I can just get the police to consider the idea that the creator of the comic books is alive, they can probably figure out the rest.”
“Still sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” he said. “Of course if you—damn!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I need to make a call before five,” he said. “Preferably from someplace quieter. Can you watch the booth for maybe fifteen minutes?”
“I owe you a lot more than fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “You can tell me the rest of your theory when I get back.”
I wasn’t sure there was much more to my theory, I thought, as he strode away. In fact, I’d already found a flaw. Nate didn’t know about Ichabod Dilley naming his characters out of a medical dictionary.
Or pretended not to know. After all, even if Nate hadn’t figured out the naming scheme over the years, odds were someone would have done so, and that Nate would have heard about it. In fact, his claiming not to know was downright suspicious.
And his stick figures, which I’d always seen as evidence of Nate’s complete lack of drawing ability—were they deliberately bad?
Yes, I liked my theory. It explained everything, from the scrap of comic to her last words.
I could see it. Nate protesting something she was doing to the show. Telling her she couldn’t do that to his comics, or his characters, or his words—it didn’t matter which. And both Nate and the parrot heard her reply: “I can do anything. I
And that was where he cracked. And killed the QB.
Suddenly, I was impatient for Steele to return. I had to tell this to the cops. And the sooner the better.
Chapter 39
I was looking around for Steele, or someone else to watch the booth, when I felt someone tugging at my elbow.
“Excuse me?”
I turned to see the pudgy figure of the producer who’d been talking to Steele about doing the armor and weapons for his movie.
“Alaric’s stepped away for a few minutes,” I said. “Can I—”
“Yes, I know,” the man said, looking around furtively. “That’s why I came over. I’ve been discussing a project with Mr. Steele—”
“I noticed,” I said. Maybe it was rude, cutting him short like that, but quite apart from the fact that I didn’t see what I had to do with his deal with Steele, I saw Detective Foley and his partner step into the dealers’ room.
“I’d be interested in your perspective on the project,” the man said
“My perspective?” I said.
“Frankly, we’re looking for something a little less expensive,” the man said. “Perhaps if you could look these numbers over. Give us your thoughts.”
He held out a piece of paper. Something Steele had given him as part of their discussions, I surmised. I could see rough sketches of a helmet and an ornate sword hilt. And numbers. Impressively large numbers, but then he wanted quite a lot of custom iron work.
My perspective? He wanted a lower bid. Someone to do the work more cheaply, or maybe just competition to help him push Steele’s price down.
“I don’t think—” I began.
“Just look it over,” the man said. “Here’s my card; I already picked up yours yesterday. I’d like to talk to you.”
With that, he disappeared into the crowd.
What a little weasel! Was this how TV producers really worked? Not the top drawer ones, I’d bet. I slipped the card and the paper into my pocket. When Steele got back, I’d warn him what the producer was up to.
In the meantime, the cops had gone from one end of the dealers’ room to the other, looking around. Looking for someone in particular, or just looking?
It didn’t matter. They were about to leave the room, and I wanted to talk to them. I glanced around and spotted a familiar face.
“Dad!” I said, running out into the aisle and catching his sleeve. “Can you watch my booth for a few minutes?”
“Well,” he said, “is it important?” I could see that he had his eye on a bright green parrot fluttering overhead.
“It could be,” I said, in the mysterious and conspiratorial tone I knew would catch his interest. “It could be what cracks the case. I’ll come and tell you as soon as I see what the police say.”
“Right!” he said, and scrambled behind the counter.
I followed the police into the wide hallway outside the dealers’ room.
Detective Foley and his partner were talking to several uniformed officers when I reached them.
“When I give the word,” I heard Foley say, and then he turned to me, frowning. “What can I do for you?”
“This may sound crazy,” I began.
“Why not?” he said. “Everything else today has.”
But he listened while I explained my theory. Listened intently, but I wasn’t sure whether he found my theory fascinating and plausible or just had trouble following it.
I confess, at the last minute, I waffled, and didn’t indict Nate as definitively as I’d originally intended. After all, if I was wrong, Michael still had to work with him. Probably a mistake. It weakened my argument, so all you had left was an impassioned but confusing plea that Foley look a lot more deeply into Ichabod Dilley’s death, his relationship with the other members of the cast of
“That’s very interesting,” Detective Foley, said, glancing at his silent partner.
“You don’t believe me,” I said. He could probably tell from my voice that I wasn’t pleased.
“Oh, actually we believe you,” he said. “We’ll be talking to Ms. West and others to develop the information you’ve given us. It dovetails very nicely with our theory of the case.”
“Your theory?” I said.
The other detective gave him a baleful look, as if to suggest that he was talking a little too much to a civilian, but Detective Foley was on a roll.
“Yes,” he said, tucking his thumbs in his pants pockets and rocking back on his heels. “We happen to agree with your basic assumption. We think Ichabod Dilley is very much alive. And we can’t find any trace of our mild- mannered suspect over there before around 1970.”
He was pointing across the lobby, to where Nate was standing, talking to Francis and Walker.
My brain reeled. Okay, I had pointed the finger at Nate. But maybe I wanted to be wrong. I liked Nate, and I certainly hadn’t expected the police to confirm my suspicions quite this readily. As I watched, Walker clapped Nate on the shoulder and strolled off.
“If you’re finished showing off, maybe we can arrest the guy now?” Foley’s partner suggested.
Foley nodded, and the two of them headed across the lobby with a firm, purposeful air.
Nate and Francis looked up. Nate looked alarmed. Of course, so did Francis, but that was his normal expression.
Detective Foley reached into his inside jacket pocket for something. His badge, maybe.
Nate and Francis could see it, too. Nate looked anxious.
Francis turned and ran.
Francis? Wait a minute. I thought they were after Nate—but he just stood there with a puzzled look on his
