant?” Michael asked. He didn’t say more, apparently remembering that he was the only one here who knew anything about the scrap of comic I’d found in the QB’s hand.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Just then, we noticed a couple of convention volunteers lurking in the doorway.
Chapter 28
“Come on, boys,” Maggie said. “It’s time for lunch with the stars. Assuming they’ve found a restaurant that’s open.”
“Lunch with the stars?” I repeated.
“We each sit at a table with eleven people who have donated obscene amounts of money to charity for the privilege,” Michael said. “Dinner, however, is another story. I would rather dine with the star of my own personal firmament, if you can get away from your booth for an hour.”
“Flattery will get you anywhere, and Chris can fill in at the booth,” I said. “He owes me. What time?”
“Probably around six,” he said. “Early, anyway. I can come by when I’m free. We have to make it early, because the festivities start up again at seven. We’re judging the open costume competition.”
“And Chris and Harry and I are doing another stage combat demonstration,” I said. “As if everyone at the convention didn’t get to see me stab myself in the foot the first time around.”
“Well, I didn’t see it,” he complained. “I was off signing, remember?”
“I take it back,” I said. “For you, I’ll gladly make a fool of myself again.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “I’ve been doing that all day, and people keep applauding. Gotta run; try not to tick off Foley so much that he arrests you before dinner.”
“I have no intention of ticking him off at all,” I called after him, as he headed for the door. “I’ll be sitting in my booth.”
“I thought you’d be sleuthing,”
“That, too.”
As I turned to go, I realized that they’d left the dozen or so samples of fan fic on the table. I tidied them into my tote. Odds were they had nothing to do with the murder, but you never knew.
But as I walked back to the dealers’ room, I found myself thinking about the fan fic. And about the scrap of paper I’d found in the QB’s hand. Was it fan fic, or the real thing?
And was it perceptive, or just stupidly obsessive, to keep coming back to that scrap of paper? And to the perhaps irrational feeling that to understand it, I needed to know a lot more about what happened back in 1972? Maybe it was a good thing that I’d steered Foley to the fake Porfiria comics in the dealers’ room. But it would be even better if he’d poke into the real ones. Into the past. Would it do any good to suggest it?
No harm, anyway.
When I got to the dealers’ room, I found Foley himself standing just outside the door. He looked free, so I decided to tackle him.
“Have you got a moment?” I asked.
