“Will Todd be back?” I asked.
“He said he’d come in for the costume contest,” the first volunteer said.
“He’d better,” the other volunteer muttered. “If he flakes out like last year…”
“We managed last year,” the first volunteer said.
“We didn’t have all these animals last year,” the second volunteer muttered.
“Oh, is Todd in charge of the animals?” I asked.
The two looked at each other.
“I suppose so,” the first said.
“He’s the one who found them,” the second volunteer said. “Which means he’s the only one who knows what we’re supposed to do with them when the convention is over.”
“And I suppose he’s the one who managed to get permits to have them here in the first place,” I said.
“Permits?” the first volunteer said.
“Oh, great, you mean he should have gotten permits?” the second volunteer said.
“You know Todd,” the first one said. “Easier to beg forgiveness later than get permission beforehand. Sandra can take care of any problems, like she did last year.”
“Yeah, and I bet by the time we’re finished, last year’s fire and water damage will look cheap,” the second volunteer said.
I decided I’d rather not know what had happened at last year’s convention.
“Rounding up the monkeys and parrots seems to be going rather slowly,” I said instead.
“Someone kept letting them go again,” the first volunteer said.
“You should have had someone guarding them,” I said.
“We did, of course,” the volunteer said. “It was the guards who were letting them go.”
“We’ve got better guards now,” the other said.
“Well, different guards, anyway,” the first muttered.
“We’re going to have to change our name again to get a hotel for next year,” the second volunteer said.
“Three years in a row?” the first said. “We’re running out of names.”
On that note, I decided to return to the dealers’ room. The more I learned about the inner workings of the convention, the more anxious I felt.
“What is this crap, anyway?” Steele said, when I slipped behind the table. “Part of your sleuthing?”
He’d gotten into the stash of fan fic and spurious Porfiria comics I’d stuck under the table.
“Just some stuff I found,” I said. “I was thinking of pulling Michael’s leg with some of it. He gets so embarrassed by all the action figures and fan fic.”
“You might want to check it out first,” he said. “Some of this stuff is pretty…raw.”
He was holding one of the fake comics by one corner, as if it were a loathsome object. Which it was, actually; I recalled that particular comic as an unpleasantly lewd parody without even the saving grace of any humor.
“Good idea,” I said.
I noticed that the receipt from the booth where I’d bought the spurious comics had fallen out of the stack and lay on the floor. I faked dropping my pen and managed to snag the receipt and stuff it in my skirt pocket while Steele was still shaking his head over the offensive comic. Silly, but I hated to admit paying good money for the stuff.
But before long, neither of us had time to worry about the fan fic. Either Harry’s efforts as an improvised sandwich man had helped or the convention-goers had gotten tired of watching the police and the press. More of them started coming into the dealers’ room, and for a while I had enough to do to keep me from fretting.
Steele and I each made a few more sales. Actually, I made more than a few sales, about half of them of Steele’s merchandise. Without discussing it, we’d fallen into a comfortable pattern. Steele kept an eye on the stock, packed and unpacked, cleaned and polished things, filled out sales forms, wrapped purchases, and generally took care of all the mundane and routine work, while I charmed swords and daggers into the hands of customers. Even without counting the savings on the booth rental, we were doing much better as a team than either of us would have solo.
Steele kept giving me approving glances, and I decided it was lucky I hadn’t worked with him like this a few years ago, before I met Michael. Under the right—or wrong—circumstances, I’d have assumed that because we worked together so well, we were meant for each other. I might have found his brusqueness with customers strangely appealing. After all, he obviously didn’t dislike me. He found me useful. You could even say he needed me. Once, that, combined with my innate compulsion to take care of people and his attractiveness, would have spelled trouble. The kind of trouble that’s hard to avoid because even when you spot it a mile off, part of you still wants to walk right in.
Thank God I’d learned better. Or maybe just thank God for Michael.
“Meg?”
I looked up to see Typhani standing in front of the booth.
“A messenger just dropped this off for you at the front desk,” she said, holding up a nine-by twelve-inch Kinko’s envelope. “I said I’d deliver it.”
Finally!
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to look too eager as I took the envelope out of her hand.
I grabbed a dagger from the table display and slit the envelope open. I peeked in, and was glad I hadn’t just fished the pictures out in plain view. Apparently Dad had reached Kevin to ask for blowups of my photos of the QB’s body. They were on the top of the stack, and I didn’t exactly want anyone seeing those.
Anyone included Typhani, who seemed to be hovering.
“Yes?” I said.
“It’s okay?” she said. “The desk clerk can describe the guy who dropped it off if you like.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I mean, unless you think there’s something I ought to know about the guy who dropped it off.”
“Well, you know, if it’s some kind of hate mail…”
“No,” I said. “Kinko’s and I are on reasonably friendly terms these days. Did Miss Wynncliffe-Jones get her hate mail in envelopes like this?”
“Yeah, some of them,” she said, nodding. “Well, not in Kinko’s envelopes. They came in the mail. But in envelopes like that.”
“Big, flat envelopes with cardboard inside to keep the contents from bending?”
She nodded.
“The first time she yelled at me for throwing away the envelope,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, how stupid can you get? Like whoever sent it would put a return address!”
I nodded. Typhani seemed to find that satisfactory and went off after fluttering her fingertips at me, the way a child would wave bye-bye.
So whoever sent the QB’s hate mail was taking some pains to make sure the contents arrived in good condition.
Not hate mail at all. Hate comics; I’d bet anything. And the shred of paper she’d been holding had probably been part of one of them.
I sat back a little—far enough that I could still keep an eye on the booth, but where passing customers couldn’t see what I was holding—and pulled out the photos.
Chapter 38
Kevin and the Kinko’s staff had done a nice job. I stuffed the 8×10 blowups of the QB’s body back into the envelope to save for Dad and concentrated on the two shots of the comic strip.
I’d done a good job, too. Or maybe I should give credit to Kevin again, for picking out such a good digital camera. Every line of the drawing was as sharp and crisp as if I had the original in front of me. Looking at it brought back something else: the drawing had been done on nubby-textured paper, off-white with colored flecks in it. I could see the flecks as clear as anything, and the faint shadows from the nubs.