A/N Lots of visitors. Not a lot of comments. Would appreciate the latter.

Chapter Four

Cutting his throat is only a momentary pleasure and is bound to get you talked about.
(Robert Heinlein)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2013 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Daily Progress Report: Friday Additions
PANELS

Parsecs And Hectares And Novas And Centons—If You Can't Get The Science Right,
DON'T USE IT!
(Panel led by Dr. William Ellern; participants to be announced)

Self-publishing: No Longer "Vanity Press"—Pros and Cons

ANNOUNCEMENTS

Research—Accuracy and What's Enough (or Too Much)
will be dedicated to the memory of Herman Prendergast

Friday

I was still sitting in the Georgian Room when Ducky and Dr. Hampton returned. Keith Williams had wandered by and I had let him know we had an issue with the gangway access. The dealers' room had thousands of dollars of merchandise, the room had to be secure… With a tiny growl he stepped aside to use his walkie-talkie that connected directly to hotel security. Sometimes I think he takes his con persona of Korb the Ruthless, leader of the Klingon Diplomatic Corps, just a shade too seriously. But he was in charge of Tim's autograph setup; I could trust him without question (and could go to dinner without rushing back).

"The art show is small, but the quality is excellent," Ducky said while we headed to Filene's. "I'd estimate half is science fiction and fantasy, a third mystery and the final sixth, miscellaneous."

"There was a wonderful painting, a collection of Holmes and Watson scenes—Rathbone and Bruce. Downey and Law. Cumberbatch and Freeman," Jordan added. "It's already up to two-thirty-five, it started at fifty dollars!"

I knew that tone. "What did you bid?"

"Two-fifty." Yep. I was right.

"We passed on the panel on on-demand publishing and the reading by Carole Tanner. We stopped by the panel on research techniques—" Ducky exchanged an uncomfortable look with Jordan.

Great. Now what? "What happened?"

"Well, the panel was in honor of a researcher, assistant to P. R. Bedicker—Herman something—" Jordan fished in her purse for her convention program. "Herman Prendergast."

"The panel was running quite well, discussing accuracy in research. Don't blindly trust the internet, check your sources. Someone asked Mr. Bedicker about Herman's body being discovered and he—rather fell apart," Ducky filled in. "He said poor Herman had been like a younger brother to him all those years, finding out that he was dead, not just missing, just—devastated him."

"It quickly digressed into 'how did he die, what happened'—and, frankly, I get enough of that at work. And it would steal the thunder from our panels." I like Jordan. She's pragmatic.

"The poor man was in tears. His wife had to take him up to their room, and it became a gossipfest free-for-all."

"Wow." He hadn't even come to the consuite the night before. His wife had picked up their badges and packets, sat for a while knitting and chatting with anyone who was willing to stop by then went back upstairs to her husband. I was starting to wonder why he hadn't just canceled—but I was so desperate for authors, I was glad he hadn't.

"I'm glad I took a room for the weekend." Jordan dug in her purse again and pulled out the lime green film room schedule. "I have plans for midnight! Right now they're running Clue, followed by Murder by Death—"

"Interesting double feature," I said.

"Then Murder Can Hurt You—"

I made a face. "God, that was awful. It could have been so good, too."

"But the midnight show is a special favorite of mine, I thought I was the only person who even knew about it. American Dreamer."

"I love that movie!" I almost clapped my hands.

Jordan looked delighted. "You've seen it! Nobody I know has seen it!"

We both looked at Ducky. "I confess, I've never heard of it."

"I have Beta, VHS and DVD, how have you missed it on the shelf?"

"It's wonderful," Jordan enthused. "This poor housewife—JoBeth Williams, Poltergeist? She has a boring, mundane husband, boring, mundane life—"

"She loves this series of romantic thrillers—"

"—the Rebecca Ryan books—"

"—she enters a writing contest—"

"—wins a trip to Paris—"

"—suffers a concussion, thinks she is Rebecca Ryan—" I broke off. "I don't want to ruin it for you. But she ends up in the middle of a murder mystery for real. It's great."

Ducky smiled tolerantly. "It sounds delightful."

