Chapter Eleven

I Made a Mistake Once. Turns Out I Was Wrong.

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

Daily Progress Report: Sunday Additions

The afternoon tea will be an impromptu memorial for
Louise Weiss, Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft and Moira Devereaux
Funny stories and pleasant recollections appreciated

Sunday

"And you, Count Downe—witnesses put you at the fox hunt—sorry, Boss."

I couldn't blame DiNozzo. There was a definite feeling of being in an old Agatha Christie cozy. Or a weird Noel Coward comedy.

They had a repeat of the day before for the refreshments—with one alteration: nothing was 'serve yourself.' They were pretty sure the Ipecac was introduced into a liquid, but they hadn't been able to narrow it down to what—so servers tipped pitchers of punch and lemonade, poured tea and, just to be safe, served everything from sandwiches to cake instead of letting people graze at will. (No, not another cancelled wedding. Mrs. Islington, advised of the 'gathering of the suspects' aspect of the tea, had the pastry department whip out a cake almost as nifty as the one the day before. When I raised my eyebrows, she gave me a composed look and said, "It's all theatre, isn't it?")

The room was wall-to-wall scuttlebutt and flat-out gossip. There were a few theories about the deaths, but most of the chatter was dishing dirt on the dead. Not hard with Patrice and Moira; the talk about Lulu tended to be nice, at least. When Gibbs and crew entered the room, talk came to a standstill—then suddenly started up again, louder, faster, with more brittle laughter. Even the innocent were nervous… and who could blame them?

The main cast in this black comedy was all there: all the authors, all the comcom (Kyle wasn't scheduled to run the film room until that night, but willingly gave up his sleep time to join us). I ran into people I hadn't seen since our pre-con meeting on Thursday: Marc Lexton, the charity auction coordinator (who had announced the three auctions had taken in a total of over $75,000 to be donated to a national literacy program—thanks largely in part to the auction items of Tempe Brennan and Stephen King), Zoe Lasko (outdoing anybody she had given a ribbon or trophy—the girl was in a recreation of a beaded dress from the 1980 version of Flash Gordon; it had to weigh 70 pounds), Norma Edwards (who confided that half of the dealers had already asked to pre-register for tables for next year)—even quiet Robbie Andres, who had coordinated the tickets for all the events and was one of the few people who got to enjoy the con and not run around like a lunatic.

Breena and Jordan were at a small table with Dixie Lee and Janet—the four of them had definitely hit it off. As I walked past, they were animatedly discussing the case that caused Jordan to meet Ducky, someone killed by an injection of mercury into the brain. And nobody's appetite seemed dimmed one whit. At the next table Caroline Austin was seated with Lana King and Meg Riley; the three of them were trading baby and kid pictures and the stories that went with them. So nice. So ordinary.

Marguerite was sitting with her vaguely-cousin Todd; both looked to be having a good time, and she gave me a happy smile when I walked by. Hey—maybe keeping an eye on him kept her so busy her own problem didn't assert itself. Works for me.

I wandered the room and got the chance to smile and say 'hi' to authors I'd barely seen beyond making sure they were at their appointed autograph sessions—JoEllen Bransford, Melissa Kino, Anne Roc, Frank E. Campbell, Tristan Isolde (so grateful to discover it's a pseudonym—and he's not in Hawke's, either), a dozen others. And I made damn sure to grab some food and find a quiet table with my husband before the games commenced. I was going to need fortification.

Cilly stood in the center of the room, gently tapping a knife against a champagne flute. (We sure as heck weren't serving alcohol; moments before it had held a brilliant blue gerbera daisy and sprigs of baby's breath.) No one paid attention. I could see Gibbs was a split second away from a sharp whistle when Jonathing took care of the situation calling, "Silence! Silence! Pray silence for the Chair!" Sound dropped to almost nil.

