We’ll Always Have Parrots (8 page)

The tiny digital camera in my pocket felt heavier with every minute the Loudoun County police spent interviewing me. I don’t know why the photos in the camera worried me so much. If they searched me and found them—well, it wasn’t as if they didn’t have plenty of reasons already to suspect me. I’d made no secret of how much I disliked the QB, publicly quarreled with her a few hours before the murder, and then capped it off by burgling her room to find the body. My fingerprints were all over the wine bottle they were testing to make sure it was the murder weapon. Surely the photos would add only a slight weight to the evidence against me.

And I wasn’t withholding anything the police couldn’t find themselves. From the sound of things, they were taking plenty of photos, not only of the QB’s room, but of Michael’s and my room as well, since the security latch meant that the killer had escaped the same way I’d entered. The cops commandeered Walker’s and Maggie’s nearby rooms to serve as their temporary base of operations. Presumably they’d move the guests of honor, en masse, to another wing for the rest of our stay. I had no problem with that. Another hotel would be even better.

I could tell they thought I was too bossy. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, trying to tell the first cops on the scene how to handle things.

“It might be a good idea to send someone down to the ballroom to tell them the QB—Miss Wynncliffe-Jones—isn’t appearing tonight,” I’d said when the cops arrived.

“Yes, ma’am,” the young officer said. I could tell he was being polite.

“You don’t have to tell them why, of course,” I said. “But unless you want a constant stream of people coming up to fetch her for the next several hours—”

“We’ll take care of that, ma’am,” he said, sounding slightly impatient. Great, they’d already pegged me as a troublemaker.

But by the time the homicide investigators arrived, twenty-two more people had joined the crowd sitting in the temporary waiting room. Detective Foley proved more open to my suggestion; and his taciturn partner, whose name I didn’t catch, went off to take care of the notification.

I considered it slightly unfair that, being the first person Foley talked to, I had to do all the work of explaining why he was investigating a murder at a hotel filled with papier mâché palm trees and people in strange, unflattering costumes. Also more than slightly unfair that he made only the most perfunctory attempts to shoo away the parrot infesting his temporary interrogation room. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been the Monty Python parrot, or even the hysterical parrot from the murder scene, but this parrot’s repertoire consisted entirely of trite scraps of dialogue from commercials.

And I was so tired I’d started to nod off whenever Foley stopped to think.

“So, Ms. Langslow—” Foley said, jolting me back to consciousness.

“Do you suffer from heartburn?” the parrot chirped. “Try—awk!”

The detective, who had begun throwing wadded up sheets of hotel stationery at the parrot, scored a direct hit, and the parrot fluttered indignantly to another corner of the room.

“So,” Foley said, looking back at me. “Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill Miss Wynncliffe-Jones?”

He leaned back in his chair in a way that suggested a grand finale to the interview. Of course, perhaps that was just an act, and he’d be watching me all the more carefully, now that he thought he’d thrown me off guard. Little did he know that I was wise to the tricks cops play when interrogating suspects, thanks to a mystery buff father who regularly bullied me into reading his favorites so he’d have someone to discuss them with.

So I didn’t blurt anything out immediately; I frowned and gave the question serious consideration.

“No enemies?” Foley said, after a few seconds. “What was she, Mother Theresa?”

“No, more like
Mommie Dearest
,” I said. “Don’t worry, she has plenty of enemies for you to choose from. I was just trying to figure out where to start.”

“Take your time,” he said.

“Time is running out!” the parrot squawked. “This special offer ends at midnight tonight!”

My paper missile missed the parrot entirely, but then I did have the excuse of being distracted.

“Well, she’s been beastly to the hotel staff, the convention organizers, and any fans unlucky enough to cross her path,” I said. “But—wait, I have an idea.”

I pulled my copy of the convention program out of my purse, flipped it open to the alphabetical list of guest biographies, and handed it to him.

“One of these three people?” he said, glancing down at the page.

“Not just that page, the whole guest list,” I said. “All twelve of them. Well, eleven; I suppose you can rule the QB out. They all had something to do with the TV show, so they all had reason to hate her. You even have pictures of most of them.”

He flipped slowly through the bios with one hand while tossing and catching a freshly wadded ball of paper with the other. I wasn’t sure if he was reading the program, or just double-checking the number of suspects. Or possibly lulling the parrot into complacency.

“Know where I could find any of them?” he asked.

“Let me see the program a sec,” I said. When he handed it back, I flipped to the Friday schedule.

“At the contest,” I said, checking my watch. “Most of them are judging or watching the look-alike contest. That was supposed to go on at eight, for an hour. They probably started late, so it might still be on. And after that, I suppose some of them will stay around for a performance by the Amblyopian Minstrels, whoever they are. The rest will either wander through the hotel from party to party till dawn or go to bed.”

