Chapter Eight

Kill Them All And Let The Gods Sort Out The Guilty

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

Daily Progress Report: Saturday Additions
PANELS
What To Do When You Start To Hate Your Creation?
Discussion Led By Appian Dunagain*
*go dig out your copy of Bimboes of the Death Sun—we'll wait

Imitation Is The Sincerest Form Of Flattery—Until The Lawyers Start To Scream "Plagiarism!"

REMINDER
List of participants can change at the last minute owing to circumstances beyond our control.
Thank you for understanding.

Saturday morning

I have only the vaguest memory of going to bed. I slept, if you could call it that, but I had a night full of weird dreams. All the major players in bizarre costumes, sitting to tea with Alice, the Mad Hatter and Company. Wonderland meets Pulp Fiction.

Tea Party. Ugh. We'd probably have to cancel at this rate.

In the wee hours of the morning, I left Ducky sitting up and reading in bed and made my way to the consuite. Life looked a little better with a cream cheese and raspberry Danish in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—but not much.

"The 'net is alive… with the sound of scannnnnndal…" Cilly half-sang morosely.

"Hunh?" I managed around my full mouth.

"We didn't get any media last night—thank god—but we're a big hit on Twitter and Facebook."

"Goody?"

"Not goody. We're tagged as 'Death Con.'"

"Yeah, who needs a news crew when you have cell phones and the internet?" Anne Sheldon called from her supine position on one of the couches.

Cilly dropped her face into her hands. "I wish I had never heard of fandom. Any fandom."

"I hear ya," I agreed whole-heartedly.

"Oh the tea—"

There was a sharp knock at the door. We looked at one another uneasily; all of the concom have key cards for early access and the room wouldn't open to the public until 9:00 a.m. Who was knocking at the gates of hell at quarter to seven?

Gibbs. Gibbs and company. "Oh, god, now what?" Cilly blurted out. "Sorry. That came out badly."

Gibbs shrugged. "Can't say I blame you. Trying to reach Moira Devereaux."

Cilly shuddered faintly. "She's not here." (Thank god.)

"Left messages. No call back. Called the room. No answer. Mrs. Islington wants a member of the…" He broke off, hesitating.

"Concom," McGee supplied.

"To come with us."

"I'll go," I said with a tired sigh. Cilly shot me a grateful look.

Mrs. Islington and I led the parade. "Are you twins?"

She gave me a bemused look. "Not that I've been told."

"You and Jim Rubio are always here. Do they only hire insomniacs?"

That got a hint of a smile. "I don't think Jim sleeps. But I arranged to be here for the full weekend. The convention… intrigued me."

"Regret that much?" I muttered.

"Mmm…" was her noncommittal response.

I had tuned out the minor chatter behind me. As we exited the elevator, Gibbs' voice pierced my fog:

"I have a bad feeling…"

I tried to tell myself Moira had just unplugged her phone—but I didn't believe it. Maybe an ardent fan kidnapped her. Fan? Ardent? Okay, maybe she had been kidnapped by aliens. I nodded. That didn't sound half bad.

We hung back a bit while Mrs. Islington rapped on the door. No answer. She tried again. More silence. Using her master key card, she unlocked the door and opened it partway. "Ms. Devereaux? Ms. Devereaux, this is the manager. Are you all right?" Long silence. She opened the door further and stepped in. I heard a tiny gasp and she stepped back out, a perfect reverse cha-cha-cha. "I think you may need to call Dr. Mallard or Dr. Hampton." She was perfectly calm and unruffled. Well, on the outside, anyway.

We peered around the door. Moira lay sprawled in the doorway of the bathroom, her face mottled and distorted. I didn't need Ducky to tell me she'd been strangled.

Gibbs sighed. "Sucks being right, Boss," Tony said, interpreting the sigh.

Gibbs shook his head. "Even more for her."

At least they didn't drag Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas back for a third call; the weekend medical examiner, Dr. Boorman, and her assistant, Duncan Englestead, got the call. They were awakened by Gibbs and would be there in forty-five minutes; an hour, tops.

In the meantime, Gibbs had Ducky at his beck and call. He came down from our room more out of curiosity than professional need—but he came down quickly.