Jordan leaned around him. "Midnight?"

I nodded. "It's a date."

Over dinner we exchanged semi-idle chit-chat. Plenty of Lexi stories, with Jordan gushing over how cute she was, how bright she sounded, and all the pictures 'Donnie' had were just precious, so on, so forth. Brag on my kid. Go ahead. I won't stop you.

"I was always quite a bookworm as a child. If my mother had been a bookstore owner, I would have been in seventh heaven."

"Oh, she is," I agreed. "She helps out at the store, takes home stacks of books—right now she's a demon for the Ramona Quimby books—" My brain did a cascade moment—Ramona Quimby/dawnzer/Lulu. "Oh, I had a silly moment right before you came back. Lulu was sitting in the autograph room talking with Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft." Ducky recognized the names, but Jordan looked blank. I identified the players and related the Peter Decker/P.R. Bedicker/Faye Kellerman/fake Hillerman mixup. "I think Lulu is still lost."

"Who's on first," Jordan agreed with a grin.

"What's on second," Ducky threw out.

"I Dunno," I added. "Third base!" we chorused, laughing. I caught sight of the clock and my laugh became a gasp. "Oh, crap I'm going to be late!"

Ducky waved a hand. "I'll take your dessert up to our room and meet you back downstairs."

"Thank you!" I yelped, hurrying from the table. I dashed back, dropped my books next to his plate, smooched his cheek and added another "Thanks!" before running for the door.

I screeched to the door of Georgian room with ten minutes to spare. There were fifty or more people already milling on the grass, waiting for the magic hour. My red concom badge got me in and I made a lightspeed inspection of the room. Everything was perfect and well ordered, Millennium norm. The hot hors d'oeuvres smelled wonderful (so much for being full from dinner), the cold hors d'oeuvres were works of art, the platters of cheese and fruit looked very appealing. The waitstaff—in black and white with trademark Millennium maroon and silver accents—stood in a neat row, silent, hands folded, faces inscrutable. Security (not Korb; two of his more civilized cohorts, 'Silent Cal' and Cilly's eldest son, John (who, taking after his mom, calls himself Jonathing)) flanked the double doors, ready to check for wristbands. Green: go (wine allowed). Red: stop (you like grape juice?). No wristband, no entry—not even for invited guests.

Seven o'clock arrived. Security opened the doors and people started slowly streaming in. Adrian Collier, Lana King—"Caroline!" Vivian Austin's granddaughter was close to 40 and had been attending the convention since she was about 7. Part of me still thought of her as a little kid. "I didn't see you last night, where were you?" We stepped away from the door and exchanged hugs and squeals.

"My flight was late, missed my connection, had to overnight it in Omaha. I still don't understand being routed through Omaha… but here I am. Where's the booze?"

Laughing, I grabbed her wrist and made a show of checking her wristband. "Are you sure you're legal?"

"Ha-ha, watch me laugh, get me a glass before I go Hulk Smash on this place." Yeah, right. She's 5'2" if she wears heels, maybe 90 pounds dripping wet and could still pass for a high school senior most days. Hulk Smash my ass. I turned her around and pushed her in the general direction of the wine table, lemon verbena wafting back as she headed away.

P. R. and Barbara Bedicker walked past; he looked shaky, probably still rattled from the panel earlier. She, on the other hand, had her usual placid look (which was fine, he was edgy enough for both of them). I greeted them politely and indicated the different stations. She got him settled at a table—brought him some food, had some quiet words with a firm, schoolmarmish look, gave him the stare I probably have when telling Lexi, 'Behave yourself,' when leaving her on her own to play—then left the room. Moira Devereaux was moments behind them (probably looking for someone with a limber elbow), followed by Janet and—"Mimsy!" I leaned over Janet's left elbow, draped in a maroon caftan and decorated with a drowsing black cat. "How is the itty-bitty-pretty-kitty?" She blinked at my idiotic babble. "She okay?"

"The doctor has her on a mild sedative to try to help her digestion. She just had a dose. I had the chicken kebabs at dinner last night. She really liked them, and I heard they were on the menu for the party—is it okay?"