“That late?” Foley said, frowning.

“These people keep vampire hours,” I said. “I don’t know what they do at home, but when they’re at a con, they stay awake till dawn. In fact, I suspect some of them don’t sleep at all until they go home.”

Foley didn’t look as if he believed me. Well, he’d learn.

“Where is this contest?” he asked.

“Down in the ballroom. I can show you, if you like,” I offered, and then wondered if that was a mistake. What if he assumed my eagerness to end the interview was a sign of guilt?

“Yeah, let’s check out the ballroom,” he said, pegging the parrot with another paper wad as he stood up. “Lead the way. Oh, and we’re trying to keep Ms. Wynncliffe-Jones’s death as quiet as possible until tomorrow. I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid discussing it with anyone.”

Keep it quiet? Was he kidding? What were the odds that when he turned loose the thirty or so people sitting next door in the other commandeered room, none of them told anyone where they’d been for the last hour? I’d lay odds that the whole convention would know within minutes of their general release, and at least a few unofficial fan sites would have the news posted by morning. But he looked serious, and I actually liked the idea of telling curious questioners that the police had ordered me not to talk.

“No problem,” I said.

“Particularly details that might not be widely known,” Foley said.

“Like the parrot?” I said. “Or the piece of paper in her hand?”

“Yes,” Foley said.

I nodded gravely at that and meekly listened to the expected instructions not to leave town without notifying him. Then I led the way to the ballroom.

The look-alike contest was wrapping up when we arrived. The winners and runners-up from several categories cluttered the stage—half a dozen assorted Michaels stood stage left with a small band of Maggies, while a clump of Walkers milled around on stage right with the impersonators of minor cast members. In the center, a dozen pseudo-Porfirias anxiously awaited the decision of the judges. Michael, Maggie, Walker, and Nate. I noticed that the contestants included three men in drag, and wondered whether the QB would have kicked them out if she had emerged for the contest. In her absence, not only did no one object to their presence, one of them walked away with a well-deserved third place ribbon.

As I expected, the four judges awarded first place to the youngest, prettiest Porfiria clone. But then, they still expected the original to second-guess their decision in the morning, no doubt with a killer hangover to sharpen her tongue. They had no way of knowing she was dead.

“We want to thank all of you for coming,” Michael announced, while Walker and Maggie shook the final winner’s hand and held up her trophy. “Contestants, please gather in the lobby for your group photos.”

“And don’t forget, the Amblyopian Minstrels will be playing as soon as the tech crew finishes the setup,” Walker added.

A cheer went up at this announcement. Michael thanked the crowd and left the stage, heading my way.

“Much as I hate to disappoint Walker, I don’t think I can stay up to hear his band,” he said, yawning. “I’m all in.”

“Oh, so that’s who the Amblyopian Minstrels are,” I said. “I wondered why they were so popular.”

“Yeah, the fans love them, and they’re actually not bad, but I can hear them another time. So, even you couldn’t talk the miserable troll out of her lair.”

I glanced around to see if the detective was within earshot, and took a deep breath.

“No, even I can’t raise the dead,” I said.

“Dead?” he said. “What do you mean, dead?”

“Someone killed her.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he said, suddenly looking much more awake. “Are you sure?”

“I found the body,” I said. “Yes, I’m sure she’s dead, and not from natural causes. I’ve been talking to the police for the last hour. They’re probably going to want to talk to you and everyone who knew her well enough…well enough to be useful.”

“Well enough to be a suspect, you mean,” he said. “So I suppose there’s no use going back to the room.”

“It’s part of the crime scene, anyway,” I said.

“She was killed in our room?”

“No, but she had her security latch on,” I said.

“So whoever killed her got in by climbing over from our balcony,” he said, nodding.

“In, maybe,” I said. “Out, definitely.”

“And my card key’s been missing since this morning,” he said. “And who knows whether Nate was careful with yours before he gave it back to you. At least I assume he gave it back to you.”

“Actually, he left it lying around in my booth.”

“Figures,” Michael said, nodding. We stood watching as the police officers drew various people aside. Maggie, Nate, Chris—most of the Porfiria cast and crew.

“Of course, we shouldn’t worry too much,” I said. “There’s no shortage of suspects.”

“No, there isn’t,” Michael said. “Poor woman.”

“Who, the QB?” I asked.

He nodded.

