Chapter Nine

Close Your Eyes and Click 'Escape' Three TImes

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

Daily Progress Report: Saturday Additions
PANELS

Apocalyptic Futures: When Will It End?
Emergency is not 911 in Great Britain, "Decapitated her head (duh?)" and Other Editing Disasters

Saturday

I trudged down to the con registration desk trying not to feel like Joe Btfsplk from Li'l Abner with his cloud of doom overhead. I'd been to some spectacularly bad conventions but, until now, no murders. I really didn't need that record broken.

I stopped dead in my tracks—no pun intended. The normal last-minute crowd of one-day pass people is around 25 to 50. With Tim as a guest, I figured double that. Milling around the lobby were at least two hundred and fifty people, probably more, chattering animatedly. They were pushed up against the registration desks, looking like an ad for population control. (I was pretty sure we were close to the 'maximum persons allowed by law' that the fire marshal had posted.) I scuttled into the small ops room and was met by several sets of eyes that looked like so many deer in a convoy of headlights. "Thank god," someone in the back muttered. "I was afraid it was one of them."

"It's insane out there!" I gasped. "Any second now, they're going to eat us alive!"

"People love disasters," one of the registration gofers said glumly.

"One day reg is sixty bucks, a hundred if they want the balance of the weekend," Raul said mildly. "Even if every person out there only wants Saturday registration, that's fifteen grand. Even just dealers room pass is over six thousand." I reached past him and grabbed a handful of the daily progress reports still warm from the printer.

Cilly chewed her lip. Bad as things were going, money was money. Three murders might mean we do better than enough profit to cover next year's deposit. Horrible thought. "At least we aren't having to refund."

I was surprised, to say the least. "We aren't?" I was glad to hear it. If we canceled the food function and refunded the money for the tea, yours truly would be on the hook for the room fee.

"Nope. I forgot to tell you this morning, we managed to rearrange things and add another hundred seats today and tomorrow, we already had people waitlisted for them. They're going to get a little pissy when they find it's sold out again."

"What, do they expect another body?" I snapped.

I was aghast when Jonathing said, "Probably. Roman Circus, baby," he added with a dour smile.

Raul's wife, VikkI (capital I at the end, don't forget it), who was his second-in-command, shrugged philosophically from her post near the other printer. "Guess they figure if they're stuck here and the cops won't let them leave, may as well try to have fun."

"Thanks for the warm fuzzies," Cilly sighed. She flipped her hand and checked the watch face on the underside of her wrist. "Two minutes to nine. Ready?"

VikkI scooped up the last of the freshly printed card stock and handed it to the gofer who had been bending and splitting the earlier sheets along score marks. Fold-vtt, fold-vtt, fold-vtt, fold-vtt. VikkI picked up the bags with the laptop and portable printer, Raul grabbed the dolly with the boxes of various schedules and other papers, their three gofers collected the rest of the crap and they lined up near the door. VikkI and Raul exchanged glances and sighs. "Bring 'em on," she said with a gulp. Raul opened the door and they marched into the lobby, the gofers following cautiously behind. The cheers that greeted them made me think of throngs of rock and roll groupies—or tumbrels, the French Revolution and Mme. Defarge. Urk.

While they were appeasing the masses, I ran the other direction (resisting the urge to throw some raw steaks into the crowd—or at least send back whips and chairs when I got free).

Sadly, I had forgotten to pack my roller skates. I spent the morning bouncing from autograph session to autograph session, with swings through the dealers' room. Human nature: if a writer or artist dies, their works get snapped up. Lulu and Patrice weren't authors, but this gave the ghouls a chance to be close enough to the thrill. Our bookshelves were stripped of Janet's and Marguerite's books. Yea, me.

Janet was being swamped in the Regency Room. I had wisely pulled her from the group setting (and was doing the same for Marguerite later on), figuring the curiosity factor would drive up the numbers. Mimsy was with her and everyone wanted a picture of themselves with Janet and her furry heroine. One of the art show gofers had been elevated to temporary assistant status, running errands or gently herding people from the table who had overstayed their welcome, and got to snap a lot of pictures of Janet+Mimsy+fan-of-the-moment. Security had already shut the door and Janet had another hour's worth of autograph hounds in the room. I checked on the autograph room, making sure security would have it cleared by 2:30 so they could set up for tea at 4:00 (and I got a look at the revised floor plan; how they managed to cram another fifty chairs was beyond me—I was scared Cilly meant one hundred for each tea). Breena Palmer was hanging out by the pool, having become fast friends with Dixie Lee (Dixie had an invite to an embalming session; better than Christmas shopping at the mall). Before I could disappear back to check on Janet, Dixie waved me closer.

