Chapter Ten

"One of us here will be one million dollars richer,
and one of us will be going to the gas chamber to be hung."
(Monsieur Perrier, Murder By Death)

Daily Progress Report: Saturday Additions
PANELS

Resemblance to Persons Living or dead… Yeah, Right
(or) Be Nice or I'll Make You a Character in My Next Book

Saturday evening

The consuite was virtually empty. The usual permanent residents—Pat and Anne Sheldon (as consuite chairpersons, at least one of them has to be present at all times), Jenny Keppler and Alice Martin—along with a much smaller than normal smattering of fen with a case of NEBTD (Nothing Else Better To Do) were scattered about the room. Three overstuffed chairs, sitting at right angles to each other, were filled by Ducky, yours truly, and Cilly—who was slumped so low in her chair she looked liked she wanted to skink through to the lowest level of the parking garage.

As disasters go, it wasn't that bad. Ducky's suspicion—that someone had introduced an emetic into the food—was borne out by finding a couple of empty bottles of Ipecac in the trash. Since a "prank" that fells fifty people is a little more than putting a whoopee cushion on the chair of the guest of honor, the police bagged and tagged them and were trying to raise prints.

"In large enough doses, it can cause heart damage—even death," Ducky had grimly told me on the way up to the consuite. (The disaster of a tea had been cleared out by six o'clock; we had all decided to forego dinner and were cooling our heels until the main rooms closed at eight.)

At least the cops didn't think it was linked to the three murders. So far.

"Our insurance doesn't cover multiple murders," Cilly said morosely. "I don't think it even covers one murder."

"People will forget in time," Ducky said consolingly.

"They had news crews here, people ralphing their guts for national television. And of course they heard about our trifecta of dead bodies."

"I think they ignored that." She looked at me incredulously. "No, seriously, I think they thought it was about the murder mystery for tomorrow."

"Thank the gods for small favors."

"Hardly anybody talks about Legionnaires Disease any more." Ducky was still working on his Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm scout badge.

"I'll make a note to throw another con in twenty years."

(Thirty-five. But who's counting?)

"And I feel badly for Lu and Patrice and Moira, I really do—especially Lu," she added and looked guilty.

"Don't worry, we all feel the same," Patrick said. "Lulu was definitely the best of the bunch."

The Round Robin story had, despite genres being listed for specific days, turned into a murder mystery. And a commentary. Not a nice commentary, either.

Farewell, Moira

Here she lies who made out lives a hell,
Still so stiff and waxen and disdainful;
She hated us and yet we wish her well—
We only wish her death had been more painful.

She passed in the quintessence of contentment,
With fluffy pillows, priests, and scented tallows.
So pardon our residual resentment,
'Cause bitches like her should cash out on the gallows.

Why is she within this coffin?
She pushed her luck just once too often!
The rites are completed and so we depart
With a smile on our lips and a stake in her heart.

As I walked into the room, I recognized the only slightly altered poem of He Looks So Natural by Victor Buono—I have a copy of the book; It Could Be Verse has been out of print since forever. Given that Moira was strangled, 'gallows' wasn't far off. But apparently the author—and I use the term loosely—wanted the public spectacle the killer had denied us. Even though I thought Moira was a nasty piece of work and I would miss her like I'd miss the plague—

I tore the page off the wall before Cilly could see it.

"I wonder if they'll even let us throw another con," Anne mused. She was sorting the envelopes that would be taped to the bottom of the chairs during the banquet—that way people couldn't find out which seats were connected and team up in advance. Not without looking like the local moving and storage crew, anyway. "I'm amazed we're still open."

"Easier to keep the suspects together," I said without thinking. Everyone besides the three of us exchanged nervous glances, realizing that we all were suspects. Still suspects.

"Do you even want to?" Jenny asked. She was probably scared we'd fold up out tent and never come back. This was one of her chances to get out of the house, even if she was under a hundred rules and regulations—and, until now, we had been a 'fun' con.

"Ask me Tuesday," Cilly sighed. "Our liability insurance might be so high that it's a moot point."

"A nominal egg," Alice said, munching carrot sticks and making notes on her ancient manuscript.

Ducky and I exchanged puzzled looks; even Cilly roused enough to look confused. "I've never heard that before," I laughed. "What's a 'nominal egg?'"