“That’s the sad part,” he said. “As far as I could see, she was a wretched human being. I’m sure there’s someone, somewhere, who will grieve over her death, but I can’t think who. A few people will be pleased, though most of them wouldn’t admit it, even to themselves. And a lot of people will pretend to be shocked when they’re really only dying of curiosity. And some people will be upset, but mostly because they’re worried about how her death will affect them. Their careers, mostly. I’m partly in that category.”

“Only partly?” I asked.

“I feel a little sad,” he said. “But mainly because it’s such a waste—of her talents. She wasn’t a great actress, but she knew how to make the most of what she could do. And in her own strange way, she was a hell of an organizer. Maybe it’s just the waste. As long as she was alive, there was always the chance she’d do an Ebenezer Scrooge and turn into a decent human being. And now…”

“It’s a wrap,” I said. “No more retakes.”

He nodded.

“Not to change the subject, but is that the detective?” he asked. “That man who’s frowning so sternly at us?”

“Yes, that’s Detective Foley,” I said. “He’s probably peeved because he told me not to tell anybody about the QB’s death.”

“And here you are, telling me,” he said, with a chuckle, as Foley headed our way.

“You’re not just anybody,” I said.

“I suppose you told your boyfriend,” the detective said, stopping in front of us.

“He’d have found out in a minute anyway; he was about to go up to the room and go to bed,” I said, wrapping a protective arm around Michael’s waist. “He’s got a bad cold, and he’s been up since before six.”

“I’ll try to make it quick,” the detective said. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Waterston.”

“Have you got another room for us to stay in?” I asked, as they turned to leave.

“The front desk is working on it,” the detective called over his shoulder. “Check with them in half an hour or so.”

“Great,” I muttered. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to, and I really wanted to. I could keep my mouth shut about the murder with no problem if I could go someplace and collapse, but instead I had to spend the next half hour roaming through a crowd that would give me no peace if they found out about the murder and my discovery of the body. And they would find out, despite the detective’s orders. Human nature would see to that. Although, so far, the only convention goers who’d noticed the police seemed to think they were a group of fellow fans who’d come costumed as cops. There were stranger groups wandering about, including a posse of seven large white rabbits sporting red bow ties.

I considered calling my parents who, warned by my description of how wild the convention could get after dark, had taken rooms for themselves and Eric at another hotel nearby. But then I’d have to tell them about the murder, and the last thing the police needed was Dad underfoot trying to help.

I wandered back into the ballroom, where the crowd still milled around expectantly. Musketeers and armored knights rubbed elbows with court ladies, harem girls, and giant iridescent beetles. The costumes had gotten either more elaborate or more revealing, I noted, and everyone was wearing one. And quite a few of the crowd carried umbrellas or wore improvised newspaper hats to guard against the wildlife overhead.

“Excuse me,” someone said, tapping me on the shoulder. “Is this your tentacle?”

I turned to see a Michael clone—reasonably authentic, apart from being fifteen or twenty years too young. And he did appear to be holding a large rubber tentacle, though I had no idea why he thought it might belong to me. Probably just looking for an excuse to chat me up.

“Sorry, I have as many tentacles as I need,” I said. “What’s going on, anyway?”

“The Minstrels,” he said.

“Are they still going to play?” I asked. I thought I’d seen the police escorting Walker off with the rest of the suspects and witnesses.

“Of course they’ll play,” the Michael clone said. “The program’s only running an hour late.”

“Yeah, an hour is nothing,” said the bespectacled gladiator standing next to him.

“At least we’re finally on con time,” the clone said. “I was afraid this morning that it was going to be one of those totally lame cons where everything goes by the program book.”

“Yeah, totally lame,” the gladiator echoed. “And mundane.”

Sounded heavenly to me.

“But now look!” the clone exclaimed, flinging his arms wide as if to embrace the crowd. “Things are finally happening!”

You could have fooled me. The costumed crowd stood around, talking and staring at the stage, where a few amplifiers, microphones, and other bits of electronic paraphernalia had been deposited, looking more like a stylized representation of a band’s equipment than a working setup. Every once in a while, a technician would slouch out from the makeshift wings and fiddle with something, or add another component, and then amble offstage without looking at the audience, as if the success of the performance depended on maintaining the pretense that he was so focused on his job that he didn’t even notice their existence.

Not that many people watched with impatience. Everyone seemed to be having a grand time.

Everyone except one small figure huddled in a back corner, clutching a bottle of beer with both hands.

Ichabod Dilley looked anxious when I approached him, as if afraid I’d try to lure him out of the corner.

“Finished with the police, I see.”

I hoped he could tell me how the police investigation was going—maybe give me an idea when Michael might be free. But he stared at me as if I were speaking gibberish. Then he drained the bottle, set it carefully on the floor, reached into a brown paper bag at his feet, and extracted another beer.