"What's wrong?"

"Do I need to bring in my hair sticks?" she asked quietly. I looked at her blankly. "I heard they're looking for what was used to kill—" She looked embarrassed. "I only know Moira's name because she was such a—whatever. I heard they're looking for possible weapons. Knives, screwdrivers—" She tapped her decorated letter opener (this one in about 20 shades of purple, from lavender all the way up). "I've never been on this side of a police procedural. Do I wait for them to come to me? Or what?"

"How did you hear they were looking for weapons?" I asked nonchalantly.

She shrugged. "To be honest, I don't remember. A couple of us were just talking…"

"I'll check with Gibbs and get back to you."

I hurried over to Tudor A/B (which, along with C/D would become part of the room for the tea), just in time for the last attendee to be let out of the room. I was sure Janet would go up to her room and go back to sleep until tea.

Bad bet. She snapped Mimsy's leash on her collar and jumped from the table. "I'm starving! Writing 'best wishes' a thousand times takes it out of you."

"The price of fame. Let's grab lunch. Filene's does a killer—" I broke off in confusion. "Um, a great steak salad," I finished weakly.

Janet managed a flicker of a smile. "Sounds good."

We were finishing up our 'most excellent' boysenberry mousse parfaits when my hip tingled. "Excuse me." I pulled out my cell phone and saw I'd missed a call from Suzy Bailey. For a moment I panicked, envisioning all sorts of mayhem with Mother, then remembered Suzy was doing some detective work for me. I pressed redial.

"Hi, I think I found what you're looking for," Suzy said without preamble.

"Hang on a sec." I signed for lunch (business expense!), whispered, "Catch you at tea," to Janet and slithered from the booth. "Okay. Shoot."

"Joan said you were looking through the first box of magazines. We've nailed it down to three stories. The first one is Misslethwaite Manor. Murder at Misslethwaite Manor."

"How does it start off?"

I heard her carefully turn pages. "'Snow gently fell across the landscape, blanketing the sins of the parish—'"

"Not it."

"Okay... Lord of the Manor. No, Victoria, why don't you look a... yes, I promise you can talk to Cassandra—"

"Suze, go ahead and put her on, it'll be easier to go through the other stories." I kept a steady walk to the back of the hotel, heading for the dealers' room. "Hi, Mother!"

"Cassandra! Oh!"

"What are you doing today with Suzy?"

"We're—we're planting pansies!"

She made it sound like Jonas Salk was discovering another cure in the kitchen. "Great! I love pansies. Are the girls coming to dinner?"

She giggled. "We're going to Paco's!"

I made a face. She loves Paco's. Ducky and I live on Tums and Mylanta if we eat there. Suzy has a cast iron stomach, and Lily and Ev have titanium. Charlie and Lexi are smart enough to stick to cheese quesadillas. "Sounds great," I lied. "Make sure to have some fried ice cream for me." (The only other edible item on the menu.) "Could you put Suzy back on the phone?"

"Are you having fun?" She wounded wistful.

I looked at the Regency A/B, still sealed and blocked off. "Scads. Have fun tonight, sweetie. Could I talk to Suzy again?"

"Sorry," Suzy murmured.

"No prob. What was that second one?"

"Lord of the Manor. 'It was a gala event—'"

"Noooooo... that's not it..." I was at the dealer's room by then. I skirted through the crowd and got to my table. I ran a finger through the R section and pulled out a volume tiled Bad Manors.

"Okay. Last one... To the Manor Born—and Died."

"That's it. Even the title. Damn it."

"Do you need me to—"

"Yeah, hang on. I'm going to need you to read that out loud to someone," I said grimly. It took me several tries to find her, but eventually tracked her down by the pool, graciously signing a copy of the book I held. I waited until her fan had wandered away before stepping up.