"She's a guest." There was a badge pinned to her harness. "She's allowed. Where's Lu?"

"I think she was going to Thom Gemcity's autograph session—how did you get him to come to the con? He's actually on best seller lists."

"Family friend."

"Ah." Janet thought for a moment. "She was running up to the film room, I think, said she would be here after the opening crush. Haven't seen her since lunch, actually, that's what she said then."

"I have. I'll share it with you later." Janet gave me a thumb up and hurried to the tables and grabbed a plate of hors d'oeuvres and samples of at least three wines, the first of many. Thank god she wasn't driving.

Ducky and Jordan had run into Tim and his date—a peppy young woman named Maxine ("Max," she corrected with a grin) and they all arrived in a clump. I barely had time to meet Max; she apologized that she was only going to have time to stay for a half hour at the most but was looking forward to returning the next day.

I took evil glee in a late arrival. Todd Clarke looks like a Harvard business grad—which he is. He looks like the scion of a socially prominent, wealthy family—which he is. He does not look like a sixth level conspiracy nutjob who needs a keeper—which he is. He is also a vaguely related cousin of Marguerite DuPres (and she likes him) and tags along to most of the conventions she goes to.

Todd is brilliant and interesting—just keep him off of things like alien invasions. 9/11. Moon landings. The president is secretly a lizard. (Don't ask. I was foolish enough to do so a year or two back and ended up with a killer migraine.) He doesn't slaver and babble and doesn't wear an X-Men Magneto football helmet. He's basically a nice guy, just fruity as a nutcake.

And Moira Devereaux was heading his way.

I giggled to myself and grabbed some water crackers and cheese and a glass of zinfandel. Showtime!

I kept a weather eye on Mimsy, who was working on her second chicken kebab. Janet had admitted that despite the new medication, Mimsy had decorated the bedspread earlier; Ducky's shoes and Geoff's jacket would feel less picked-on, but the last thing I needed was a cat barfing in the middle of the reception.

Moira had spent most of the first half-hour tucked at a table with Todd Clarke. The first ten minutes or so she was clearly asking questions and getting some sort of answers. After that, he was doing all the talking and she could… not… get… away. My heart bled chunky peanut butter for her.

Dixie Lee wandered up to join me, loaded plate carefully balanced on her palm and wrist, wine glass between her fingers, while she used her right hand to nibble and sip. "Waitress. Twenty-three years," she said cheerfully in response to my glance. Ah.

"Love the hair stick."

"Yep. Another weapon." This letter opener was quite elaborate. The end was a long, tapered teardrop with a trail of peacock feathers and beads trailing through her semi-tumbled curls; the rounded tip was about the diameter of a nickel and the whole end of the shaft encrusted with tiny jet and gunmetal rhinestones. "My daughter makes them. My husband loves to go to storage locker auctions. There was a whole box of hair sticks—well, letter openers. A couple of gross. Kate went crazy with Fimo and ribbon and rhinestones and beads. She has a table in the dealers' room."

"Really?" My attention perked up.

"Hair sticks, fans, reticules and masks. She has half the table. A friend of hers took the other half—vintage necklaces, earrings and such."

"They take credit cards?" I asked flippantly, remembering my technical hassles.

"Yep!"

"There go my profits…"

I continued to circulate. P. R. Bedicker was parked in a far corner, methodically eating everything in sight and slugging down glass after glass of wine. Glad he wasn't driving home, either. While his fans didn't linger and chat the way Janet's did, they did stop by for a few words and an autograph—and he looked so grateful it made me a little sad. He was a talented writer—I could name a dozen books I'd enjoyed, without straining for titles—but he was socially awkward. I made a note to make sure to read his newer book tonight, rather than my old favorite; authors like to hear you like their new stuff, not just the old. I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile and got a surprise, a warm one in return. A very warm one. He had a nice little buzz going on.

Which did not sit well with his keeper. She had returned at some point and was at the wine table. Looking so much like a 1930s schoolmarm with her middy blouse, below calf length skirt and matching jacket, hair scraped into a severe bun (and without Dixie Lee's interesting hair stick), the clunkiest shoes this side of orthopedics—she was selecting a glass of (shudder) sweet sherry. She caught sight of Paul and her lips tightened. She trod over, ever-present knitting bag pressed against her side. I beat a hasty retreat.

