Bylines & Skylines (An Avery Shaw Mystery Book 9) (24 page)

“I see you’ve been talking to the unwashed masses,” Damien said, chuckling. “They all made up stories about Kristen because they didn’t have anything better to do with their time. They didn’t understand her, so they spread gossip.”

“How did Kristen feel about that?”

“It’s human nature to gossip,” Chucky replied. “It’s also human nature to have your feelings hurt when others gossip about you. It’s a vicious circle.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “You said you talked her into getting a boyfriend. You also said she didn’t get a chance to enjoy it. I don’t suppose you can tell me who that boyfriend is, can you?”

Damien and Chucky exchanged a thoughtful look.

“What would you do if I did tell you?” Damien asked finally. “Would you put it in the newspaper?”

“Not until I check it out and confirm he’s a suspect or get a statement from him.” There was no reason to lie. I’m a total pain in the keister when I want to be. I’m also diligent about doing my job the right way. “I’m just looking for a lead. I want to find answers. I feel … responsible … since I helped find her body.”

“And you’re not shining me on, right?”

“I only do that when I need to get myself out of trouble,” I replied. “I’m not in trouble with you, so there’s no need.”

“I like your candor,” Damien said. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It’s a big deal, though. It was supposed to be a secret. The only reason we know is because Kristen confided in us. She swore us to secrecy – not that she’s around to know we broke our oath.”

I was practically salivating. “Who?”

“Chris Doherty.”

That name meant absolutely nothing to me. “Who is Chris Doherty?”

Damien smirked and pointed to a spot behind me. I turned, coming face to face with a huge standee proclaiming “Griswold the Magnificent – The Best Magician in the World” and tried to peer around it.

“Is he behind this display?” I asked, confused.

“No, silly,” Damien said. “He’s the magician.”

“Oh.” I focused on the heavily made-up face looking back at me on the display, the brown eyes practically boring into my soul. There was something familiar about him – and I was hoping it wasn’t just that his image stared back at me from at least three different locations around the convention floor. “And where can I find him?”

F
inding
a magician – one who proclaims himself to be magnificent on top of everything else – when you’re in a sea of people dressed as pop culture characters isn’t as easy as it sounds. No, really.

I cut my way through the crowd, being careful to protect my sore knee as I narrowed my eyes and scanned the hordes. A Saturday at a comic book convention is packed. I was lost in thought when I felt someone move up behind me. I knew it was Eliot before his hand landed on my hip.

“Oh, you should be careful,” I intoned. “If my boyfriend sees you doing that he’ll rip your head off.”

“You are a … sick … individual,” Eliot muttered, although he didn’t sound particularly perturbed. “What did the Goth guys tell you?”

“Quite a bit actually,” I replied, keeping up my search as I leaned back into Eliot. I enjoyed the feeling of his muscled chest pressing against my shoulders. I’m such a girl when he’s around sometimes. I can’t explain it. “They knew Kristen better than anyone else I’ve come across.”

“Is that a good thing or bad thing?”

“I think it’s good,” I replied. “It might simply be another dead end, though.”

“Tell me who you’re looking for and I’ll help.”

“I need Griswold the Magnificent.”

“The magician?”

I nodded. “Apparently he was Kristen’s boyfriend.”

“That is a good lead,” Eliot said. “He has his own dressing room at the back of the building. He doesn’t enjoy mingling with non-magical people between sets. I’m not making it up. He told me so.”

“You’ve talked to him?” I glanced over my shoulder, intrigued. “What do you think of him?”

“I think he’s a tool.”

“Of course he’s a tool,” I said, snickering. “He’s a magician. All magicians are tools. They’re like clowns, only possibly creepier.”

“How do you figure that? Nothing is scarier than a clown.”

“Yes, but clowns are overt,” I said. “Magicians are something else.”

“Yes, annoying.”

“I can’t argue with that,” I said. “He has brown eyes, though. I saw him in the display they have set up by those candles. Oh, and I want some of those candles before I go. They’re cool.”

“Brown eyes? Like the guy who attacked you in the parking lot?”

“Exactly like that.”

“I have brown eyes, too,” Eliot pointed out. “I think half the population has brown eyes. I don’t think you can go on that to out a killer.”

“I’m not outing a killer,” I countered. “I’m looking for the guy who went after me in the parking lot. Lexie and Carly think I’m overreacting and that he wasn’t really going after me and I misconstrued his intentions.”

“He tackled you.”

“That’s what I said!”

“He had a knife.”