"Cassandra." Penny languidly turned her wrist and glanced at the vintage women's watch. "Am I late? I thought I wasn't due until 2:00."

"You're not." I slid into the seat at right angle to her and set the book on the table. "We need to talk."

She looked politely quizzical. "About what?"

"Plagiarism," I said quietly. Her stunned look on Thursday night now made sense.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," she said coldly, starting to rise. She was trying to brass it out.

"Sit. Down."

Startled by my Mom voice, she slowly sat back down.

I put Suzy on speakerphone. "Hi, Suzy. What magazine are you looking at?"

"Dime Dozen Mysteries. August 1929."

Penny paled. Just a hair.

"Okay. Let's read this together. Ready?"

"Ready."

"'A motorcar!' Caroline clasped her hands in a paroxysm of joy. 'Oh, Papa, how cunning!' Her aunt, the Dowager Lady Chillingham, was of another mind. She had willingly taken her widowed brother-in-law and niece into her home but was averse to championing his myriad interests—many of which involved frightening chemicals, such as his incessant photography or dangerous machinery such as the touring car that now sat in front of Willowstoke. But she was a mild, complaisant woman who could never even scold the cook over a burnt roast. She managed a timid, 'Oh, Francis…' but said no more.'" Other than an occasional exception, a word here or there, we matched perfectly. A Greek Chorus of accusation. "Okay, Suzy, you're free to plant pansies." I turned the phone off, shut the book and gave her the look Ducky has spent 60+ years perfecting and I've been working on for 6. She withered.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What happened?"

With frequent stops when anyone wandered close enough to possibly overhear, I got the tale. She published her first mystery novel, set in the 20s, and she was a minor one-hit wonder. Hot property. First book went great. Not a million-seller, but a respectable, solid start. Next book, the agent couldn't sell. The publisher of her first book was lukewarm; everyone else was ice cold. She rewrote it… three times. Still no luck. Deciding it just wasn't time for that tale, she managed to pull out two more plots. Another flop—and another. Frantic for inspiration, she went to a stack of old mystery magazines she'd gotten at a yard sale. She took a novella someone wrote, stretched it out. Sent it to the agent. Agent got a nibble from the original publisher—but they didn't like the stuff she added. Two choices: one, rewrite again (with better stuff) or, two, strip out her part, find or write three or four more stories same length and do a collection.

She knew that the three novels she had written were good, as good as her first book—or even better. She was so mad about the latest edit, she took three more stories from old, long out of print magazines, copied 100% and sent them off, just to give them a set-down when someone noticed.

Nobody noticed.

They bought it. And it sold pretty well.

So did the next omnibus.

And the next. And the one after that.

Almost a dozen books to her credit. She had written one.

"But I didn't kill Moira. I may have considered her a vile, loathsome creature feeding on the misery of the human race—but I didn't kill her."

I held up a hand. "Wait—how did you know Moira's dead?" It was silly to deny it,

"I heard it in the art show. Someone down the hall from her room saw the medical examiner leaving with the body. Half the con knew it before they got to the lobby."

Telegraph, telephone, tell-a-fan. Fan-bloody-tastic.

But…

I believed her.

There's a huge difference between plagiarism and murder. Yes, someone might kill to keep a secret like that, but I didn't see Penny even squishing a bug. She might chip a nail doing it (and that would be a tragedy in her universe).

"What… what are you going to do?" Penny asked hesitantly.

What could I do? Nothing, really, unless I wanted to get way too involved. "Nothing." I gave her the Mom look again. "You're going to deal with this." Won't you. Not a question.

She nodded miserably.

The thing is, I've read some of her stuff. The first book was the best of the lot. Maybe with a better agent and editor, she might not have been pushed to the frustration of plagiarizing as a semi-joke—and having the joke backfire. I trudged back to the dealers' room and put the book back on the shelf.

"Something up?" Valerie asked.

"Just wanted to ask Penny something."

"Oh. Okay."

I flitted from room to room, killing time until afternoon tea. Ducky managed to make it back by 3:00, well in time for tea at 4:00, looking a bit disgruntled. "Any word? Any word you can share?"

"Nothing. A dearth of information on any of our victims beyond the obvious causes of death. Autopsy is standing room only."