I counted more dead soldiers in a precise line by the baseboard. Only three so far, but Dilley was rapidly working on another.

“I want to leave,” he announced, enunciating carefully.

“Okay,” I said.

“They won’t let me,” he said. “The police.”

“Sorry.”

“There’s a man over there wearing a fur-covered condom,” he said.

“Tell me to get lost if you like,” I said, “but just how do you know?”

“Because that’s all he’s wearing,” Dilley said.

“Ah,” I said. “No shoes?”

“I didn’t look,” he said. “Not at his feet, anyway. And not at anything else, either. Is that important, the shoes?”

“Just curious,” I said.

“I’ve never been to a murder before,” he said. “The closest I’ve ever come was the funeral directors.”

After that, he retreated back into his shell. I wondered whether to take his dazed condition as a sign of innocence or guilt. I shrugged and moved on in search of something more likely to keep me awake, and someplace less crazy to wait.

Just then, I saw a monkey drop into the crowd, swipe an ice cream bar from the hand of a mermaid, race to the edge of the ballroom, and scramble up again.

The hotel had become largely free of wildlife over the course of the day, but one of the last contingents of free-range monkeys had taken refuge in the upper reaches of the ballroom. Most of the chandeliers had one or two monkeys swinging gently on them, and you could see how the monkeys traveled across the ceiling using wires, decorative molding and, of course, the ubiquitous fake vines. Other monkeys dangled comfortably beneath the bottom of the balcony, nibbling bits of food and grooming each other.

The balcony. I could hide there.

I located the balcony stairs.

The lighting and sound techs and the camera crew glanced up when I arrived, but I nodded to them in an offhand but businesslike way, walked to the railing, took out my camera, and snapped a few shots of the stage. Then I looked at my watch, frowned, looked down at the stage again, shrugged, and settled in a corner where I thought I’d be out of their way.

I had no idea what I’d say if they challenged my presence, but I’d seen enough of the convention organizers’ operating style to suspect that if I looked as if I knew what I was doing, no one would question me.

At first I thought I could doze off, right there on the floor—the balcony was dark, apparently the better for the techs’ work, and every part of my body voted for sleep. Except my brain, which wanted to filibuster. I felt guilty. After all, Michael had been up as long as I had, and was sick to boot, and he wasn’t sleeping yet. He was off getting interrogated, poor thing.

I took out my camera and flipped through the pictures until I got to the ones I’d taken of the crime scene.

I skipped quickly over the ones of the body. I wasn’t even sure why I’d taken them. Perhaps a fleeting notion that Dad would find them interesting and possibly useful. I imagined, for a moment, how proud and excited Dad would be if he looked at my photos and spotted some key clue that solved the crime. But that seemed a long shot, even for Dad. No reason for me to stare at them.

I studied the shots I’d taken of the room. At first, the room’s wrecked condition had excited the police, who assumed the killer had trashed it while searching for something. I hated to disillusion them, but thought they should know that the room already looked as if a hurricane had hit it at two o’clock, when the QB was very much alive. Which didn’t mean that someone hadn’t tossed the room, of course, but I doubted if anyone could tell which piles of debris had already been there earlier and which the killer had created.

And I studied the frame from the comic I’d seen in the QB’s hand—part of a Porfiria comic. But since I hadn’t read the comics, I didn’t know what the story was about. The little screen that let me preview pictures was less than two inches square. Hard to see any details. A figure that seemed to be Porfiria reclined on a Roman-style couch, holding a wine goblet and saying…something. Possibly “Send in the Vegan ambassador!” which meant nothing to me. Then I decided it actually said Vagan ambassador. That made sense. I could see Ichabod Dilley naming a country for the vagus nerve.

But it didn’t tell me why the QB had died clutching this scrap of comic. Maybe if I could see the damned thing better.

I recalled from my nephew Kevin’s instructions that the camera had a button to let me zoom in on part of the picture. If I could do that, I might see more details. Could be useful.

I wandered over to the edge of the balcony, where the light was better, and studied the various buttons on the camera, all of them rather cryptically marked. I had the sinking feeling that I could play with buttons a long time before I figured out how to zoom in.

And what if I found the delete function instead? In my present exhausted condition, I’d better not chance it. Kevin could walk me through the zoom feature tomorrow.

Better yet, I could e-mail him the photos tonight—he’d made sure I had detailed, written instructions on how to do that—and ask him if there was a way I could get some blowups. Maybe if I could find someone at the hotel with a printer and—

“Wild thing!” boomed a voice, accompanied by crashing guitar chords, from a refrigerator-sized speaker about a foot from my head.