Alice gave me a strange look. "How much the insurance will run," she said slowly. "An arm and a leg."

We all burst into laughter, even timid little Jenny. "Oh, darn, I had such an image of this huge, Faberge type egg," Anne said.

"But that would hardly be nominal, "Ducky corrected.

"We should have a nominal egg contest next year," I suggested. "Faberge. Ukrainian. Royal icing. Whatever. Never mind, I'm babbling."

"If we make it to next year—" Cilly held up two sets of crossed fingers.

"We could use some levity." Ducky waved a hand at me. "Speaking of nominal eggs that cost an arm and a leg—tell that story about Lulu and Patrice that was quite amusing." I looked at him blankly. "Kellerman?"

Oh. I sighed; I really wasn't in the mood. "You're a better storyteller." (True.) "You do it."

He tipped his head. "As you wish."

"Thank you, Westley."

I pulled myself off the couch and shambled over to the buffet for some fruit. And veggies. And chips and dip and cookies and M&Ms. I only half-listened to Ducky—he had even caught the early parts about Patrice's, um, proclivities, and had people giggling and snorking even before he got to the good part. Leaving my plate at the end of the table, I ducked into the extra bathroom and fished through the ice and water in the bathtub and finally came up with a Coke. I grabbed the hand towel to dry it off—

—and froze.

Carrying a still-dripping Coke, I went back into the main room. "What did you say?" I asked. I was still stunned.

Ducky looked surprised at my rude interruption. "Faye Kellerman." He laughed. "What did you hear this time?"

"They killed a man," I said slowly. "Or—maybe—they killed Herman," I enunciated.

"Wait—you mean Herman? Herman Prendergast?" Cilly asked.

"Off the top of my head, he's the only Herman I know—except for my daughter's stuffed fish," I said.

"Was he murdered? I thought it was a car accident," Anne said.

"He disappeared—gosh, three, three and a half years ago?" Cilly said. "They found his car—and him—a few weeks back. But they wouldn't be able to tell after this long… would they?"

All eyes turned toward Ducky. "They might…" He pulled out his cell phone, tapped some keys and started making 'hmmmm' noises. After a few minutes he nodded decisively. "Ah. Body found in… yes, that would be Claridge County. The coroner is Ed Carroll. I've known him for years." (Of course.) A couple of taps and he held the phone up to his ear. "Hullo, Ed, it's Donald Mallard. Am I disturbing you? No? Good. I just have a couple of questions about a recent case in your jurisdiction. Herman Prendergast?" He nodded. "That's the one."

They exchanged technical babble for a good five minutes, including Ducky providing some convention background (minus the three murders and mass poisoning, thank heavens). When he finally turned off the phone, he had a thoughtful look on his face.

"Anything you can share?" I asked.

"Dr. Carroll was… not surprised that I was questioning the 'accidental death.' He has filed his autopsy report; it's public record. Mr. Prendergast was killed elsewhere, transported to the location of the accident, and then he and the vehicle were run off the edge of the road into the ravine. His death is listed 'at the hands of person or persons unknown.'"

"Holy cow. Why would anybody kill that adorable little nebbish?" Anne blurted.

"You knew him?" I asked.

"Sure. He went to cons all the time. Loved 'em. You probably saw him here twenty times and never noticed. Gen con, lit con, Trek con, you name it. Paul didn't—and, boy, has he changed."

"If he didn't go to cons, how did you…?" Cilly frowned, confused.

"I work for Ketcham, Day and Elgar, remember? Who used to do the author contracts until ten years ago?" She waved her fingers. (Good; if the con comes back next year, she can take the slot back, no arguments from me.) "They throw a lot of launch parties. Paul Bedicker was their client for thirty, thirty-five years. He'll go to any party with free food and an open bar."

Sounded like what I'd seen the past couple of days.

"Now he's very quiet, kind of shy, a little dorky. Back then he was… entertaining." She was trying not to laugh. "A little caustic, but not as bad as, say, Harlan Ellison. A little lecherous, but not as bad as, say, Isaac Asimov. And he wasn't that bad," she temporized with a slight blush. "I think a lot of that rep was from his 'dirty limericks' books. But Paul was a fun guy to have at a party, and he went to every party. He was also not stingy with praise, especially for Herman. Sometimes Herman would join them, but he was more of a con party guy than a cocktail party guy. But Paul said Herman was the best researcher on the planet, it was like having a branch of Kellam de Forest in his house."