I was shocked. "All the beds are full?"

"Well, we have empty drawers—but in addition to the three from here, we had two 'normal' visitors. The four of us were running about like rabbits."

"Four?"

"Dr. Boorman, Mr. Englestead—and Jimmy and I. We needed all the hands we could get. Dr. Parrish and Mr. Thomas took our places for the rest of the day."

"Ah."

"I almost wish Metro had taken the case."

"Almost?"

"Well—I am curious."

"Yellow?"

He laughed at the archaic reference. "Something like that," he said with a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows.

We played hooky for an hour, watching the middle chunk of Zardoz, one of the oddest WTF films out there. (Ducky's muttered opinion was that Sean Connery needed to meet the mortgage. Or it looked a lot better on paper.) I was still grumpy about having missed American Dreamer; apparently Jordan had fallen asleep and missed it, too. She and Ducky had a second panel for tomorrow (their panel this morning had been a sellout crowd, even though they all wanted to ask about Lu, Patrice and Moira—they had a hard time keeping the crowd on topic). Ducky said that Jordan had suggested we join her and her fiancé for dinner and a movie at their place; I agreed that it was a good idea.

I was definitely cheered when we walked into the Georgian/Tudor Rooms. The décor was wonderful—lace tablecloths, baskets of fresh flowers, ribbon-bedecked sunhats artfully strewn on tables. It was lovely.

Jordan loved it, too. She had enjoyed tea with Mother a few times (and Victoria had even behaved herself); this reminded her of those pleasant days.

"Sandwiches, cookies, teacakes—love that trifle, make sure to get some," I muttered as we cruised around the tables. "Tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, lemonade, punch—ugh." (Proving Millennium isn't perfect. I had done a taste test a couple of weeks ago and fallen in love with everything but the punch. I guess it's too many school events, but I just can't stand the stuff.)

"Holy cow, that looks like a wedding cake."

I looked around; nobody was near enough to overhear. "It is," I whispered in her ear. "It was scheduled for last Wednesday. They canceled that morning. Mrs. Islington offered it for free—I figured what the hell, it looks like a basket of spring flowers, perfect for a garden tea party. They stuck it in the freezer, it's nice and fresh. And, like I said: free."

"Sweet. Literally."

"And good. It's the same cake we had for our wedding reception. Phenomenal. Almond rosewater cake, it melts in your mouth. White chocolate frosting. Pulled sugar flowers way beyond my skill level."

"I can barely write 'Happy Birthday' in a straight line."

"Trust me. Get a slice. Get two."

"So—you got married here?"

"Mm-hmm." While we strolled around the room, I gave her a quick rundown of our meeting (murder), courtship (fraud) and marriage (free wedding and reception—gratis because Ducky solved an attempted murder at the hotel).

"You sure don't lead a dull life."

"Plenty of times I wish we did."

"Can't say I blame you."

We passed by the table where Penny was sitting with several fans; she gave a slightly guilty start, turned away and focused very intently on the sandwiches on her plate. She was dressed in a different vintage dress than she had been a couple of hours ago (the other one was probably drenched in sweat), but all of her 20s-40s outfits are pretty, feminine and flowing, perfect for a tea party. Either she has nerves of steel or crime gives her an appetite...or she was worried the food in prison was lousy and was stocking up.

A swing past the array of cookies and I ran into Janet—almost literally. "How are you holding up?"

She shrugged. Mimsy was doing her fur collar imitation, draped around Janet's neck and looking like she was part of the black with gold embroidery caftan. I was glad she was in attendance; she'd like the chicken salad sandwiches, they were made from the chicken kabobs. "It's really starting to sink in. I'm going to miss Lu." Her trademark sarcasm piped up. "Sometimes she was a 10 watt bulb in a brownout, but she was a sweet girl, her typing was deadly accurate even if she couldn't break 50 words a minute—and she made my tea letter perfect."

Janet had bypassed the sandwiches and cookies and cake and punch—and tea. I cocked an eyebrow at the highball glass in her hand. "That's not tea."

She looked astonished. "Very good. I'll make a sleuth you of you, yet."

Jordan snorted faintly. "What 'yet?' Metro should give her her own tin."

