“You see,” I said, as he hefted the two appreciatively, “the handmade one’s at least a pound heavier, but the balance is so good it actually feels much lighter.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, nodding.
Of course, you’d notice the extra pound quick enough, if you actually tried to fight with the thing for a few minutes, but I doubted if this particular ranger would ever take it off his wall.
I confess: I was showing off for Steele’s benefit. Nice of him not to laugh when my would-be customer said he’d have to think about it, and slipped away, his body language clearly telling me that he wasn’t coming back.
“Now I know why you had that piece of junk around,” was all Steele said.
So much for my superior sales skills.
“Hey, Meg!”
I turned to see Eric standing in front of the booth.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said. “Are you all by yourself?”
“No, Grandpa is over there talking to another parrot,” he said. Dad had acquired a stepladder from somewhere, and was perched atop it, holding the tape recorder out toward a pair of blue and yellow birds.
“Great,” I said. At least Eric didn’t seem bored or unhappy. He was watching Dad’s latest antics with the same bemused interest all the grandchildren felt before they got old enough to be embarrassed by them.
“Where’s Grandma?”
“She went to a fabric store.”
I winced. Mother didn’t sew; she only went to fabric stores when she got the decorating bug.
“Oh, Eric,” I said. “I got the rest of the signatures on your program. All except Andrea; she didn’t come at all this weekend.”
“Wow,” Eric said. “You mean, you even got…her autograph?”
“Piece of cake,” I said, flipping to the QB’s picture. “Nobody’s tougher than your Aunt Meg; you remember that.”
“Cool,” Eric said. “I was going to get her to sign the big photo at the beginning, but this is probably better. It all matches.”
Big photo at the beginning?
“Can I see that for a second?” I asked.
Eric obediently handed back the program.
The guest biographies were arranged, three to a page, in a section toward the middle of the program book. Arranged alphabetically. The fourth page, where I’d had the QB sign, contained Michael Waterston, Maggie West, and Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones. I flipped forward one page and saw that the middle spread included Walker Morris, Andrea and Harry from Blazing Sabers, the elderly character actor who played Porfiria’s chief counselor, Karen the costumer, and the professor I’d seen holding forth on Jungian archetypes in Amblyopia: The guests whose last names fell between F and T.
Flipping forward again, I saw a full page portrait of the QB occupying the page opposite the first three guests: Nate Abrams, Chris Blair, and Ichabod Dilley. Eric had already gotten signatures from all three before tackling the QB.
“This was where you were asking her to sign?” I said. “When she said that funny thing to you?”
“That she wasn’t going to sign on the same page as that imposter,” Eric said, nodding. “I guess she meant Ichabod Dilley, since he was only the nephew of the real guy.”
“That must be it,” I said.
I handed the program back, and Eric trotted away holding it.
Yes, she probably did mean Ichabod Dilley. But how had she known he was an imposter? I’d probably found out before anyone at the convention, but that was still only a few minutes before one. When we’d gone to her room at two, she hadn’t called him an imposter. She’d sounded worried about what he would say. And I doubted the subject had come up during her panel. When did she find out?
Maybe there was no particular mystery about it. Maybe someone had told her between the time she left her room and the time Eric went through the autograph line. Or maybe she already knew. Even if she didn’t know him well enough to keep in touch after she bought the comic book rights from him, thirty years was time enough for her to have heard about his death somehow.
But if the QB already knew Dilley was dead, why hadn’t she said something when she saw his name on the program?
And if she didn’t know he was dead, how did she know Dilley the younger was an imposter, sight unseen?
And, in either case, why had she been so worried about what Ichabod Dilley, real or fake, had to say?
“Something wrong?” Steele asked, interrupting my reverie.
“Long story,” I said, slightly distracted. I’d spotted Nate cutting through the dealers’ room. He looked upset about something—news about the show perhaps?
“Mind if I run out for a minute?” I asked. “I need to ask Nate something.”
“What? And leave me with all these customers?” Steele said. Since the only three customers in the room were browsing in the used book and video booth, I took that for permission.
I caught up with Nate just as he stepped out into the hall.
Chapter 27
“Nate, what’s up?” I asked. “You look like a man with a mission.”
“Just getting some coffee before another panel,” he said.
“Damn; I was hoping you’d had some news about the show.”
“Not yet,” he said. “And frankly, I don’t think we’ll get a decision until the police solve the murder. What if the network announces that the show will go on, and then the police arrest the wrong person?”
“By wrong person, I assume you mean someone connected with the show.”
“Well, yes,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know what we’d do if that happened. And if the police don’t find the killer soon, then I think the network will pass, even if the killer ultimately has nothing to do with the show.”
We’d reached the green room by this time, and found Maggie, Walker, and Michael seated around a table, laughing uproariously. Detective Foley stood nearby holding a cup of coffee and looking puzzled.
“What now?” Nate muttered.
I strolled over to perch near Michael. Nate followed more warily.
“Have a seat, Meg,” Maggie called, waving a spiral-bound booklet toward a chair. “You’ve got to hear this one.”
“This one what?” Nate asked.
“She’s a hoot when she does this,” Michael murmured in my ear.
Maggie sat up very straight, assumed a solemn expression, and began reading out of the booklet.
“‘Your bath is ready, my lord Duke,’ the buxom servicing wench announced.”
“Servicing wench?” Walker interrupted. “Shouldn’t that be serving wench?”
“Shush,” Maggie said. “The Duke of Urushiol dismissed the comely wench who had drawn his bath water and removed his clothes after she was safely out of the room.”
“Wait a minute,” Michael said. “How could she remove his clothes after she’s out of the room?”
“She didn’t,” Walker said. “He did.”
“No, Michael is right,” Maggie said. “Grammatically speaking, she did, from afar. She has strange gifts, this buxom, comely servicing wench.”
“Go on,” Walker said. “Get to the part where the babe shows up.”
“Oh, God,” Nate said. “Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything!” Walker said, with mock innocence. “See, my hands are on the table.”
“I can’t stay and listen to this!” Nate warned.
“The duke, hearing a noise behind him, startled,” Maggie intoned.
“Startled who?” Michael asked. “Or should that be whom?”
“Yes, it should be whom,” Maggie said. “And yes, startled is usually a transitive verb. Has anyone got a red pen?”
“Here,” Michael said. “It’s not red, but it makes nice little blots all over everything you write on.”