“What did it say?”
I closed my eyes and concentrated.
“I’m pretty sure it was, ‘I can do anything. I own them; I can—ggggggggggg.’”
“Ggggggggg?” Michael repeated.
“Sorry, I don’t do that very well,” I said. “It was a death rattle, as they call it in the crime books. There may be a scientific term for it; you could ask Dad.”
“Death rattle will do,” Michael said, with a slight shudder. “Call me squeamish, but I hope I never meet that particular parrot.”
Chapter 20
I was still wondering what had happened to the poor witness parrot when Michael spoke up again.
“I see what you mean, that what she said before the death rattle could be significant. She was probably arguing with the killer about something she wanted to do with the show. Something the killer disagreed with, and the QB said there was nothing he or she could do, she owned it. Meaning the show.”
“Can’t be the show,” I said.
“Why not?”
“She said ‘them,’ not ‘it,’” I said. “The show would be an ‘it.’”
“You’re sure? ‘Them’ not ‘it?’”
“Positive.”
“Damn,” Michael said. “So it’s not the show; she only owns the one show that I know of. What else does she own, but in multiples?”
“People,” I said. “When I was talking to Harry, the other guy in the sword skits, about Chris’s problems with the QB, he said ‘She owns him.’ Meaning his contract, of course. But that’s how he said it. That she owned him.”
“And that’s how she’d say it, too,” Michael said.
“Especially if she was talking about people she was messing with, like Chris and Andrea.”
“Not just Chris and Andrea,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Even me and Walker. Oh, she wouldn’t come right out and say she owned me, at least not to my face, but you could tell that’s what she thought. So maybe she was talking to someone else she was jerking around. But no, that doesn’t work either. If she was talking to me or Chris or Walker, she’d say, ‘I own you’ not ‘I own them.’”
“True,” I said. “Even if she was talking to Chris about both him and Andrea, it would still be you, not them. And while I can imagine someone getting so fed up that they’d confront her about their own complaints, it’s hard to imagine anyone tackling her on someone else’s behalf.”
“Unless it’s someone who’s paid to do it,” Michael said, slowly. “What if Francis went to argue with her about both my contract and Walker’s?”
“Was he supposed to do that?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Remember when I was talking to him yesterday? I finally laid it on the line. Told him if he couldn’t work out a compromise on my contract, a schedule that wouldn’t interfere with my responsibilities at the college, I’d fire him and find an agent who could.”
“So he was going to confront her.”
“Yes, on my behalf,” Michael said. “And I expect Walker wanted him to talk to her, too.”
“Maybe Walker wasn’t such a weasel, pointing the finger at Francis,” I said. “Maybe just a realist. He’s known Francis a lot longer than you have. When was Francis supposed to meet her?”
“Last I heard, he didn’t have an appointment,” Michael said. “I suppose he might have just gone to her room to confront her.”
“Would he?” I asked. “Confront her that way? He always seems so…um…”
“Wimpy?” Michael said, with a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, it’s hard to imagine him getting up enough nerve to tell the QB she can’t do something, but if he did, that’s just how she’d react. That she owns us. Which, from a contract standpoint, thanks to Francis, she does.”
“Did,” I said. “Not anymore. Who owns you now? Or rather, who owns the show and gets to decide what happens with it? If Francis knew he’d have more luck negotiating with whomever took over after her death, he’d have a motive.”
Michael shrugged. I could see by his anxious expression that he didn’t like talking about this.
“Who wouldn’t be easier to negotiate with?” he said. “But I have no idea who will take over for her in the negotiations. If there are any negotiations; maybe whoever killed her killed the show, too.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “She may be the title character, but she’s not exactly the star.”
“True,” he said. “The show could go on without her.”
“Queen Porfiria could die and be replaced by her sister,” I suggested. “Queen Eczema the First.”
“That would work,” he said, with a faint smile.
“They’d probably want to rethink firing Walker, too,” I said. “I don’t think anyone but the QB wanted him to go.”
“The fans certainly wouldn’t,” Michael said. “Walker has a lot of fans.”
“Not as many as you,” I said.
“No, but almost. The fans would certainly rather have Walker stay. And Nate. If Walker leaves, he’ll have to scrap a storyline he really likes. And the way Nate felt about QB, if he hasn’t already written a death scene for her, he could do it in a heartbeat. He was always complaining about how she mangled his words.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Michael, what if she wasn’t talking about people, but the scripts. What if Nate told her she couldn’t mangle his words this time—”
“And she told him that she could do anything she wanted because she owned them,” Michael said. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”
“Although I have a hard time imagining Nate getting that worked up about it,” I said. “I mean, he loves complaining, but would he really kill over a script?”
“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.”