“That’s true,” I said, wondering briefly if Steele realized how close I was to that twentieth reunion. “And Nate didn’t exactly give a good description. Maggie did ten times better, and she claims she only saw him once or twice.”
“Women usually are better at that stuff anyway,” Steele said.
“Or maybe there’s another reason,” I said. “Maybe Nate doesn’t want Ichabod Dilley found. Maybe Nate is Ichabod Dilley.”
“Nate?” Steele echoed.
“Okay, not necessarily the real Ichabod Dilley, the kid who left Kansas for the bright lights of San Francisco and then supposedly died tragically young,” I said. “But back around 1972, writing and drawing underground comics and painting psychedelic posters probably weren’t the kind of things an ambitious young screenwriter wanted on his resume. So maybe he knew Dilley and used him as a front for his counterculture projects.”
Steele shook his head, but he was listening.
“And that would explain how Ichabod Dilley could change from his high school’s most-likely-to-succeed golden boy to the awkward, taciturn character Maggie describes,” I said. “It wasn’t drugs. He would try to say as little as possible because he’d need to avoid giving away the fact that he hadn’t painted the paintings or created the comics.”
“Or maybe when Dilley showed up, it was really your friend Nate, in disguise,” Steele said.
“That’s the spirit,” I said. “And you know, that’s not a bad idea. It fits with what little physical description I’ve heard of Dilley—he and Nate were both tall and painfully thin, with brown hair. And I saw Nate in a photo from around that time—even in the 1970s, Nate kept his hair short and his face clean-shaven. So what better disguise than to put on a wig and a fake beard when he wanted to pretend to be Dilley? When you add the trench coat and the dark glasses, it positively shouts disguise. I wonder if Dilley the nephew could get any pictures of his uncle. Maybe the real Ichabod was short and round like him.”
Steele shrugged.
“Anyway,” I continued. “The Porfiria comics ended, not because their creator was dead, but because the front man was. Nate could no longer publish them under Dilley’s name. And if his screenwriting career was starting to take off by then, maybe he was just as glad to end the comic series.”
“Still doesn’t explain why he would kill the QB, as you call her, this weekend,” Steele said.
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” I admitted. “Dilley disappeared not long after they all worked together on that movie. Maybe Nate killed him, or set him up to be killed by his enemies, and the QB found out this weekend, and he killed her to keep her from fingering him. Or maybe she knew all along, and was blackmailing him—that could explain why he’s stood by her so loyally all these years. Until this weekend, when he snapped. Who knows? If 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 own them; I can—”
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.