instrument.”
“Could be evidence that it was an accident,” Dad said. “If they were quarrelling and Miss Wynncliffe-Jones slipped and fell, for example. And hit her head on the wine bottle.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Still seems odd.”
“You can hang onto it and study it for a while if you like,” Dad said.
“Taking a break from sleuthing?”
“Not really,” he said. “I may have found someone who has an in with the medical examiner, and then I’m supposed to get together with your friend the scriptwriter. So I’ll be pretty tied up all afternoon—why don’t you keep the tape recorder for now?”
“Thanks,” I said, as he turned to leave.
Perhaps my voice betrayed my lack of enthusiasm for his ornithological investigations. Or perhaps I just sounded tired and discouraged.
“Is there anything else you need?” he asked, pausing and turning back to give me a look that was part doctor and part worried Dad.
“I need a time machine,” I said, this time aloud. The parrot tape had distracted me briefly from my frustration at how little I knew. I couldn’t go back thirty years and find out the real story about Ichabod Dilley’s death. I couldn’t even go back thirty hours and try to get the QB to tell me what she knew. I’d studied the original Porfiria comics, picked Cordelia’s brain—I wanted another window to the past.
“Well, there are probably a few time machines around here,” Dad said, “but I’m afraid I don’t know where. You probably have a better idea than I do. Good luck!”
And with that he dashed off.
“Is he pulling your leg, or did he just not hear what you said?” Steele asked.
“With Dad, who knows?” I said.
Actually, I did, but I didn’t really want to go into a long explanation. Dad always referred to Great-Aunt Zelda, who was now over a hundred, as the family time machine. Despite her age, she was as sharp-tongued and clear- witted as ever. And if you wanted to settle some question about the past, Great-Aunt Zelda was usually as reliable as any reference book, and a whole lot easier to consult.
So all I had to do was find someone who had been around Ichabod Dilley or the QB back in 1972. Or failing that, at least someone who had been around the QB enough that he might have heard her talk about old times.
Why couldn’t she have had a faithful retainer? If we were living in one of Nate’s scripts, she would certainly have had one—perhaps a chain-smoking dragon lady who had looked after her wardrobe since they were both ingenues, and was the only person who dared to argue with her. And who, after initially seeming cynically unaffected by her employer’s death, would eventually break down in tears and reveal the critical clue—whatever that was.
But she hadn’t had a faithful retainer. She’d had Typhani. Latest, I suspected, of a long line of Typhanis. And maybe a few Geniphers.
There was always Nate. Not my idea of a faithful retainer, but at least, according to the costumer, he’d known the QB since they were much younger.
Of course, much younger didn’t necessarily mean thirty years. But still—he’d been closer to her than anyone else I could think of.
And, I thought, glancing at the clock, he just might be in the green room, recuperating from his latest panel.
“I need to talk to Nate,” I said, and barely waited for Steele’s nod of acknowledgement before I raced away.
Nate was, indeed, on break, though I finally located him in the bar at the back of the supposedly closed restaurant. Not that he couldn’t have drunk his cup of coffee in the green room. He probably wanted to be left alone. Ah, well.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I know the convention is important for fan relations,” he said, “but my heart’s just not in it right now.”
Okay, maybe I was wrong about no one mourning for the QB. I nodded and tried to look sympathetic.
“I really need to be on the phone, trying to get a sense of what’s happening back in California. Or back in my room, trying to come up with a coherent plan to save the show. What a disaster! And after everything we went through to make this thing a success.”
We. Okay, it wasn’t exactly deep mourning, but perhaps I’d finally found the one person at the convention who sincerely wished the QB alive again.
“You’d known each other a long time, hadn’t you?” I asked.
He nodded.
“More than thirty years,” he said.
Chapter 31
Yes! I thought, but I tried to stay calm and think of just the right thing to ask. If I wanted to be subtle, it was too soon to ask whether he’d been in love with her, or whether he knew anything about her buying the rights to Porfiria so soon before Ichabod Dilley’s untimely and downright suspicious death.
“What was she like?” I asked instead.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What’s anyone like when they’re young? Ambitious, impatient. Beautiful, of course. You have to be, to get anywhere in this business. And tough. I mean, I know a lot of people call her a bitch and a dragon, but that’s because they don’t understand what she had to go through to get where she is. You have to be tough.”
“And talented,” I suggested.
“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging. “That’s not as important as you think. Not that she was untalented. But it’s not as if she ever pretended to be a great tragic actress or anything. Still, she could really have gone someplace, been much bigger if she’d only had the breaks.”
Just then we heard Maggie’s laugh, somewhere nearby. Nate smiled, involuntarily—the way most people seemed to when they heard her. Then he looked down at the table and sighed.
“Actually Maggie was the one who really should have gone someplace,” he said.
“Why didn’t she?” I asked.
“Who knows, with Hollywood?” he said. “She was good enough, and gorgeous enough, but maybe she didn’t want it enough. Or wasn’t mean enough. All I know is, I lost track of her for…I don’t know. Fifteen years? Maybe twenty. Then I got an invitation to this fund-raiser she was running, and I went, just for old time’s sake. And when I saw her, I thought, my God. She still had it. I thought it would be a great PR stunt, signing her for the show: old friends getting together to bring to life the long-neglected work of their dead buddy.”
“Oh, they were friends of Ichabod Dilley? Maggie and the QB?”
“They all worked on the same movie,” Nate said, shrugging. “I don’t know about friends, but they probably met, one time or another. And if they didn’t, what did it matter. It was just a PR stunt. Stupid idea.”
“Only problem is that word ‘long,’” I said. “As in ‘long in the tooth.’”
“Yeah, stupid me for not realizing that,” Nate said. “I was surprised when she hired Maggie anyway. And then, first week on the set, I realized why. Gave her the perfect excuse to make life miserable for someone she never liked. I was surprised Maggie stuck it out as long as she did.”
“Stuck it out? I thought the QB fired Maggie.”
“Yeah, she did, finally,” Nate said. “Soon as she figured out how much the fans loved Maggie. Or maybe realized how much better Maggie looked on camera. You ask me, Maggie was probably relieved that the battle was over, and she could go home to her animals again.”
“Her animals?” I said, feigning ignorance.
“Yeah, she runs this animal sanctuary up in the foothills outside L.A.,” Nate said. “That’s what she ended up