"If everyone could please be seated…" Cilly suggested. ("Harder for a suspect to bolt," Gibbs had pointed out when we planned the afternoon's 'entertainment.') Chairs at all the tables, chairs scattered about the room… eventually everyone but the hotel staff, NCIS agents and Cilly was seated. "I'm sure everyone is aware of the tragedies that have occurred this weekend. Not everyone has fond memories of all of the victims—" Marguerite's gaze dropped for a moment then focused back on Cilly. "—but they are all victims. No matter what someone may or may not have done in his or her life, no one has the right to simply snuff out that life. Please… take a moment to pray, to reflect, to send kind thoughts…" Faces became composed, many heads bowed. "Louise Weiss…" I could see Kyle close his eyes and swallow hard. He had been stupid, he had been an ass—but he genuinely loved her and was broken by her death. The subtlety of the moment almost undid Janet; her eyes were screwed shut and with the hand that wasn't holding Mimsy she roughly scrubbed the back of her wrist against the tears that were leaking out. "Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft…" Plenty of sidelong glances at Marguerite, who had her hands folded, eyes closed and head bowed and was silently mouthing what I assumed was a prayer. "Moira Devereaux…"

After a minute of silence: "Herman Prendergast," Gibbs' voice rang out.

Gasps and murmurings ran through the room.

"Agent Gibbs, you aren't saying—" Cilly looked puzzled. I'd buy her act 100% even though I knew they had plotted out everything.

"Yes. Herman Prendergast was also murdered."

Paul's fork clattered to his plate. "No!" he cried. "No, no—Barbie—!" He turned and grabbed his wife's arm. Her knitting fell from her lap to the floor.

"Paul. Calm down." She placed a firm hand over the one that was clutching her arm. "You know you shouldn't get excited."

"You can't blame him for being upset," DiNozzo called out. "He knew Herman since—what, the seventies?"

"Herman was in high school," I contributed.

"We went to his graduation." Paul switched from dismay to delight. "Remember, Barbie, we got him a ticket to Worldcon. It was in Phoenix. He was so excited!"

She smiled and patted his hand. "It was a wonderful gift, Paul."

"You said he was like a brother to you," Ducky said. "He was almost a son—you were seventeen, eighteen years apart?"

"He—he was the kid brother I never had…" (Like Cain and Abel?) Paul folded his arms and curled into himself. "I miss him so much…"

Barbara shot Gibbs an irritated look; thanks for upsetting my unstable husband.

"So—did the same person kill all four people?" someone called out.

"Possibly," Gibbs said.

"Let's look at this individually." Gibbs is not a big talker (I've heard him described as a functional mute); he had handed off the Hercule Poirot role to DiNozzo. "Louise Weiss. Why would someone kill her? What reason would anyone have?"

"None!" Janet said sharply.

"She was your assistant. What would you say about her?"

"She was sweet. Not brilliant, but a sweet, kind girl, always ready to help someone out." (Kyle looked decidedly uncomfortable.) "She was my ex-husband's sister, his youngest sister. Everyone—" She let out a deep breath. "Everyone looked out for her. I would never have hurt her. And I can't think of anyone who would have. Or any reason anyone would have had."

DiNozzo swung on Kyle. "Perhaps an ex with an axe—to grind?"

"I wanted to get back with her," he snapped. "Lu—Lu said no. But she was buying my—our—car." He locked eyes with Janet. "She… was helping me out. Janet's right. That's the kind of girl Lu is." He winced. "Was."

"If you can't have her, nobody will?" DiNozzo suggested.

Kyle looked disgusted. "Even if—why would I kill Pat or Moira or—" He looked puzzled. "Uh, Herman?"

DiNozzo tipped his head; good point. "If not her boss or boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—then who?"

"If we don't know why—how can we know who?" Dixie Lee asked. She had one leg tucked under the other and Mimsy was curled up in the resulting nest. Janet was taking advantage of the temporary defection to eat in peace.