At Janet's look of surprise (and interest), I gave her a flip answer. "Honey, if I sent you my press clippings, you have another four or five books, easily."

She gasped. "You've been holding out on me, Nancy Drew! Shame on you." From her tone, she was joking. She'd really suck in air when she found out I wasn't.

"I'll leave 'em to you in my will."

"Good way to get killed off early." The words were out before she could think about them. She made a face and took a hit off her drink. "I've got a question..." she said, neatly switching subjects.

Leaving Jordan and Janet chatting amicably (Jordan had read several of Janet's books; Janet had attended Ducky and Jordan's talk this morning, was planning on attending the second one tomorrow, and had a ton of questions in the meantime. I had a feeling this was the start of a lovely friendship.), I continued to wander.

Dixie Lee hadn't ignored the cake. She was downing her slice and looked ecstatic. "This stuff should be illegal. It's murdered my diet. But it went down without a fight."

"The calories don't count," I said with a wink.

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm. Like popcorn and soda at the movie, food at a con is part of the entertainment, so the calories don't count." She gave me an amused look. "Diet soda cancels out a jelly doughnut. Broken cookies have no calories—all the calories fell out when the cookies broke. Anything medicinal—chicken soup, jell-o, hot toddies—has no calories because it's part of the medical treatment. Anything eaten in the dark is safe; calories can't see in the dark."

"I love how you think. You have these embroidered on pillows?"

"Nope. On a poster at the store. I sell a ton of them after people break their New Year's resolutions." I smiled. "I have it at the table in the hucksters' room."

"Sold."

I left her muttering, "I'm gonna break every Oreo at home and set those little buggers free," and continued on my stroll.

Paul Bedicker was enjoying the tea party even more than the Cheese and Whine reception. He was doing his best to start a famine: a plate of five or six sandwich corners, two plates of cookies, a plate of petit fours, tea breads and fairy cakes, two slices of the aborted wedding cake, a plate of fruit... and two cans of Diet Coke. (Diet soda also cancels out party fare, I guess. Seems to be working; the guy is as skinny as a flagpole.)

He gave me a worried look. "Is it okay that I'm not drinking tea? I brought them from the consuite, if that counts. I really hate tea."

"If anybody gives you a dirty look, tell them I said it's okay."

A sunny smile appeared. "Thank you, Cecelia!"

I turned away and tried no to sigh. Apparently Cilly, as head of the con, is the only name he has committed to memory. For the sake of his wife, I hoped that the confusion of the con was making his suspected Alzheimer's worse—that he was on a more even keel at home.

Barbara Bedicker was starting her own famine with several plates of treats neatly stacked in a pile (cake wisely on op). "Cassandra, this tea is wonderful. I swear, I'm going to go home ten pounds heavier from this convention. It's a good thing we didn't go to conventions before or I'd be as big as a house." She was in the middle of pouring a ladle of punch in her cup and overfilled the cup. "Drat." She made a face and dumped it back in. "With my luck I'll spill it all down my front." Today her jacket-skirt combo was creamy mohair with thin lines of gold and brown in a mock plaid. A little more stylish than the odd pinkish-tan set from the night before, but it didn't look comfortable to me.

But screaming maroon punch would have done little to improve it. "I have the same luck," I agreed while she carefully poured the punch back in, gave the contents a quick stir to mix up the melting ice ring and served up a half ladle of punch.

"Much better," she said approvingly. She took the tiniest sip and blanched. "Um..."

Even while being questioned last night, she never really appeared flustered. This was a first. "I know. Other people love it, but I find it way too sweet."

She looked relieved. "Oh, thank you for saying that. I hate to be wasteful..."

"Pour it in the trash and put the cup on the tray by the door," I suggested sotto vocce.

"I think I'll sick to tea." She still had a guilty look. I'm betting she grew up with 'waste not, want not' pounded in her head.

"Here. Let me." I took the cup and she gave me a grateful smile. "Have two cups of tea. That'll make Paul feel better about his Diet Cokes."

She pursed her lips. "I know they keep saying 'aspartame is perfectly safe'... but..."

