Chapter Six

"Someone's trying to kill us!"
"Yes, should make for exciting weekend. Ring, please."
"I wish it was Monday morning."
(Murder By Death, Sidney Wang and son, Willie)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

PR 8

As in prior years, the Consuite will host the round robin story over the main 3 days of the convention.. Feel free to add a line, a paragraph, a character, a twist. Please add your name! Credit where credit is due. For prior round robins, click on the PRIOR YEARS tab and the year, then the SPECIAL EVENTS link.

Round Robin Story schedule:
Friday: Mystery/Thriller
Saturday morning: S-F (*not* fantasy)
Saturday evening: Romance
Sunday morning: Fantasy (*not* S-F)
Sunday evening: Free-for-all

Friday night/early Saturday morning

Probably to keep some distance between McGee and the other participants, Gibbs sent him on a hunt for Kyle Cooper. Cilly and Janet, escorted by Mr. Rubio, Tony and Ziva, returned to the Cheese and Whine party. After double checking that the Regency doors had been secured, Gibbs went to join in questioning the attendees that had been a stone's throw from the scene of the crime—with his minion of the moment, moi, in tow. "Doubt it's anyone outside this little ass-sem-blee, but having it be the ex is too much to hope for. Still—"

"Motive and opportunity," I muttered.

"You've been taking notes from Ducky?" he asked dryly, flipping through his notepad.

"Lifetime of mystery books and shows."

"Already cautioned Ms.—Ting?" he frowned at his noted.

"Everyone calls her Cilly. Silly Thing, Cilly Ting…?"

He actually smiled. "Don't say anything to anyone. 'There's been an accident' was fine. And you guys did a good job of keeping the area secure."

"Except for that gangway," I said in disgust.

"Not your fault. Your job was after the fact." Someone strolling past wearing a costume of spaghetti and meatballs caught his eye. He did a classic double take and stopped in his tracks. "Wait—what the—"

"Flying spaghetti monster."

He stared at me. "Fly—" He broke off. "Never mind." Under his breath he muttered, "Nuts. They're all nuts."

"They call themselves Pastafarians," I added helpfully. His look made it clear he didn't consider that helpful. I made a note to give him all the particulars—all of them—at a later time.

"—details," Cilly was saying to the room when we entered. (Mr. Rubio had wisely shut the doors and posted two members of the hotel security staff—who told us their instructions were to let no one out and damned few in. We made the cut.) She caught sight of us at the door. "This is Agent Gibbs of NCIS. He'll be taking over now." I could almost hear the 'thank the gods' she was clearly thinking.

Immediate hubbub. "There has been an accident in another meeting room two doors down. We have some questions—"

"If it's an accident, why are you interrogating us?" came a belligerent voice I (thankfully) didn't recognize.

Gibbs' stony look silenced the babble in the room—and probably turned the heckler's knees to jelly. "We investigate all questionable deaths until homicide is ruled out. We'll interview you as quickly as possible. Agent DiNozzo, Officer David are with NCIS; Mr. Rubio is head of hotel security and will be assisting us—" He nodded to each in turn.

Couple hundred people in the room. Forty or fifty people per agent, roughly. I know Mr. Rubio was conferring with Keith Williams late last night and was at the front desk when I stumbled down from the consuite this morning, coffee in one hand and chocolate croissant in the other. That had been stupid-thirty this morning. Does the man never sleep?

Despite the number of people in the room, it was easy to scan the crowd. Patrice was sitting at Marguerite's table; Marguerite's face was carefully blank. "She's over there, in the far corner. Short black hair, overdressed in the slinky silver beaded number."

Mrs. Islington caught me halfway through the room. "I've instructed the staff to continue serving until we're told to clear the room," she murmured.

"Good idea. It will help keep the natives happy."

"You need a glass?"

"God, yes."

We continued toward Patrice; by the time we got to the table, Mrs. Islington was at my elbow, deftly handed me a glass of wine and disappeared in a split second. The woman is part wraith, part magician. From Gibbs' glance, I got to take the opening step. "Patrice, this is Special Agent Gibbs. He'd like to ask you a few questions."

Patrice bristled. "Why? I haven't done anything!"

"Never said you did, ma'am. You knew Louise—Lulu—Weiss?" (Weiss, that's right; Janet refused to write under her married name. Too many Rocky Horror jokes.)

"Yeah, everybody—wait—knew? Lu is—" Some of the wind was knocked out of her. "Lu—is Lu dead?"

"I'm afraid so. When did you see her last?"