Only Ducky looked confused. "Kellam de Forest is a research company on the Paramount studio lot," I explained. "They read through scripts for accuracy and legal issues. Ask them what the population of Fresno, California was in 1932 and they'll find it out for you. A lot of their research is legal clearance—I remember they changed the main character on All in the Family to Archie Bunker because the name they had chosen originally actually existed in that area of New York. I first heard about them in the old Making of Star Trek book. I wanted so much to work for them—"

"Me, too," said Cilly and Anne in chorus.

"Me, three. Or four?" Patrick added.

"Alas, I lived on the wrong coast. But for Paul to compare him to Kellam—that's a compliment."

"Too bad he couldn't hack it as a writer," Cilly said.

"He was a writer as well?" Ducky asked.

"Not exactly… He wrote a novel—I hear it was pretty good, but the publisher wanted to do a rewrite. Come on, even Stephen King has to rewrite. But Herman didn't take the criticism well, took off, disappeared—until last month," I said. "Paul really fell apart, too. Well—you saw him at the panel." Ducky nodded. "I wonder if that's when the Alzheimer's started."

"Alzheimer's?" Cilly said sharply. "Paul has Alzheimer's?"

"Um, suspected," I hedged. "You've seen him. He's scattered, hard to keep on track, especially at night. Doesn't remember current things. Can't remember my name and I have a badge with inch high letters on my left boob. Comes off with non sequiturs that make zero sense—and he's not making the old joke, 'non sequitur society, we don't make sense—'"

"'But we do like pizza,'" someone from across the room finished.

"And you were mentioning the change in his books," Ducky reminded me. "The difference in vocabulary."

"Right. That paper someone did, comparing Agatha Christie's older books with her later ones? Elephants Can Remember is where it was first really noticeable." Only Anne and Cilly nodded in recognition, so I continued. "There was a huge drop of vocabulary and language skills. The researcher sees it as an early sign of her Alzheimer's. If you've read Paul's newer books—they just don't compare."

"They aren't that bad," Anne argued. "Just not as good. I'm betting Herman did more than research. Probably helped with polish and rewrite."

"Or… vice versa," Ducky said slowly.

Cilly frowned. "Pardon?"

Ducky pulled out his Authors Index that listed the attending authors and their published works. "Let's see… Recent works. 2005, Blue Danube."

"That was great," Pat said enthusiastically. "It would make a great miniseries."

"2006, Too Many Crooks. 2007, Hilltop and White HHHouse Assault," Ducky continued. "2008, Castle Keep, 2009, TMI and Alternate History #5: When the South Won the War. 2010, Doncaster Riches, 2011, Secret of Stormshire—"

"Oh, yeah," Pat said meaningfully. "That was a dog."

"I liked it," Anne said firmly.

"Please. The reviews were merciless. I'm surprised he published again after that," her husband argued.

"Even the best can have an off book," I said in defense. But it was a weak defense. The plot was hack, even the title sounded like the gothic romance that it was. "His next book—"

"Route 666," Ducky supplied.

Slightly-better-written hack horror. Not bad but…

"When did Herman disappear?" Cilly asked. At least this was distracting her a bit.

Ducky checked his cell phone. "Saturday, October 9, 2010."

"So he would have written Stormshire in 2010 to publish in 2011—most likely," Cilly said slowly. "If Herman was concentrating on his book, not giving Paul's book the customary attention… If Paul had grown dependent on Herman and wasn't even checking the final polish…"

"Writers Block," I gasped.

"That's not on his list," Ducky said.

"No—but it's on Janet's. A writer is teaching a class in creative writing, taking student ideas and tweaking them calling them her own. Finds a student, a real gem in the rough, invites the student to stay with her, steals all her ideas—"

"—then gets nailed for plagiarism because the student stole from someone else," Jenny finished.