"Good question. Why would anyone kill Louise? Everyone says she was sweet, kind to small animals, donated to charities—" DiNozzo held a hand out to the attendees, turning in a small circle as he spoke; a few nods followed his gesture. "Fair enough. Perhaps—perhaps—she was killed in error."

"Wait, you don't think someone mistook Lu for Patrice or Moira?" Jonathing asked. DiNozzo shrugged expressively. "Okay, maybe someone half-blind might confuse Lu and Moira. They're both kind of blonde—but they were at least twenty years apart just for a start. Pat was a half a foot or more taller than either of them and she had jet black hair."

"Out of a bottle." The anonymous mutter carried through the room. There were a few titters.

"Ah, but what if the killer didn't know who they were killing? Maybe operating under instructions from someone else to 'kill the assistant.'" DiNozzo suggested.

Adrian Collier actually laughed. "Sorry, but that's gotta be the dumbest of dumbass killers. What's he going to do, kill twenty people before he nails the right one?"

"Maybe it only took two. Patrice—well, as Ms. Ting said, not everyone has fond memories of the victims. For a start, she was downright vile to her employer."

Marguerite turned pale, but her gaze on DiNozzo didn't waver. I doubt anyone would have pegged her as more than mildly upset. I had promised her that her secret was safe—and it was.

"But just like Lulu—if it were her employer, why kill her here, in such a public way? Either one of them? Easier to do it in the comfort of your own home area, disguised as a suicide, an accident… 'Death by person or persons unknown…'"

I shot a glance at Ducky, but he was an attentive listener of DiNozzo's.

Janet snapped her fingers. "ABC Murders. It's a classic. Want to hide a book? Put it on a shelf with a dozen other books. Want to hide a murder? Stick it in the middle of other deaths. Maybe Moira—or Patrice—was the victim and the other two were…" She looked uncomfortable. "…window dressing…?"

"It's an old plot," Caroline Austin said hesitantly. Her grandmother had used a variant at least three times and managed to make it fresh each time.

"So is Romeo and Juliet. They still perform it along with West Side Story all over the place," Meg Riley pointed out. Given that she has maybe three plots she recycles, she's almost an expert on the topic.

"But how would that relate to Harry?" Caroline asked. When her tablemates looked confused, she scrunched her nose. "Harry?" Lana King leaned over. "Oh, sorry. Herman. I mean, if you're trying to hide one murder among others, a three or four year gap makes it hard to pull that off. Maybe Louise, Patrice and Moira are a separate issue?"

DiNozzo shrugged eloquently and went back to his character assassination. "Patrice. A number of people suggested she would have made a most excellent victim for tonight's murder mystery." Plenty of guilty starts around the room—including me. "She had, how does one put it delicately—" He tapped his lips, hamming it up. "Pah. She was the town tramp, the village vixen, weekend whore, convention coquette. If we made a list of her ten minute conquests, it would be the size of the metro phone book." Kyle's blush was in the company of at least twenty-five others—men and women. Hm.

"Or perhaps one of the other victims was also a killer. Patrice attended dozens, hundreds of conventions, knew a lot of dirt about a lot of people—maybe she was feeding it to someone who could make a buck on it and pay her off for the intel. Jimmy Choos don't come cheap." Trust DiNozzo to have noted what Pat had on her feet. He's a clotheshorse. "Price went up, loyalty went down. Or… She was a demanding sort of tart, quite a reputation for convention chairs despising her." He gave Cilly a piercing look.

She held up her hands. "I didn't have to deal with her."

"That's right! Actually it would have been—" He swung a j'accuse pointing finger toward me.

"Got another phone book?" I snorted.

"I'm sure the hotel staff detested her just as much—"

Scott Chambers (who really had been there all weekend, as promised—just lurking in the background) was poised by the door with Mrs. Islington and Mr. Rubio. They had been in on the plotting as well. He shook his head skeptically. "Not worth blowing my retirement."