It took her a minute to regroup. "Um. Here. Three? Four? Yeah, four, I think it was. No—wait. I saw her after that." She thought hard. "Sheeeee… was… In the lobby, that's right, by the art show. She was—" She squeezed her eyes shut; the tears caught in the corners made her more human than I would have expected. "Happy," she said suddenly. "Really happy."

And then dead only four hours later. Of course.

Gibbs had the situation covered and I wasn't needed, so I faded into the background. I also downed my wine in three gulps and got a refill. Across the room I could see Tony working the crowd, sifting through people. Flash the cell phone photo of Lulu's license: if the person indicates no, one or two questions then a 'please stay in the room' instruction; if a yes, more in depth questions and notes and the same instruction.

Ziva was stuck in slow motion with Paul Bedicker. He had had way too much wine; every question she asked he seemed to take as a personal attack. Did he know Lulu? Not before this convention but everyone knew everyone by now, why is she singling him out? When did he last see her? Yesterday? Today? How should he know, he didn't know he'd need to supply an alibi! Her interview was taking forever. I slithered through the crowd.

"Faster we can get through the room, the less upset they'll be," Mr. Rubio murmured as another attendee shrugged, said, "Who?" and was thanked and requested to stay in the room.

"Good point. I know Agent Gibbs is glad for your help," I said tentatively. "Not what Scott Chambers thought he was getting, huh?" I forced a weak smile.

He gave a Gibbs-esque shoulder twitch. "Can't say it's my pleasure to help, but—semper fi."

A Marine. Of course. That explains why he doesn't sleep.

Next in his line, Todd Clarke. "Did you know this woman?"

"Oh, yes, for years."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

I causally turned away, angling myself behind Todd. I managed to catch Rubio's gaze; I closed my eyes and nodded twice, very slowly, and gave him a 'you savvy?' look.

He nodded minutely. "Good, good," he said, politely breaking into Todd's description of Lulu in a meeting with a dangerous spy. "I have a contact with the Secret Service, I'm sure they'll have further information for me. I appreciate your assistance. I promise, they won't know who told us." Smoothest cutoff I've ever seen.

"But you don't understand, she's here."

Rubio managed not to smile. "Where?"

"Right over there. In the white dress with the hibiscus. Hibiscuses? Hibiscus?" Todd distracted himself and wandered away. "Hibiscusii…?"

"Jim, hang on." I stopped him before he could move on to the next person.

"Yes?"

"I think he's describing Moira Devereaux." She was wearing one of her trademark floral dresses and, yeah, they looked like hibiscus. Hibiscuses. Hibiscusii… whatever.

He flicked a smile. "She's a spy?"

"No, but she is a snoop. She's…. like Kitty Kelly. But with fewer ethics. And… I know Gibbs told you what was at the crime scene." Professional courtesy. "I heard her name mentioned, specifically."

"Perhaps we should chat more intensely with the lady in question. Could you convey the information to Agent Gibbs…?"

"Mmm. Happy to." I left him talking to a horror author who had never attended LibriCon before (and this might cause her to never return—or give her the plot for another book, who knows).

I know Gibbs hates to be interrupted, so I politely stood aside until he finished talking to Dixie Lee Huntington—who, unlike many others, was totally unruffled by the proceedings. Stamina? Or… something else? I literally shook my head to chase away the thought.

"So… a guy who makes beanies out of aluminum foil says—a spy killed Louise Weiss?"

"I know it sounds nuts—but I heard you mention Moira's name in the other room—"

"There was a business card of hers in Tim's book. I'm sure they hand 'em out like Halloween candy here—"

"True…" I said reluctantly.

"But we investigate all possibilities."

"Um, Gibbs?" I said quietly. "Moira is someone you… want to be careful around." I got a 'who, me?' look. "She's a poison pen. Specializes in malicious exposés, rumors, things like that. Sounds sweet as pecan pie but she's a straight shot of vinegar in her soul."

"Thanks for the warning. I'd be happy to have a convention liaison with me—just in case. Protect me from Geralda Rivera." He gave me an innocent look.

"Could I have your gun?" I muttered as I followed him toward Moira. "Justifiable pesticide."

I got a tiny snort in response. "Good one."

Moira was tickled to see us approaching. People tend to avoid her like the plague; this was kind of novel. "Ca-sannnnn-dra!" she drawled, batting her eyes at us. "Ah' can' b'lieve it! Po' li'l Louise!"

"Yes, I know, dreadful," I muttered. "Moira Devereaux, this is Agent Gibbs. He has some questions—"

She turned and her eyes widened. "Oh, my!" She looked like a kid in Willy Wonka's factory.