Marguerite DuPres was having a pleasant chat with one of her fans. He said something amusing and she laughed; I couldn't help but smile. When she laughed, her whole being changed. She has a very pretty smile; it just never seems to come out. I found it hysterical that the author of a pretty good vampire saga was wolfing down garlic cheese twists like they were going out of style. She looked my way and her smile faded and disappeared. Before I could wonder if our relationship was that bad, Patrice swept by me and strutted over to the table. There was a split-second look in Marguerite's eyes before her gaze dropped to the table.

A split second of hate.

If you don't like the bitch, fire her! I had a sudden vision of Patrice and Lulu changing places. Lulu isn't a genius. But she's pleasant, and would make a nice change of pace for Marguerite. And Patrice? Janet would chew her to pieces and pick her teeth with the bone shards. I would happily sell tickets.

I glanced at my wristwatch; the dealer's room was due to re-open at eight, in the middle of the reception—only fifteen minutes away. I swept the room for Valerie, and my eyes caught the break out door behind my table spot—and froze.

The door was ajar.

Calm down. It's probably just not latched all the way. Everything is fine.
(What if it's not?)
Oh, craaaaaap.
(Never, ever agree to work another con.)

Cilly was across the room, chatting with her favorite fantasy author; I caught her eye, gave her a serious look and a tiny "come here, please" chin jerk. She made a polite farewell and casually walked over. "Something up?"

I gave another tiny nod toward the wall. "Pass through isn't shut. It was when we opened."

She shrugged. "Not much. Probably just off track."

"Probably. But…"

"But. Dealers' room opens in a few. We can take a quick look through." I followed her out the door and around the pillar to the Renaissance door. Keith/Korb was just coming up to open the door; Cilly let him know what the situation was. None of the dealers were champing at the bit to come in—most were still next-door or at dinner—so he unlocked the door, we walked in, and he shut the door firmly behind us.

Lights went on. Nobody home. The bookcase that blocked the pass through was still solidly in place; the panel had just slipped off track. It happens. We put it back on track, shut it hard and made a quick walk around the room; if anyone had gotten in and stolen anything, they were the neatest burglars in town.

"Wait." I grabbed Cilly's arm. The pass through to the next suite, Regency A/B, was also askew just a hair. We exchanged a look. "Better be thorough," I sighed.

The pass through slid back easily, and the tables were still in front of it. There were still a few scattered bookmarks advertising Tim's—sorry, Thom's book—left over from his autograph session. "Anything?" Cilly asked behind me.

"Nothing that I can—" The dim light from overhead caught something shiny about ten feet across the way. "Hang on." I pushed the panel far enough that I could squeeze past the table. Halfway across the room, I stopped. Like a scene out of The Bad Seed, the light was glinting off the shiny silver taps on the bottom of the heel of a shoe. The only person I personally knew of who used such old fashioned, sensible economy measures… there had to be more than one person in the hotel, right? Maybe, but it was still the person I wished I weren't. It only took a glance to see that Lulu had departed this mortal coil. If the blank stare and slack mouth weren't enough, the blood-soaked blouse was the defining clue.

"Cassie?"

"Oh, Lu," I sighed. I stepped backwards, careful to retrace my steps. "There's been—" I reconsidered. "There's been an accident." Cilly clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. "Lulu."

"She's hurt—"

I shook my head. "Dead," I said quietly.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "I'll get Janet—"

I stopped her. "Not yet."

She gave me an odd look. "Why?" I didn't answer. "You—you don't think it was an accident. Do you." It wasn't a question.

Instead I leaned past her. "Korb? Could you please get my husband, Dr. Hampton and Mr. Gemcity and bring them here? Quietly, please."

He's a fan but he's not an idiot. "Keith will go over, not Korb."

"Thanks."

I turned back and pulled out my cell phone. As I hit the speed dial for Security, I couldn't help thinking, Mrs. Islington is going to kill me. I shuddered. Ugh. Bad choice.