“I explained that, too,” I said. “The problem is, maybe they’re right and he was drunk or something. Maybe he stumbled into me. He was dressed as Jason Voorhees. That character carries a knife.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not buying that,” Eliot said. “In fact, the more I think about Jake using you as bait, the more I don’t like it. I think you should stick with me for a few hours until I can go home. The real estate agent called and has another house for us to look at. I want to do that, mostly because she doesn’t think it will be on the market very long. It sounds perfect for us.”

“No red bricks?”

“Orange bricks.”

“Pool?”

“Pool.”

“Finished basement?”

“Finished basement.”

I pursed my lips as I considered. “If you agree to let me talk to the magician I’ll be happy to go the house with you.”

“That easy?”

“I want the candles, too.”

Eliot chuckled in my ear as he gave me a hug from behind. “Deal. I’m going to be in the hallway when you talk to Griswold, though. If you get in trouble … .”

“I’ll kick him where it hurts and call for you.”

“There’s been a lot of action where it hurts for people since this convention came to town,” Eliot said. “You’ve hit someone with a purse and grabbed another guy’s little friend and twisted it. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“I have great reflexes.”

“Good answer,” Eliot said, patting my rear end before pushing me forward. “I won’t be far. Do not push this guy to the point of no return. I have a feeling something bad will happen if you do.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I met him,” Eliot replied. “He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

“Sometimes I think that goes for all of the men in my life.”

Eliot made a face. “How many men are we talking about?”

“I would have to make a list to be sure.”

“And you’re sick and annoying today,” Eliot said, shaking his head. “Be careful. If you get hurt we’re going to have something else to fight about later.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Be more careful than that.”

G
RISWOLD
the Magnificent was a tool
. Eliot was clearly right. He didn’t even greet me – or yell about privacy – when I opened his dressing room door and stepped inside. I decided to approach him as if I was magnificent, too.

“I need fresh blueberries,” Griswold said, not looking up from his iPad as he sat haphazardly in a chair playing Candy Crush. “I also need a bottle of water and what this place is offering is completely unacceptable. I need flat water, not sparkling. It can’t be Aquafina, though. I need something exotic.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth as I regarded the back of his greasy head. Some people think the grunge look is hot. It’s only hot when cleanliness is involved and the filth is faked. Actual filth – and it smelled real to me – isn’t remotely a turn-on.

Instead of answering, I trudged toward the sink and grabbed one of the plastic cups from the stack on the counter. I filled it with tap water and handed it to Griswold, the movement enough to finally drag the man’s attention away from the iPad and to me.

“What’s that?”

“It’s totally exotic,” I replied. “It’s Detroit drinking water. Make sure to share your new find with all your friends on Facebook.”

Griswold scowled. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“I don’t generally have to try. People find me naturally funny. It’s not always on purpose.”

“I’m not drinking that swill,” Griswold said, knocking my hand away and causing the cup to fly across the room, dumping the contents on the linoleum floor. “Pick that up.”

I had no idea who he thought he was talking to, but I wasn’t here to play maid. Oh, and just for the record, I like playing games but that’s never going to be one of them. Now, if I could get Eliot to dress up in a sexy maid's costume and follow me around picking up after me that might be another story. “I’m Avery Shaw.”

“Well, Avery Shaw, if you want to keep your job you’ll clean up that mess and fetch me some blueberries and exotic water.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I remained rooted to my spot for a moment, tilting my head to the side as I studied him. He didn’t recognize me. That much was certain. There was no flash of recognition when he locked gazes with me. There was no spark of fear. He didn’t have clue who I was.

He was sitting down, but instinctively I knew he wasn’t big enough to be the man who came after me in the parking lot. He was tall, but too slim. He wasn’t the man I was looking for, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have information.

“I’m not your assistant,” I said. “I’m here to interview you.”

“I’m not looking for a job.” Griswold was so blasé I wanted to put my foot in a place I knew would get his attention. Because Eliot specifically warned me about that only moments ago – or at least made a big show of mentioning it – I opted to refrain.

“I’m here to interview you for the newspaper.”

“I don’t do interviews,” Griswold said, lifting his head as he finally realized something was amiss and glancing around the room. “How did you get in here?”

I held up the all-access pass hanging on the lanyard around my neck and forced a smile. “We have an interview scheduled,” I lied. “My newspaper is in charge of all the publicity for the convention and you agreed to sit down for an extensive profile.”

“I did not.”

“You did so.”

“I think I would remember that,” Griswold said. “I never agree to interviews.”

“You agreed to this one,” I said, playing a hunch. “My understanding is that someone woke you early last week – or maybe it was two weeks ago – and you agreed just to make them go away.”

“That does sound like me,” Griswold mused. “That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t do interviews.”

“Well, you’re doing this one,” I said, sitting in the adjacent chair and staring at him. “If you don’t, the convention is going to fire you. I heard my boss talking about it. Not only are they going to fire you, they’re going to tell everyone your real name is Chris and you didn’t lose your virginity until you were in your twenties.”