Gibbs can cut an imposing figure—or a charming one. He was going for option two. "Miss Devereaux. My pleasure."

"Oh!" She giggled like a teenybopper; my face was ducked, so she didn't catch my eye roll.

"You were a friend of Louise Weiss?"

"Well—Ah wouldn' go that fah..." she hedged. "Ah did meet the sweet li'l thing awl the time at conventions..." Tears welled on cue. "Ah nevah would have thought...

"Very upseting... I know..." Gibbs murmured. "We found your business card…on her. When did you meet up with her?"

"Hmmmm... 'round dinnahtime, I expect." Her voice rose a bit. "Ah was talkin' to mah publishah! Ah have a wondahful idea—" she said smugly. She caught sight of me standing on the sideline. "And it was all yo' idea!" She beamed at me.

I forced a smile. "Oh?" Great; who did I accidentally sic her on?

"What were you talking to Miss Weiss about? Specifically?" Gibbs asked.

Smitten, yes. Stupid, no. "Oh, Ah can' tell you that. Mah research has to be confidential."

(Yeah, otherwise people would be on the alert to avoid you.)

"Oh, we won't share the information," Gibbs promised. There was almost a wheedle to his voice. "But anything might prove valuable..." She still looked dubious. He lowered his voice. "Do you know anyone who might have... wanted to harm Louise?"

Bingo. Her eyes widened and she gasped, hand splayed on her bosom. "Oh! Oh, Ah jus' knew it wasn' an accident!"

She all but hung on his arm and proceeded to dish dirt on a dozen or more people who—in her fertile imagination—had it in for poor Lulu. To his credit, Gibbs wrote it all down. Number one on her hit list? Janet.

I kept my face blank, all the while seething. If Lulu had pissed off Janet to the point where murder was an option, she would have simply fired her. Killing her was excessive, to say the least.

We were off to the side of the room near the break away wall to the dealers' room. Gibbs and Moira were having a quiet little tête-à-tête but it didn't take a genius to figure out Moira was giving Gibbs a ton of information—good, bad or indifferent. Nobody else had had this long of a conversation with Mr. Rubio, Tony or Ziva—well, except for her challenging interview with Paul Bedicker.

Janet had returned to the room before Gibbs and I arrived, and was now sitting as far away as possible from everyone. It's one thing to write murder mysteries for a living; it's another to be a potential suspect in real life and the closest contact of the deceased. People were giving her sidelong glances that did nothing for her mood, I'm sure.

Gibbs finished with Moira long before she finished with him. She finally—reluctantly—parted company and walked off with a thoroughly inappropriate (in my opinion) smirk on her puss.

That smile wasn't lost on anyone who passed by. Especially Patrice.

My mother used to say, "Idi Amin was supposedly a good cook." I never ate a meal the man made, but I understood the meaning: even the blackest heart has something positive, even if it's on the subatomic scale. Waspish, whiny Patrice had had at least one friend in her life—Lulu. Heaven knows they had been to enough conventions over the years, having worked for their respective employers for some twenty years each. Lulu had started in her schooldays, Patrice at a later age; there was at least a ten-year gap between them, but they had apparently been good convention pals. And Paul Bedicker wasn't the only one who had had more than enough to drink.

I didn't see Patrice heading for Janet until it was too late. Even through the dozens of conversations in the room, you couldn't miss their exchange.

"I know you did it. I know you did it!"

"Pat—" Janet was almost visibly biting her tongue. "Sit down. Shut up. Sober up."

"You bitch! She was going to tell all, blab everything to Moira—" And as I passed her, Moira's ears were wagging like frigging radar dishes.

"Oh, for the love of—tell what?" Janet snapped. She almost jumped to her feet, no mean task with Mimsy still in her arms. "I eat chocolate when I stress over deadlines? Not a news flash, I have Sees on speed dial. I'm having an affair with the pool boy? If it were true, I wouldn't deny it, I'd brag about it! Trust me—" She cocked her head and gave Patrice an evil smile. "—she might have dirt on someone, but it is not I."

In an act of bravery I would have never thought possible, Marguerite slipped up behind Patrice, stretched up and whispered a few things in her ear. Patrice snapped her head so sharply I thought she was going for an Exorcist remake. Lips pressed together, she breathed heavily through her nose like a Clydesdale in a Budweiser commercial. (A possessed horse. What a mental image.) Whatever Marguerite had said had had an effect; with a last glare at Janet, she spun on her spike heel and stalked off.