"But if your idea of Moira killing Patrice is right—who killed Moira?" I hoped my timing wasn't off.

DiNozzo snapped his fingers and pointed toward me. "Good question."

"Who wouldn't want her killed?" Zoe Lasko asked. "If she hadn't screwed you over personally, you're probably only three or four degrees of separation from someone she did."

"And apparently… she was actually on to something big, for once. From the notes she left behind…" He gave a meaningful look around the room, milking the uneasy silence. "She was investigating an author for…" He leaned forward and almost hissed the word. "…plagiarism."

It was like saying 'car accident' in a room full of personal injury attorneys. Immediate buzz of discussion (nobody seemed to notice Penny staring at her plate and mechanically shoveling down cake and trifle—or that her cheeks matched the red sweater of the woman sitting next to her). Accusation of plagiarism at a book convention? Hot topic.

Gibbs had been quietly lurking by Paul and Barbara's table since Paul's outcry over Herman being a victim. Paul grabbed Barbara's arm again (how the woman keeps count of her stitches is amazing). "It's a lie!" he said imploringly. "Herman wrote that book on his own! And it was good!"

"I know, dear." She smiled and stroked his hand. "You were very proud of him. We both were."

"Moira Devereaux wasn't accusing a dead writer—a dead, unpublished writer. She was investigating someone in the room. For that, she died. But Louise? And Patrice?" Gibbs stared levelly at Paul.

"I—I didn't mean to!"

"Paul!" Barbara turned on Gibbs, half furious, half imploring. "He doesn't understand," she almost snapped.

"How did it happen?" Gibbs ignored her.

"She—she told those girls. But it was a lie, a lie! But nobody would have believed the truth!"

"How did you kill Louise?"

"She stayed behind after Thom left. I hit her. There was a bookend, I hit her, I hit her hard—"

"Patrice?"

"I poisoned her, it was at the tea, it made everyone sick—"

"Pat died before—" someone near me whispered. Someone else shushed them.

"Moira?"

"I—I shot her! I shot her. Twice, I remember!"

"Where did you get the gun?"

Paul gaped for a moment. "It—it was hers."

After a long moment, Gibbs shook his head. "No." He sighed, a tired, sad noise. "No, Mr. Bedicker. You didn't kill Louise. Or Patrice. Or Moira. But you know who did." He turned his unwavering look on Barbara Bedicker.

She met his gaze. "You already tested my knitting needles. All of them, even the ones in the room."

"True."

"And they were all clean, every last one of them."

"True. But—why did you volunteer for them to be tested? Your husband didn't know any of the victims had been stabbed. How did you?"

She shrugged. "I heard it through the grapevine. Someone mentioned it in passing. I knew you'd want to test anything that was a likely weapon…" She shrugged again. "Other people came forward with hair sticks—" Dixie Lee started to reach for her pinned bun and let her hand drop back to her lap. "Writing pens, chopsticks, Swiss Army knife—someone even mentioned a back scratcher…"

Gibbs shook his head slowly. "Other than the people who found the body and law enforcement agents—nobody knew the cause of death. Try again."

"Well, I certainly didn't know—as I said, I heard it mentioned around the convention, I thought I would come forward rather than wait…"

"Who. Told you. Simple question."

She thought for a moment then shook her head. "I honestly don't remember."

Ziva looked at her notebook. "Dixie Lee Huntington came forward with her hair sticks. She heard it from Mary Lansing. Mary Lansing remembered hearing it from Trevor Knight. Trevor Knight heard it… from you." She turned a page. "Jake Fisch brought us his stainless steel chopsticks. He heard it from Oliver Workman who heard it from Jo Ann Loring—who heard it from…" She looked up and tipped her head. "You." She waggled her notebook. "Every single person was able to, eventually, remember where they had heard this rumor. Except for you. And all of the other paths eventually led—to you."

Barbara managed a small smile. "This is the first year we've been to the convention. I don't know anyone, really."