Anne folded her arms and gave us all a slow, measured look from one person to another. "If you're saying Paul killed Herman—and it sounds like you are," she said, "I have two objections. One: Paul admitted—frequently, loudly—that Herman was his lifeblood for research. Herman started off as his number one fan when Paul was mostly just doing short stories for magazines. Two: Paul totally lost it when Herman disappeared. You heard how he fell apart this weekend? Mrs. Elgar was hosting a party for—shoot, I can't remember. Some supernatural romance writer. Paul was there—he had started showing up to fewer and fewer parties; he wasn't a client any more but they still invited him, so he and Barbara were there. Herman got the mail that afternoon, read the letter from the publisher asking for rewrites. He called Paul, Paul was trying to calm him down. No such luck. He finally left with Barbara, but by the time they got home, Herman was gone. They thought he had just gone for a drive to cool off. He hadn't taken anything with him, not even a coat. They called the police the next morning when they saw he hadn't come home. Because of his mental state, they put out an alert—"

"—but clearly missed the vehicle in the ravine," Ducky finished. "I can see the logic that excludes Paul Bedicker from the list of suspects. He said he looked on Herman as a younger brother. But the questions still hold: who killed Herman Prendergast? And why? Who killed Louise Weiss? Why? Patrice? Moira? Why and why?" He looked around the group. "I'm sure Cassandra and I aren't the only fans of mystery novels!"

Kick down those floodgates, why don't'cha?

We all looked on it as though we were plotting a book (or, for Anne, another murder mystery for the banquet). Jenny was using any down time at the convention to work on her own novel (a desperate romance or a murder mystery with her father as the victim were my bets), and readily gave up her supply of 3x5 cards.

"If I may suggest—" Ducky raised his voice above the babble. "Put the name of the person your comment regards at the top of the card. We can do a stack for each of the victims and a stack for any other people. Any idea, no matter how absurd…"

Looking through the cards over the next hour, he should have kept that last bit to himself. Many of the ideas deviated from possible crime clues into possible novel ideas. We had zombies, alien kidnapping and secret political cabals, just for a start.

But there were ideas, good ideas. Herman was a researcher. He stumbled over something secret and Person X killed him. They heard Paul was going to be here and came to the con to see what he knows because Herman's body just turned up. He or she killed Lu and Patrice because he or she misheard like Sandy did. (Person X is…no idea.)

Lu and Patrice were killed by Moira. Moira was killed by Janet and Marguerite for revenge. (Hm.)

Moira just needed killing. They've got that law in Texas. (Really?)

Herman was having an affair with Paul's wife, Paul killed him. (She wasn't always a 60ish-but-looking-older old-fashioned librarian out of central casting…)

Patrice and Lulu heard someone plot to kill Moira, Patrice tried to blackmail the killer, the killer killed Patrice and killed Lulu just in case, then killed Moira.

I was starting to question the spelling of kill and any variation: killer, killed, killing, kills—you see a word too much and the spelling just looks wrong.

"Any chance you've solved it, Ducky?" Cilly asked with a desperate smile. We were heading back to the main floor to close up the last of the function rooms.

"Too early to tell," he said with a 'maybe yes, maybe no' shrug.

Cilly has met Ducky a couple of dozen times over the years. I, on the other hand, have been married to him over six years. My ears went on yellow alert. Cilly sighed. "One can hope."

"Will the tea still be held tomorrow?" he asked nonchalantly.

Red alert. My ears started swiveling.

"Nobody has asked for a refund. Or the banquet. Amazing."

I waited until Cilly had headed toward registration before grabbing Ducky's arm. "Okay. Give."

He held up a finger. "Just an idea…" He pulled out his cell phone. "Jethro. I'd like to invite you and the team to tea. No, not with Mother. Tomorrow, here at the convention. It hasn't been cancelled, all of the major players and suspects will be gathered in the same room—Jethro?" He held the phone out; yes, the screen was still active. "Jethro?"

After a long silence: "Are. You. Kidding. Me?" Gibbs growled.

"No, I—"

"Suspects? At tea?! I refuse to stick on a prissy moustache and speak in a French accent!" poured from the speaker.

"Belgian," Ducky offered.

There was an inarticulate noise I was sure didn't translate to 'hot diggity, I can't wait.' I finally heard, "BELGIAN!" snapped at a volume that might have fried a circuit or two.

I smiled as I made a mental note. I am so buying him Murder By Death for Christmas.