"No argument from me. I get migraines when I drink diet sodas. And I know a computer programmer who was worried he was losing his memory and he'd have to retire. But he only had memory problem in the second half of his shift. Finally noticed it was after he had lunch break, including 3 huge glasses of iced tea—with aspartame. He was drinking the tea to wake up, he was on third shift at Atlantic Bank." Barbara looked astonished. "Coke is one brand that has cans of both aspartame and Splenda. He's actually drinking Diet Coke—with Splenda."

"I didn't notice! Thank you, Cassandra, I appreciate that."

"Thank Anne. She's the one who stocked the consuite with the sodas."

"I shall." Carefully balancing her plates of goodies, she added several lumps of sugar to a cup of tea and strode off to join Paul.

Ducky had made a detour to the art show to check on his bids and was seated at a small table with Cilly, Jordan and Jane. (I was right. Jordan and Janet were quick on the path to being best buddies.)

"Part of me really, really wants to know what the hell was going on with Lulu and Patrice. And Moira," Cilly said. Janet nodded once.

"But part of you doesn't," I finished.

Slightly rolling her eyes, Cilly nodded in agreement. "If we can just survive the con..."

(Unlike Lulu and Patrice. And Moira.)

"God, I hope nobody is doing their own version of And Then There Were None," Janet said, making a face.

"Bite. Your. Tongue," Cilly said with a shudder.

"Or their own murder mystery weekend. I think every show did one. Remington Steele. Diagnosis Murder. Moonlighting."

Cilly gave me a doubtful look. "Moonlighting did one? I don't remember that."

"I remember the Shakespearean one," Janet offered.

"'I hate iambic pentameter!'" I quoted.

"Actually... Moonlighting did one. It was on a train," Cilly said, nodding. "But Remington Steele didn't."

"Are you sure? It's such a staple." I could picture the episode. Well, I thought I did.

"No... they had a weekend at a Playboy-esque publisher's island... a mystery writer's group had their treasury stolen or something like that... and a group of people were dressed up like Holmes and Watson, Mr. Moto, Miss Marple…"

"Jessica Fletcher?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so... the first episode was a costume party, maybe you're thinking of that."

"Maybe. They had an offshoot of that on CGIS—they were on an abandoned tanker, there was a spy killing everyone off—"

I felt a tiny breeze, someone dashing by me at warp speed. Ducky was sitting across for me; I saw someone else hurry past him, looking very uncomfortable. Thirds on the cake was my guess.

Ducky looked beyond me with a 'something's wrong' frown. "Cassandra—" he started in a low voice.

Several more people were sprinting for the door. A couple didn't make it—and had the horrifically embarrassing moment of tossing their cookies in public.

Cons have room parties. Room parties have booze. This wasn't the first time I'd seen someone 'reviewing inputs' as my brother put it. But this was the first time I'd seen it as a group event with people joining in left and right.

"Poisoned! We've been poisoned!" came a shrill scream from the back of the room. Rita Baker, author of several conspiracy nut thrillers.

"No, no—" Cilly leaped up. "Everyone, stay calm, sit down—"

It was like an outtake from Drop Dead Gorgeous, where the beauty contestants are upchucking over bad seafood. (I was so glad this was indoors with no balcony.)

I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed Ms. Islington and gave her a three-line rundown of the situation. I expected a polite version of 'are you shitting me?' Instead she said, "I'll alert Dr. Potter. We'll be right there."

I let Cilly know; Ducky and Jordan, in the meantime, had jumped into doctor mode, trying to aid the rocketing list of sufferers. The room was in pandemonium.

Mr. Islington arrived in moments with Dr. Potter behind by a split second. He joined Ducky and Jordan and she stepped aside with Cilly and me. (I was echoing Cilly's comment from earlier: I wished I had never heard of fandom. Any fandom.)

"Sandy—" Ducky laid a hand on my arm. "The sufferers seem to be recovering quickly—too quickly for true food poisoning. And food poisoning wouldn't appear this quickly."

I could hear the 'thank God' in Mrs. Islington's sigh.

"Something was clearly introduced to the food. An emetic of some sort."

I exhaled heavily. "Great."

There was a hubbub at the door. Several DC Metro EMTs walked in, kits in hand. "We have multiple calls of poisoning at this location...?" the first one through the door said.

Cilly sank into a chair and dropped her face in her hands. "Shoot me."

Me, first.