As I got to the table, Marguerite hesitantly put a hand on Janet's arm. "I'm sorry. Louise was a very sweet girl." She glanced in the direction in which Patrice had stormed off. "And… I know you had nothing to do with her death."

Wow. Just when you think you know someone…

Janet forced a smile. "You sure? Everyone is a suspect."

Marguerite shook her head. "No." She gave Janet a secretive smile. "Sometimes she'd have trouble sleeping, go to the consuite if it was open, or the filk room… she always had a miniature backgammon game in her purse and if she found me—we'd play." It was hard to tell who was more startled—Janet or I. "And… talk. I know you were a very, very good friend to her. And you'll miss her." She patted Janet's arm. "I'm really… really sorry." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, she slipped away.

Janet didn't even look up when I stepped next to her. "I want to take back anything I ever thought against that woman," she said quietly, with a rueful shake of her head. "And anything I said—" She bit her lip and looked away. "Cassie… I would really like to go up to my room?" She gave me a pleading look.

"I'll ask Gibbs." I glanced around and found him on the other side of the room with Ziva and—good grief, still with Paul and Barbara Bedicker. Not a discussion I wanted to interrupt, but I could tell Janet was close to the breaking point.

Apparently Paul was now taking all the questions asked of his wife personally as well. "Paul, you shouldn't get upset," she was saying in her placid way. "It's past time for your medication—" She gave Gibbs her schoolmarm look. "May we go to our room?"

"Barbie, we didn't do anything." Bedicker looked ready to cry. "I want to go home."

Upset, hell. He's a nervous breakdown on greased skis on the fast slope. There may have been a very good reason he didn't come to conventions.

Didn't faze Gibbs in the least. "We're going as quickly as we can, Mrs. Bedicker." The meaning was clear: we'd go a helluva lot faster if your husband weren't freaking out every fifth word. "If you'd prefer to answer questions at NCIS headquarters…"

From the flick of her eyebrow, I figured she was pissed, but her voice didn't change one bit. "Of course not. That is unnecessary. If we could simply—"

"Barbie—" Bedicker was fidgeting like Lexi sometimes does. Or Mother, for that matter.

Mrs. Bedicker said something in a low voice to Gibbs that I didn't catch. Gibbs nodded with an almost sympathetic look and dropped his gaze to his notebook. While he slowly flipped through pages, Barbara walked her husband a few steps over to one of the tables and got him to sit down. He didn't look very happy about the situation and looked like he was going to be as argumentative as Mother can be when we try to thwart one of her plans. Hoping I was doing the right thing, I changed from tracking Gibbs to Paul Bedicker. I make a quick move and came up beside Barbara. "Paul, hi!" I gave him a sunny smile. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you earlier. I just wanted to take a moment to thank you personally for joining us this year." I slipped into a chair at an angle that would—hopefully—allow Barbara to go back to her interview with Gibbs.

She stepped aside and when Paul didn't say anything, walked back over to Gibbs. Paul, meanwhile, was drawing designs on the tablecloth with his fingertip. "You—you really wanted me? To be here?" he asked shyly.

Poor, socially awkward little dweeb. "Are you kidding? When I saw your name on the list, I was thrilled. I must have read Terminal Issue a thousand times. Well, a couple hundred," I amended when he gave me a playfully suspicious look. "I know I've had to replace it at least five times."

I suddenly remembered I was breaking one of the top ten author rules: laud the new stuff. But I was lucky; apparently Terminal Issue was one of his favorites, too, because he launched into decades old stories about the interviews and research to get the medical research and lingo right. I was able to look attentive, nod and occasionally interject a comment or two while listening to Gibbs and Mrs. Bedicker and hope for a break before Janet totally fell apart.

Her answers were crisp and concise. Did she know Lulu? Not before this convention. How well did you know her this weekend? I was introduced to her Thursday afternoon. What did you discuss? We exchanged hellos and I went up to our room. Did you see her any other time? In passing. She assisted Janet with her autograph sessions. I saw her in other rooms, but we never conversed.

Whole lotta nothing, just like they were getting from 95% of the people in the room.

"May I take my husband up to our room? He's been under a great deal of stress. His research assistant disappeared three years ago, his—body—was just found the other week. All this time, Paul had hoped—"

"He's dead."

I started guiltily. "Pardon?"

"Herman…" he said sadly. Oh, crap. He was listening to his wife, too. "He—he was the best researcher I could have found. I knew him back in high school. I mean he was in high school. He wrote me a fan letter! It was for Cool, Daddy-o." He looked at me expectantly.