"Amazing… The killer used her necklace to strangle her, incredible force—yet the necklace is intact."

"Dental floss." Ducky looked up at me in surprise. "She said something Thursday night, she restrung all her necklaces with dental floss."

"Ah," he said with a nod. "I remember a case in Los Angeles, years ago. Serial killer, I caught the autopsy on two of his victims. He used dental floss as a garrote. It has great tensile strength…"

McGee and Tony were killing time until 8:00; they had an appointment to talk with late unlamented PIA's boss. I knew about the appointment because when Ducky and I got back to our room around half past one, there was a voice message on our room phone from Marguerite almost begging me to be there. I texted Gibbs, got his approval and played phone tag saying I'd be at her room with NCIS.

Ziva was checking the closet and luggage; McGee, the bedroom area; Gibbs, the bath; Tony, the mini office area in the corner. Tony was the only one to find anything of interest, scrawled notes on pages of the hotel notepad. Notepads, she had gone through a stack of them. "Can't read much of it, her handwriting is as bad as graffiti. P…. E? Maybe L? ISM at the end is pretty clear… Oh, this is printed—To the Manor Born?"

"British comedy from the 70s," McGee called out.

"Ah, yes—Penelope Keith and… Peter Bowles, I believe," Ducky added.

"Good show," I threw in. I have a fondness for British comedies.

"PR in a circle…" Tony continued. "Man, her writing sucks…"

"Hey, Tony—may I look at those? I won't touch, I promise." At Gibbs' nod, I leaned around Tony and looked at the top sheet. "I think that word is plagiarism."

He squinted at it. "Could be."

"She said I had given her an idea for a book." I gave him a disgusted look. "We were talking about a big plagiarism scandal on Thursday night. That must be it."

Gibbs looked thoughtful. "Plagiarism…" His gaze swung on Tony. "You accused—whatshername—Louise's boss, the writer with the cat—"

"Janet Bascom," Tony and I chorused.

"Maybe it was the other one, the one—" He looked irritated. "The weird one."

Oh, yeah, that narrowed the list.

"The vampire," he snapped. It probably killed him to say that. "See if the vampire is a plagiarist."

"This could be fun," Tony chortled, rubbing his hands together. He was almost skipping down the hotel hallway.

"Yeah. Fun." I twirled my finger. "Whoop. Whoop."

"We're interviewing a vampire," he said dramatically. He stopped short and gasped. "Oh! No! Did you bring your vampire killer kit?"

"Do I look like Peter Cushing?" McGee said with a tired sigh. (I understood the sigh. Sometimes DiNozzo is like an overenthusiastic puppy; today was one of those times.)

"But—wait. It's daylight. Is she going to sparkle all over the place?"

I wanted to smack him with a copy of Twilight. Hardback.

McGee actually glared. "No. She's going to burst into flames and turn into a pile of ash," he snapped.

Ha. At least he knows his mythology.

DiNozzo grinned. "Oh, this could be neat!"

McGee just continued to look grim. I could understand; he had tried, with so-so success, to keep his literary career separate from his professional one. Not only was he out of the writers' closet, he was investigating a crime within their community. He couldn't be more noticeable dressing as vintage Elton John with a fluorescent, feathered cape and sequined platform shoes.

Maybe it was the lack of PIA the attack dog, but when Marguerite opened the door she looked younger than her years, tiny and terrified. I couldn't blame her; I'd been scared when Gibbs had interrogated me, lo those many years ago—well, I had been once I wised up and realized Gibbs was not my pal.

"They just brought tea. And cinnamon toast?" She sounded timid—and a little hopeful.

I gave her a smile. "Sounds nice. My mother-in-law likes cinnamon toast with her afternoon tea sometimes."

McGee and DiNozzo both declined the offer. DiNozzo's goofiness had disappeared when the door opened—and he was letting McGee take point.

