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.
“Yes,” he said, glancing at his watch as if to say, “But only a moment, so make it snappy.”
“Look, this may sound stupid, but are you looking at what happened back in 1972?”
“For example?”
“For example, that around 1972, Miss Wynncliffe-Jones bought all the rights to the Porfiria comic books for a sum now widely considered larcenously low? That shortly afterward, Ichabod Dilley, the creator of the comics, died under suspicious circumstances? And that the piece of paper found in her hand appeared to be a portion of one of those comics? A piece of paper, of course, that I haven’t told anybody about, apart from Michael.”
“We appreciate your discretion,” Foley said. “And we’d appreciate if you’d continue keeping quiet about the scrap of paper, although I don’t think it’s that strong a link to 1972. From what I hear, even the original comic books wouldn’t be all that valuable if not for the TV fans.”
He sounded—well, not exactly patient. More like he’d had plenty of practice in not sounding impatient.
“What about the fact that Francis used to be her agent back then?”
He looked a little less deliberately patient at that.
“I imagine he’s had a lot of clients if he’s been in the business that long.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “And he’s probably seen a lot of them murdered, too; you know what a cutthroat place Hollywood is.”
Foley’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t say anything.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“What about the rumor that the relationship between Nate Abrams and Miss Wynncliffe-Jones was more than professional?”
Okay, I was grasping at straws here. The more I thought about Karen the costumer’s hint that Nate was—how had she put it?—sweet on the QB, the more I dismissed it as her overly romantic interpretation of events. And did Foley’s remarkably blank expression mean that he found this interesting, or just that he was really tired of listening to me?
“I don’t suppose you know anything to substantiate this rumor?” he asked.
“No, but if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
I expected him to ask who I’d heard the rumor from, or warn me about not interfering in a police investigation, but he simply nodded and walked off.
Damn. I didn’t get the feeling he’d totally ignored me, but I knew I hadn’t convinced him. Not surprising; all I had was my gut feeling that whatever happened in 1972 had something to do with the murder. Not much to go on.
But it was all I had. And just in case Foley’s focus on present-day motives didn’t work out, maybe someone should look into the past. Or start looking, anyway. By Sunday afternoon, the suspects would scatter over the continent. How far could I get in a day and a half?
At least I knew where to start. With the comic books.
“No way,” Cordelia said, a few minutes later. “Do you know what those comics are worth?”
“I don’t want you to give them to me,” I said. “I just want to look at them. It’s important.”
“Why?”
Probably not a good idea to say I was trying to solve the QB’s murder.
“There were only twelve Porfiria comic books ever published, right?” I asked.
“Right.”
“So what would you say if I told you there might be another one?”
“You have a lead on the Lost Thirteenth Porfiria?” Cordelia said, in hushed tones.
Apparently I’d accidentally tapped into an existing rumor.
“Maybe,” I said. “I need to study the twelve again first.”
Again. As if I’d ever actually read any of them.