No bells. But I gave him a bright smile and encouraging nod and that was enough.

"That was in AHMM." Ah. Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. "He lived nearby, so we met for coffee—"

"Good thing he didn't go all Annie Wilkes on you." He looked lost. "Misery? Stephen King?"

"Oh, the little girl who starts fires. That was a great book."

Wrong book, but— "That's the writer, yes."

"Herman was a godsend." His shoulders dropped. "I miss him. A lot. He—he could find out anything. And this was back when we had to use libraries," he said almost defiantly.

"Before the internet," I agreed.

"And he would interview people, get all sorts of information. I only needed a liiiiitle, teeeeeeny bit—" He held his fingers a scant half inch apart. "And he'd bring me—" He threw his arms wide. "And all those notes! There were things that gave me ideas for—a thousand books. When we got the internet, he…" He puffed out his cheeks expressively… then let out his breath. His eyes became stricken. "It's all gone… he's gone…"

"Well—I—I'm sure if you go through the notes, find the ideas that you had—I know it wouldn't be the same as working with Herman, but, well, the internet does have a lot of information. And there are still libraries." I tried to sound positive (as opposed to overly hearty or desperate).

He shook his head, staring at the tablecloth. "It's not the same…" He let out a sigh. "Why did he go away…"

Yeah, dead is about as away as you can get. "Uh…"

I was saved by Barbara returning. "Paul, they're letting us go upstairs.' (Janet would be glad to hear that.) He nodded dumbly and got to his feet. "Why don't we walk in the garden for a bit? It's a lovely night out."

He brightened considerably. He took my hand and—I didn't laugh—kissed it. "Thank you for inviting me, Cecelia."

I didn't correct him. He made me think of the kids leaving Lexi's last birthday party—minus the courtly hand kiss. "Believe me, it's our pleasure. I hope you come next year," I added rashly. What was I saying? Would there be a con next year? Would I be dumb enough to get roped in again?

Never mind. He looked stunned and leaned close. "I can come back? You'll—let me come back?"

"You bet."

He beamed. "Thank you!"

As they passed by, Barbara gave me a ghost of a smile and added her own quiet, "Thank you."

While we were talking, Gibbs had made a general announcement thanking people for their cooperation, advising that they might be asked further questions, please be available. And if they had any further information, please contact NCIS or hotel security.

I've seen slower starts by Olympic runners.

Despite a number of glasses of wine, I was stone cold sober when I walked out of the room. Ducky and I swung by the hotel bar for a nightcap and I took the chance to give him an update of the questioning—what I had seen and heard, anyway.

He listened to my scattered recap with a thoughtful look on his face. "I wonder... Not that it has any bearing on Louise's death, I'm sure... But I suspect Mr. Bedicker might be suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's."

I nodded. "That's what I was thinking. It's like Mother—once it's past dinnertime, her world changes."

"It's called Sundowner's Syndrome."

I nodded again. I had done a bit of research when Ducky and I first started dating. Mother had actually improved a bit when I moved in—at least, I thought so. I think the additional interaction with me (and Lily, Ev, Charlie and now Lexi—plus her companion, Suzy) has sharpened her dulling points but there are days when we just aren't on the same planet. "I'm surprised he's coming out to do conventions."

Ducky shrugged. "Have you read his latest book? It's not bad... but..."

"Elephants Can Remember," I said suddenly.

Ducky looked confused. "Agatha Christie?"

"Right, right—I remember, some researcher did a study on the word usage in her books. It showed something like a twenty or thirty per cent drop in vocabulary and language skills compared with her earlier works. They were able to show early indications..." I trailed off. "Jeez. First he loses the guy who's his right arm, leg and kidney for research—now he's losing his communicative skills."

"I'm glad he made it to the convention. Like Terry Pratchett, he might not be able to make it to another."

"If we have another," I said morosely. "Murder is not a selling point."

"Really? With some of this crowd, it might be a draw."

Before I could shoot off a smart comeback, his phone rang; I saw GIBBS on the front and winced. Now what? My own cell phone rang; CILLY. Double uh-oh. I got a knot in my stomach. "Hey, Cilly, what's up?"

"Agent Gibbs is looking for Dr. Mallard," she said dully.

"He's here, he's talking to Gibbs already."

"Could you come to the pool?" Before I could ask, she added, "There's another body."

Good god, who? Ducky asked Gibbs the same question I was thinking and got his answer first: "Miss Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft," I heard from the speaker.

Crap. Crap, crap, crappity, crap, crap. And then some.