8 Antiques Con (16 page)

“And she plunged it into him and killed him, dear,” she said, as if reading tomorrow’s weather report from a newspaper. “Yes, exactly.”

Now I was smiling, not at all enigmatically. “So it was
Violet
who broke into our suite, thinking it was Tommy’s room! Looking for the
Eric
pen!”

“And for those ballot pages, seized by Tommy, yes.”

“Which I found in the fridge in our
old
room, where Tommy had moved . . . a room that had been searched thoroughly.”

Mother was nodding. “Enough so for Violet to have found the pen with Eric’s name engraved on it. But she missed the ballots. Why do you suppose she missed those? You would think she might check the fridge.”

I shrugged. “Well, the folder was under a tray of fruit. She just missed it, that’s all. Mother, you’ve done it! You’ve solved the mystery.”

Mother had the contented look of a cat that had just slurped down the last of a mouse; I could almost see the spaghetti-like tail getting sucked down.

She said, “I do believe I have it solved . . .
if
we can confirm that the murder pen had Harlan Thompson’s name engraved on it . . . and if so, the firm selling the trophies should confirm that Tommy Bufford had that replacement pen engraved at the eleventh hour.”

I frowned. “We can probably prove Violet fixed the writer’s award. But that doesn’t make her the killer. I mean, she has a motive, and she had opportunity, yes, but . . . what evidence do we have?”

Mother sniffed indignantly. “I can’t do
everything
, dear! I’m not some plodding policeman. I merely solve the mysteries. Let the minions of law enforcement do the rest. We’ll point that lesser of the two Cassato brothers toward the culprit, and let him prove us right!”

We fell silent for a moment, then it occurred to me Mother was deferring to the NYPD much too easily. Suspiciously so.

I said, “Tell me you don’t intend to just walk up to Violet at the masquerade tonight and accuse her of killing Tommy.”

“Nothing quite so direct.”

“Mother . . .”

“But I
may
be able to wheedle it out of her. Why not try? I’ll be wearing my little recording device as a necklace, to catch her words. And
her
.”

“Why not
try
?” If I had opened my eyes any wider, they would have fallen out and rolled around on the floor like marbles. “Mother, if she’s a murderer, who
knows
what she’s capable of? Think about it—she killed Tommy, stabbed him to death, then cold-bloodedly went about the business of putting on this convention!”

“She’s a resourceful girl, our Violet.”

“Resourceful girl . . . Mother, why don’t we share our thoughts with Detective Cassato? We could get him on the phone right now.”

Her smile was Madonna-like (religious icon, not pop star). “Because I prefer not to give that nincompoop the satisfaction, dear.”

“If you’re planning to confront Violet, I want no part of it.”

“No, of course not, not in the state you’re in.”

“
What
state am I in? Besides New York, and Iowa is starting to look very good to me, by the way.”

She patted my head, much as she would Sushi’s. “Why, dear, you look tired. Simply pooped on your feet.”

“I’m sitting.”

“Why cling to details? Now, be a good little monkey and take a nap before we get ready for our big evening.”

She was getting up from the table.

“What about you?” I asked. “Naptime, too?”

“Perhaps later. Right now I must pay a visit to the hotel kitchen.”

“Well, bring me back some cheesecake.” Hair of the dog, and I didn’t mean Sushi.

“I’m not going for food, dear.”

“Well, what then?”

“You’ll see in due course.”

What could she be after? A butcher knife for self-defense? Pepper to blow into the eyes of a crazed killer? Bananas to keep her “little monkey” in check? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I picked Sushi up off the couch, ignoring her halfhearted growl, and headed off to the bedroom. For a few minutes, I went over Mother’s theory that Violet was our murderer, finding no flaws in it, but after that, sleep took me away from the madness of Mother on a murder hunt, and I was just a wee monkey with a little mutt curled contentedly up against my stomach.

In my dream, I was already in my flying monkey getup, actually a more elaborate costume, like the ones in the MGM movie. But, impressive as I looked, I could not get off the ground. I ran and ran and flapped my wings and flapped them some more, but nothing happened. I was running through a field, but then I was suddenly on the roof of a high building, where I figured if I jumped off, it would jump-start my wings. So I jumped, but they
didn’t
start—instead, I went straight down like a dive-bomber with that dying super-mosquito sound effect from the old Warner Bros. cartoons.