The first questions were standard. When did you last see Patrice? (When they left the Cheese and Whine party.) Did you know of any connection between her and Louise Weiss? (Other than the usual convention friendship, no.) There was talk going around about plagiarism— (Dirty look.) Moira Devereaux was investigating a case of plagiarism. If not you, do you have any ideas, suspicions? (Head shake.) You're not being very helpful… we're doing interviews at the hotel to make things easier. We can go to NCIS…

The threat bombed. Marguerite didn't care. She actually looked interested. "I'm answering to the best of my ability. Would you rather I make up answers? I can, if you like."

"You didn't like her, did you?" DiNozzo suddenly said.

Marguerite thought for a moment. "I… won't miss her," she said in a very even tone.

McGee had been holding a manila envelope all this time and reached over to hand it to her. Puzzled, she opened it.

Her confused look became one of fear—and anger. "How?" she finally managed to get out.

"You're listed in Hawk's."

Hawk's Author's Pseudonyms. Pricey tome, so, not for every reader, but it's a handy book. I use it a few times a month, so it's a legitimate expense.

"It's SOP to check all… interested parties… for aliases."

"I'm sure it is—Thom," she said sarcastically.

McGee didn't quite wince. I was dying of curiosity.

Marguerite slammed the papers on the table and jumped up. "You're just like Patrice," she spat. "Holding this over my head, making my life hell—"

I'm a nosy birch. I looked. The top page was enough information, I didn't need the rest: a much younger Marguerite, face tear-streaked and looking terrified, holding up a booking slate. Margaret DeVere. Crime: shoplifting.

DeVere? That was the name of Peter Bowles' character in To the Manor Born… I watched Marguerite carefully.

"I can't stop it!" she cried. "I have done everything—medication, therapy, everything—my parents were soooo embarrassed, so worried their friends and the public would find out, they hired Patrice as a condition for me to go to conventions or even out anywhere in public, she wasn't my assistant as much as she was my keeper! She's the one who came up with this stupid—" She waved her hands at the coffin on the second bed. "If I want to go out anywhere, it was on Patrice's leash. Yes!" She threw her arms wide. "I! Am! A! Kleptomaniac! There, I said it! Are you happy?"

Ho. Lee. Cow.

She was almost in tears. "I try. I do, I really do. But I can't control it, it's… it's a disease. A mental illness. I didn't choose this, but she chose to be a bitch."

This was more powerful than her writing—well, in my opinion. Between this and her kindness to Janet last night, I was totally revising my opinion of her. I actually felt sorry for her.

"Maybe she was blackmailing you? You got tired of it, shut her down?" DiNozzo asked.

She gave him a disgusted look. "After twenty-five years? Please. My parents paid her more than I make writing to—to babysit me! Yes, she lorded it over me. I was a jailbird, I was a thief, I was mentally unstable, if my fans only knew—!"

(She might go up in their opinions.)

"Maybe she was going to spill it to—" DiNozzo snapped his fingers are McGee.

"Moira Devereaux."

"Only if she was an idiot," Marguerite said. "Give up all that money? My parents—" She forced a smile. "My great-great-grandparents opened Ballangier's."

Ballangier's—pronounced Ballan-zhay, like Target is called Tar-zhay. But Ballangier's deserves the accent. One, it's the legit pronunciation. Two, next to them Bergdorf's is Target; Harrod's is Big Lots. The have only two stores, both in existence since the late 1800s—one in New York, one in DC. You almost needed a Dun & Bradstreet just to get valet parking. (Burke's Peerage couldn't hurt, either.)

Put simply, they could buy and sell a small country if they chose to. Payola to Patrice was petty cash—even if she bought Jimmy Choos.

"When I was younger, the police would just call my parents and…they'd make it all go away. I write under a pseudonym because writing horror novels is so…" She made a snooty face. "They still try to get me to give up writing and just… stay home and take an allowance. When they stopped being able to—" She waved her hands like a magician. "Patrice was hired." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "She signed a confidentiality agreement. My father would have owned her, body and soul. But it didn't stop her from being a mean spirited, hateful, venomous slut." She gathered her dignity—what was left of it. "But—no. I did not kill her. I am not a plagiarist. And I am not a murderer."

"Have you heard any scuttlebutt about anyone you'd think of plagiarism?" I asked.

She thought long and hard—more so than when McGee had asked her. "People tease Meg Riley that she writes with a Xerox machine. But that's just laziness. I don't think you can plagiarize yourself."