She had a good point.

"I don't remember who told me that Patrice and Louise were stabbed. It was a woman—I remember that. But there were three or four of us. We were talking about knitting." She gave Gibbs a stare as steady as his own.

"Interesting…"

"What's that, Agent Gibbs?" Mr. Rubio asked.

"Three people were killed. Two were stabbed." He stared at Barbara Bedicker. "Interesting… that you knew which two of the three were stabbed."

'You could have heard a pin drop' isn't just a saying. The silence was so complete, the sound of melting ice shifting in a pitcher made a couple of people jump.

She didn't even turn a hair. "I heard it when we were discussing all the sharp objects being tested."

He shook his head slowly. "Nooooo… nope. That doesn't fly. Other than NCIS, hotel staff—" He nodded towards the door. "—and two members of the concom—" (He must have practiced all morning to be able to say that word.) "—people knew that there had been deaths. But not the cause." Silence. Long, long silence. "You were read your Miranda rights when you brought us those knitting needles. Those rights are still in force."

"I made a mistake!" Paul cried. "I forgot! I—I get confused sometimes!"

"Paul, hush. It's not good for you to get excited—"

"They knew. They knew, they were going to tell!" He started to sob. "I—I didn't mean to hurt him, I grabbed his arm, he pulled away, he fell, oh, Herman, I'm so sorry…!"

Barbara dropped her face and stared at the floor… then let out a long sigh that made her whole body sag. "It was an accident." She dragged her gaze back up. "Herman—was more than a researcher. At the beginning, yes. He helped with research, ran errands… But he would make suggestions, tweaking things here and there. I don't think he realized how much he contributed—he was very shy about his accomplishments. But Paul knew. Paul understood. He made sure Herman got paid a portion of the book's earnings—by the end, half of what he made. Which is why we were so surprised to discover he had written a book on his own, sent it out in secret." She gave a half-smile. "He—got an offer from Random House."

Damn. Good start for a newbie writer.

"They wanted revisions, just a few. Herman was so thrilled. Paul—" She looked uncomfortable and flicked a glance at her husband. "—misunderstood," she said cautiously.

"Misunderstood?" Gibbs prompted.

"He—thought Herman had stolen his idea. His manuscript. They argued. Well, that is… Paul argued. Herman was—quite stunned. He had suspected Paul, er, wasn't well at times. This was the worst he had been. I don't know who did what, but Herman fell down the stairs. You didn't need to be a doctor to see his neck had snapped. He was dead."

"Most he would have faced is accidental death. Why hide the body?" Gibbs asked.

"Circumstantial evidence could have made the charge manslaughter or even murder. You know that. We couldn't risk it. Yes, we made the wrong choice. We drove him to Geller Ridge, pushed the car into the ravine… and drove back home. There was a snowstorm that night, that area was hit hard—it covered everything. We were going to call the police the next morning, just report him as missing—"

"Instead you staged a little drama at a party the next night," Ziva said.

Barbara managed to look only a little guilty. "It… lent credibility. It was easy enough to leave Paul at the party, drive home, call Paul on his cell phone—in case they checked the phone records—then drive back. Dianna and Rod Elgar were having a last party before locking up for winter. They're only five minutes away." She got a funny look for a second. "Nobody noticed that I was gone."

"Good story. Plausible, even." DiNozzo folded his arms. "But what about Louise Weiss? Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft? Moira Devereaux? Those were not accidents."

She looked at him blandly—but said nothing. She was probably hoping NCIS would forget about them. Fat chance.

"Amazing, the bits of evidence that get left behind." Gibbs pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. "For example—this was found under the body of Moira Devereaux. One of our agents remembered seeing this button on your jacket Friday night."

"How trite," she said.