“Wake up,” someone said. “Little Brandy, wake up!”

At the voice’s urging, I forced myself awake moments before I’d have hit the ground and put to the test the theory that if you die in your dreams, you die in reality.

Relieved, I opened my eyes and looked into a green face.

I did what any self-composed young woman in my situation would do: I shrieked.

“It’s just me!” Mother said, hovering. “Didn’t mean to startle you—you were having a nightmare.”

“I’m
still
having a nightmare,” I said. “Your
face
is green!”

“Why, do you think I don’t
know
that?”

“Wait . . . your trip to the kitchen. Green food coloring?”

Mother, other than her emerald puss, was still in her earlier attire. “It’s part of my character, dear. Elphaba’s skin
is
green—that’s the Wicked Witch’s name in the play—and I want to be
realistic
.”

“Just like the real witches with green faces,” I said. “What did you
do
, anyway? Smear the food coloring directly on?”

She laughed once and waved that silly notion away. “Of course not, dear . . . I stirred it into my moisturizer.”

I rolled to the side of the bed and sat up. “If you’ve got spirit gum and monkey fur waiting for me, you can guess again.” I pointed to my face. “No makeup goes on this mug but Cover Girl.”

Mother’s magnified blue eyes gleamed, an effect heightened by her green-tinted skin. “Why, I hadn’t considered that. I wonder if I could still reach that nice Vikki at the Gershwin . . .”

“Mother . . .”

“Well, never mind. It’s nearly six . . . chop chop! We’d better get into our costumes.”

Which we did, Mother looking quite striking in the black lace dress and witch’s hat, and, yes, her green face and hands were the perfect finishing touch. Even the recording device around her neck—attached to a long silver chain—seemed to complement her outfit.

I, on the other hand, looked ridiculous in my rainbow-colored full-body leotard intended for a male dancer, sleeves and legs too long, tight where I needed it loose, loose where I needed it tight (think about it). Plus it took Mother ten minutes to figure out how my umbrella wings attached to the back brace I had to wear beneath my organ-grinder jacket.

“How does that feel, dear?” she asked, standing back to appraise me, as if she’d just put the last brush stroke on a masterpiece painting. “Comfy?”

“I’m wearing a
back brace
—where does ‘comfy’ come into it?”

Actually, it was quite comfy, although I would never have admitted it to Mother. I’d had a backache since my first night sleeping on that fold-out couch, and this contraption really helped.

“Well,” she said, “you won’t be in that for long. But we all must suffer for our art.”

“What art would that be? We’re going to a costume party!”

She ignored that, tilting her head as she had another look at me. “Are you sure we couldn’t apply just a smidge of facial hair to your cheeks? I could snip some fur from Sushi and, as it happens, I do always travel with spirit gum. . . .”

“That’s it! We’re done. And I’m
not
wearing the tail. I won’t be able to sit down. Nonnegotiable, or you can find a broomstick and fly to the costume ball by yourself.”

Mother sighed as if I had denied her dying wish. “Very well, no tail. But don’t blame
me
if no one knows what you’re supposed to be.”

“Oh, I think they’ll know what I am—an idiot in a rainbow leotard and organ-grinder vest with umbrellas stuck on the back.”

“You’re probably right, dear.”

We gathered our tickets from our guest packets and headed out, leaving Mother’s purse behind and my fanny pack, too. My little jacket had pockets for money and our room keycard, so everything else got left behind—including Toto a.k.a. Sushi.

The costume party, an adults only affair, was back in the Skytop Ballroom. As Mother and I arrived, the judging was in full swing. We had no intention of taking part in the competition—all costumes had to be handmade, not purchased (or, as in our case, borrowed). Almost everyone here was in costume, whether they were competing or not, and hundreds of characters from the comics, movies, TV, anime, and video games were seated having drinks and snacks.

All eyes were on the finalists parading across a platform before an uncostumed panel of four, sitting at a table just below, making their tabulations. I thought Violet might be one of the judges, but she was not—they were other professionals who were guests at the con.