I bit back a smile. Meg's 'heartwarming and uplifting' bodice fluffers (not even close to rippers) were tame—very—but they were so many peas in so many pods. The names changed and the seasons, but they were virtually identical. But she was published and had a loyal following, so she must be doing something right.

After a few more questions that went nowhere, McGee and DiNozzo took their leave of us; I stayed behind to make sure Marguerite was okay. Being interrogated can put a shadow on your day for sure.

She looked relieved when I stayed behind. Over the now cool tea and toast we exchanged tame talk—movies we had seen, stories I told about Lexi and Mother, recommendations in the dealers' room; anything not related to Patrice or Lulu.

As I finally made 'I should be going' noises, Marguerite screwed up her courage. "If you could… keep this private…" She glanced at the copy of her booking picture. "I'd—appreciate it."

I nodded understandingly. Hey, I had plenty of secrets of my own. "NCIS won't broadcast the information. And I won't, either."

She let out a deep breath. "Thank you. I'm—I'm really sorry about all of this…"

"Hey. You didn't cause it."

"True. But—"

"No 'buts,'" I said, sounding like Edna snapping 'No capes!' in The Incredibles. "It's not your fault that Louise died, it's not your fault that Patrice died no matter how much you disliked her. Now, if you do have that super power, I have a list for you, bubbe." That got a laugh. "May I… make a suggestion?" She nodded eagerly. "Find a replacement. Fast. Someone—well—easier to get along with than Patrice." (Not hard.) "Before your parents…"

She gave an emphatic nod. I had a funny feeling her parents had selected Patrice because she was a bitch—under the assumption that she would 'straighten out' Marguerite. Kind of like telling someone who's clinically depressed, 'Well, have you just tried not being sad?' Just as stupid. Just as effective.

"I wish…" She trailed off with a sigh. I looked at her curiously. "I was just thinking about Louise."

"Maybe you'll find someone like Lu?"

"Is it mean of me to think that?"

"Not at all. Patrice wasn't warm and fuzzy—and Lu would be flattered."

"She played one helluva a backgammon game."

So her comment to Janet wasn't bullshit. Another surprise. "If you get desperate…" I waggled my fingers.

She looked delighted. "Thank you! I—I will!"

As I headed back to the consuite, I couldn't help but think how wrong I had been about Marguerite all these years.

Sometimes it's nice to be wrong.

I didn't want to leave the consuite. Three dead bodies in twelve hours. The con was one of the fastest trending items on the internet. What next?

I almost slapped myself. Do not—DO NOT—tempt fate like that.

My cell phone buzzed; message from Suzy. How's it going?

True me, don't ark, I'll tell you latest.

Hmmm, you have my attention. I'll be waiting for the whole story.

Make sure to have plenty of booze.

Better and better. Before I forget the reason I'm texting… Joan McKirk said you were going to get the name of someone to buy her old magazines?

I smacked my forehead. I'd totally forgotten. Shot, sorry, I'll get his cars— My mind went sideways for a moment. Could you look something up for me? My fingertip swiped, frequently too fast for the phone to figure out the word (or what it thought was the word). I forced myself to slow down a bit.

LOL. I think I got it. Boy, typo city.

Autocrat hays Mr.

?

Autocorrect. Hates. Me. Frigging technology.

I'll CALL you, okay? :-D

That I can ham fly.

HANDLE! Jeez!

I growled at the phone and shoved it in my pocket.

"One for the road?" Anne nodded toward the breakfast tray; there were a few goodies left from the other concoms raiding it in the past hour and a half.

"Carb loading at its best. Sure." Millenium makes fabulous Danish.

"Go ahead and prop the door open when you leave, it's close enough."

I hesitated by the door. "Ready?"

"No, but does it matter?" Unless her husband swapped out with her, Anne was stuck in the consuite keeping food and drink replenished. She would be fair game for people demanding information on the murders. Good thing for her, she didn't know anything.

I opened the door, knocked down the doorstop and stepped out of the way of the flood of people stampeding in for free food. I couldn't shake off the feeling that the other shoe was going to fall long and hard…

…and smack on my head.