"Trite. But true." (I managed not to groan.) Gibbs nodded to Mr. Rubio, who flipped a switch by the door. The lights dimmed and a projection screen at the back of the room slowly slid down. Mr. Rubio clicked a remote; pictures from the first day of the convention slid by, shots from the Cheese and Whine party—ending with a picture of Paul and Barbara talking with one of the attendees.

Gibbs walked to the screen and held the bag next to the image of Barbara Bedicker. "Perfect match." As the lights came back up and he walked back, he added, "Agent said it reminded him of someone. Dolores Umbridge?"

McGee. Had to be McGee.

Barbara must not have read the Harry Potter books or seen the movies, because she didn't look miffed. (I would have been.) But, yeah, her twin sets have a definite Dolores vibe.

Paul was looking at her imploringly. "You said they won't tell. They won't tell, will they?"

She managed a smile. "No, Paul. They won't tell." She stood up and held her hands out to him. "Agent Gibbs is—going to give us a tour of NCIS. Doesn't that sound interesting?"

He looked at his plate, then up at Gibbs, brows furrowed. "Can I finish my lunch first?"

Gibbs patted his shoulder. "Sure."

Cilly and I sat with Paul while he continued to plow his way through the buffet, keeping him distracted—and listening in to NCIS 'chat' with Barbara.

She had given up any pretense of innocence and had thrown her Miranda rights under the bus. She admitted she had overheard Moira talking to her publisher during dinner, saying she had stumbled onto a big plagiarism scandal and, quote, 'other crimes.' "It wasn't plagiarism. Herman didn't get author credit, true, but he was well paid for his contribution. She seemed surprised when I went to her room—"

"She wasn't investigating your husband. She was investigating someone else." Gibbs stared at her.

She looked taken aback. "Oh."

How he kept from saying, 'Yeah, 'oh.' You killed someone for no good reason and all you can say is 'oh?'' is beyond me. But, then, I managed to not look at Penny while this bit played out, so—thumbs up to both of us.

"What about Patrice? And Louise?" DiNozzo prompted.

She looked… irritated. "How those twittery girls found out is beyond me. But Paul wanted to look at the room before the party was set up; when we walked by I heard one of them saying 'they killed Herman.' Paul was—distraught. By the time I got him up to our room, he was almost hysterical. I couldn't—he's, he's so… fragile now…" She looked away.

"So you waited until the room was empty after Thom Gemcity's autograph session…" DiNozzo prompted. (Tim was happily hidden in a corner, trying to keep the shreds of his alternate identity together.)

She nodded. "The hallway door was unlocked. I thought I might find a knife in the kitchen—I grabbed the first thing I saw, it was in a stack of dirty utensils, I was sure someone would see me. I didn't think she would be found so quickly, I had to think of something else to use the, ah, second time. I knew she was coming back to the hot tub; I'd have to change into my bathing suit anyway so I… left Paul in our room and went to… talk… to Ms. Devereaux."

Talk? Webster's definition is a little different than hers.

"You were wrong." She looked up sharply at Gibbs' words. "Again."

"Wrong? Wrong? How?"

"They weren't talking about you. Or your husband. Or Herman Prendergast. They were talking about—" Gibbs looked at Ducky.

"Faye Kellerman," he said, enunciating as only he can. Our theory was right—dammit.

Three people. She had killed three people—all in error. Staring blankly, she slowly sat down and finally managed a faint, "Oh."

"The tea?" Ducky asked. She stared at him. "You put Ipecac in something at the tea? Why?"

She looked almost startled. "Oh… yes… I put it in my cup… I overfilled it with punch, so I could pour the whole cup back into the bowl…"

My jaw dropped. Son of a bitch! She had done it right in front of me!

"But why?"

She looked at him as though he weren't very bright. "To create confusion."

She succeeded.

I jumped slightly at the pat on my arm. "Could I have some more cake? Please?"

He reminded me so much of Mother… Barbara had been trying to protect him—now, no family, no children, no close friends—he was going to be all alone. I managed a smile. "I'll see what I can find."

Not all of her victims were dead…