The ballroom had been transformed since the awards ceremony, a dance floor now taking up the center of the room, candlelit tables scattered on the periphery, a bar against a side wall, DJ in one corner providing music (“Super Freak” playing) (no comment), giving the room a dance-club feel.

I found a postage-stamp table, deposited Mother in a chair, then headed toward the bar to get us ginger ales.

Weaving in and around the partygoers, I bumped into Harlan Thompson, or rather he bumped into me, jostling his drink in hand. He was in no particular getup, unless the tweed jacket with patched elbows qualified as a slightly-gone-to-seed-writer costume.

“Excuse me . . . oh, you’re the girl from the bar last night.”

Nice to know I’d made an impression.

He raised an unsteady eyebrow as he looked me up and down. “And what are you supposed to be?”

“A monkey.”

He frowned. “Needs work,” he said, and he and his drink wandered off.

To my dismay, the queue at the bar seemed impossibly long, but I spotted Brad Webster toward the front, and sidled up to him. His costume consisted of a black unitard encased in dozens and dozens of black belts wrapped around and around his arms, legs, and torso. A black satin knee-length cape fell from his shoulders, and at his waist was a pearl-handled knife in a scabbard.

“Brad, hi,” I said.

He just looked at me.

I smiled. “Brandy, remember? We talked in the hospitality suite? How about ordering a drink for yourself and two ginger ales for me, and I’ll pick up the tab?”

“Sounds like a plan. Cool costume.
Wicked
, right?”

So there, Harlan Thompson!

“Yeah,” I said. “It’d be better with facial fur, but I just couldn’t go there.”

“You’d have nabbed a prize, if you had.”

“No, this outfit is a professional job. I’d be disqualified. Anyway, I’m not much for sewing.” My expertise with a needle was limited to giving Sushi her insulin.

He frowned and craned to look behind me, about the most brazen example of a guy checking out my rear view as I ever experienced.

I frowned at him. “Can I help you?”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s just . . . aren’t you supposed to have a tail?”

“I left my tail in the room.”

I would hate to have any of this taken out of context.

I said, “That’s a really interesting costume. Who or what
are
you?”

“A sorcerer.”

“Any specific sorcerer?”

“A
Dungeons and Dragons
sorcerer.”

“Oh! I had friends who played D&D in high school, but I never got into it.” I cocked my head. “I thought a sorcerer wore a long robe and pointy hat with stars. Like in
Fantasia
.”

With near disdain, he said, “I’m not
that
kind of sorcerer.”

“So there are a lot of different kinds, then?” I gestured to my monkey-self. “Like the wizard in
Wicked
?”

Just making conversation, as we waited in line.

But he seemed to take umbrage at my question. “Modern sorcerers are young, and cast natural spells. Wizards are old and need books.”

The line was moving, anyway.

I pointed out, “Harry Potter is young, and he’s a wizard, isn’t he? It’s ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, ’ not ‘Witchcraft and
Sorcery
.’ ”

He frowned at me. “You want those sodas, or not?”

These hardcore fans sure could get testy.

I changed the subject. “Your knife looks real.”

“It’s a
dagger
, not a knife. A dagger’s blade is sharp on
both
sides. And, yes, it’s real.”

“I thought real weapons were banned from the convention.”

His expression turned to disgust, but, for once, not at me. “Used to be you could buy swords, daggers, and knives in the dealers’ room, but there are stupid laws now preventing that. And for the costume party, we’re supposed to limit ourselves to cardboard and rubber and other fake varieties of weaponry.”

I nodded toward the pearl-handled dagger in its sheath. “But
that’s
not cardboard.”

He smiled slyly and raised a shush finger to his lips.

I would be getting into no more disagreements about sorcerers and wizards with this character.

Smiling nervously, I said, “I’m with you, dude. Rubber weapons
do
take away from the reality.”

Like witches without green faces. Or monkeys without facial hair.

Finally, Brad had his turn at the bar, and he ordered the two soft drinks, plus a rum and Coke for himself—wonderful to know a guy with a real dagger was knocking back alcoholic beverages—and I paid as negotiated. We said our good-byes with no particular affection for each other.