Griswold’s mouth dropped open. “They wouldn’t dare! How could they possibly know that?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps it’s because all boys who fancy themselves magicians can’t get laid until they can literally put something over a woman’s eyes and fool her. Except for Harry Potter, of course. He’s the exception.”

“Harry Potter isn’t a real magician.”

“He’s a wizard,” I clarified. “He’s better than a magician.”

Griswold leaned forward, his annoyance clearly getting the better of him. “Who are you again?”

“Avery Shaw.”

“That name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it,” Griswold said.

“I’m famous, too,” I offered. “I’m the most famous reporter in the land. I do my own set of tricks, though they probably wouldn’t impress the likes of you.”

“Probably not,” Griswold agreed. “Okay. Conduct your interview. But if you’re really here to interview me, why don’t you have a notebook … or camera? Hey, why don’t you have a camera? You need a camera if I’m going to be on television.”

“First, real reporters are not television reporters,” I replied. “They’re fakers. They’re pretenders to the throne.”

“Is that true?”

I ignored the question. “Second, I already told you that I’m with the newspaper. I’m here to do the interview, but the photographer isn’t coming until your next show. We want something action-oriented so it’s more engaging to our readers.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense,” Griswold said. “Where is your notebook, though?”

“I have a photographic memory.”

“A lot of magicians do, too.”

“Do you?”

“I’m the real deal,” Griswold replied. “I don’t rely on tricks.”

I had my doubts, but I plowed ahead anyway. “How long have you been with this particular circuit?”

“Three years.”

“Did you start as a floater or come in as a magician?”

Griswold balked at the question. “I … how do you know about floaters?”

“I’m the wisest reporter in the land,” I replied, not missing a beat. “Answer the question.”

“Technically I was a floater,” Griswold said. “That was only until they had my position ready, though. It wasn’t for very long.”

“Do you date people on the convention circuit?”

“I don’t talk about my personal life.”

“Why not?”

“I like to keep the public out of my bedroom,” Griswold said. “It’s nobody’s business.”

“So you like to pretend you’re mysterious because teenaged girls fall at your feet and gush about how cute you are,” I surmised. “I can see that. Boy band members do the same thing. They’re encouraged to keep relationships under wraps because teenaged girls can be vicious.

“Huh, come to think of it, strippers do that, too,” I continued. “They’re supposed to appear available to customers but never actually be available. Do you have those rules, too?”

“I … what?” Griswold was completely confused now. It was kind of amusing.

“Tell me about your relationship with Kristen Reardon,” I prodded. “Was it serious?”

Griswold’s cheeks flooded with color as he regarded me. “How did you know about that? Who told you?”

“That’s not important,” I replied. “How did you find out about her death?”

“I’m not answering that,” Griswold sputtered. “In fact, I’m not answering anything else. You need to get out of here. This interview is over.”

“That’s fine,” I said, adopting a breezy tone as I gripped the arms of the chair and made as if I was going to stand. “My understanding is that this is your last chance to make management happy. I heard they even have another floater ready to take your place. This one isn’t magnificent, but he is supposed to be great.”

“Tyson,” Griswold hissed, wrinkling his nose. “I knew he was after my job.”

I make things up as I go along sometimes. Luckily for me in this instance, I knew how to bluff a magician. It wasn’t difficult. “I’ll be going.”

“No, wait! I’ll answer your questions.”

I thought so. I settled back in the chair and smiled. “So who told you about Kristen’s death?”

“I heard some of the other workers talking about it,” Griswold replied, his expression turning from angry to morose. “I didn’t believe them at first. We were supposed to be keeping things on the down low, so I couldn’t come right out and ask. The boss held a meeting a couple of hours later and confirmed it.”

“Do you know how she died?”

Griswold shrugged. “Does it matter? She’s dead.”

“She was strangled and then stabbed through the throat,” I volunteered, watching his face for his reaction. He appeared genuinely horrified. “That’s what’s called an ‘up-close’ kill. That means she probably knew her attacker.”

“You think it’s me, don’t you?” Griswold’s tone was flat. “I didn’t kill her. I … loved her.”

I wasn’t sure he was capable of love, but her murder clearly upset him. “I’m sorry for your loss. I need to know if she had any enemies. Did anyone hate her enough to kill her?”

“No one hated her,” Griswold answered. “She was a nice girl and I really liked her. She didn’t put on an act. I mean … never. Everyone here puts on an act, but she was the real deal. That’s part of the reason I liked her.”

“I can see that,” I said, rubbing my chin. “Still, this is a business in which people can’t help but compete with one another. Was she in competition with anyone?”