An Unconventional Murder (11 page)

* * * *

It was nearly 2:30 when the CFWA board met with Thelma Ridgeway. She was a beefy
woman with a round face and plump arms fully eight inches in diameter. Her light brown hair
was cut short.

Seated once again in his green captain's chair, Upton convened the meeting. "Thank you
for agreeing to meet with us, Ms. Ridgeway."

She answered in a coarse, flat voice. "Don't expect to bully me into anything, and don't
ask me to sign any papers. I'm not doing anything till I see a lawyer."

"We just want to talk. Everything we say is off the record and is just a preliminary
discussion. As you can imagine, we're very concerned about the allegations you've made against
Theia Rand. They--"

She leaned forward in the straight-backed chair. "They're not allegations, Mr. Upton.
They're facts. She stole my plot and published it under her own name. You folks conspired to
help her. End of story."

Upton coughed. "It's not quite that simple, Ms. Ridgway. Especially since Theia Rand
happens to be one of our board members."

The angry woman fixed her stare on Rena and Suzanne GP, who were seated next to
each other. "Which one of you is it?"

GP's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Neither." She pointed to Randy Callahan.

Ridgeway grabbed up the thick manila file she had brought with her, and lumbered to
her feet. "You think this is funny, do you? Well, I didn't come here to be insulted." She moved
with surprising agility toward the door.

Royce Fontaine, seated at the end of the couch, had to jerk his legs quickly out of the
way to avoid tripping her.

Randy managed to block her path. "This is no joke, Ma'am. I'm Theia Rand. My real
name is Randy Callahan. And I didn't steal your story, Ma'am."

"The hell you didn't! You--"

Upton intervened. "Ms. Ridgeway, will you please sit down?"

She glared at Randy and returned to her seat.

"Now, please tell us what makes you think he plagiarized your story."

"You bet I will. I started writing seriously about three years ago. Last year, I heard about
the CFWA and decided I ought to find out how you go about marketing the stuff you write.
When I signed up, they gave me a brochure about the writing contest. I already had seven
chapters done, so I figured, what the hell? I might as well find out if anyone would want to read
what I was writing. I'm not a published author yet, but it seemed to me that--"

"So you entered the contest?" Upton prompted.

"Right. I submitted my outline and the first three chapters, just like the rules said. I even
decided to splurge and pay for a critique."

Royce Fontaine cleared his throat. "How far did your entry progress, Ms.
Ridgeway?"

"I have no idea. Other than the critique, I never heard 'boo' from anyone. Not a single
thing."

Suzanne GP told her, "That means your entry was eliminated during the first round. If
you had made it into the second grouping, you would have received a post card."

"I take it you didn't receive a post card?" Upton said.

"Like I said, I never heard 'boo.' But I still came to the convention and even attended the
awards banquet. I was glad I did, too. It made me feel good about writing. At least until a few
days ago, when I found out that Theia Rand--or Callahan, or whatever his name is--had stolen my
story."

GP said, "Ms. Ridgeway, Mr. Callahan wasn't one of the judges in the first round. He
couldn't have seen your manuscript."

"Then someone who did judge the first round must have shown it to him. Or told him
about it. That's why I figure you're all in cahoots with her. Him."

"I doubt that it could have happened that way," Upton assured her, "but we'll certainly
check it out."

Rena spoke up. "Ms. Ridgeway, what sort of critique did you receive?"

"Not a very good one, I'll tell you. They ripped my story to shreds. The plot was too trite.
The historical setting wasn't right. The hero didn't have enough flaws. Flaws? Why does the hero
need flaws? He's the
good
guy. At first, I guess I was kind of hurt. But when I thought
about it, some of what they said made sense. Later, of course, when I found out that someone had
stolen my idea, I was just plain mad."

"Tell me about that," Upton invited. "How did you find out?"

"They told us at last year's convention that you have to find out what's selling, that you
need to figure out who your audience is going to be. So I started reading romance stories,
especially historicals, because that's what my story is. I practically became a regular at the
Tattered Cover.

"The other day,
I picked up
Dark Decisions
by Theia Rand. Once I got
into it far enough, I realized it was my story. I was flabbergasted! Oh, she had made up some
different characters and changed the plot around some, but it was definitely my story. No doubt
about it." She glared at Randy again. "Now, it turns that she is a he."

Fontaine asked, in an almost scholarly tone, "Can you summarize the basic story
line?"

"Sure. It's set in France in 1943." She looked down at the folder in front of her and began
reading from her plot summary: "The heroine is Angeline, the innocent sister of Franz, a soldier
accused of collaborating with the Allies. Franz's captain learns that he is innocent but, hoping to
ingratiate himself with his superiors, he decides to sacrifice Franz to the Gestapo. The captain,
who is both lecherous and treacherous--"

She said dreamily, "I love the way that rhymes!"

When no one reacted, she continued, "The Captain offers to spare Franz's life if
Angeline will become his mistress. But she sees what kind of man he is, and she manages to
outsmart him by--"

Fontaine raised a hand. "Madam, did you perchance retain a copy of the
manuscript?"

"I sure did. The contest form said not to send your only copy."

"Good," he said. "If you have no objection I would like to peruse it."

She reached inside the manila file and pulled out a small, stapled package of papers.
Crossing over to where he was sitting, she said, "Here. This is an extra copy. Take your time.
You can do more than just peruse it."

As he reached for the papers, he gave her a look of profound disgust. "Ms. Ridgeway,
contrary to popular belief, to peruse something means to study it carefully. Which is precisely
what I intend to do." He addressed Randy Callahan. "Will you provide me with a copy of
Dark Decisions
?"

"Sure," Randy agreed. "Although I don't see why--"

Upton understood. "You want to compare the plot lines?"

" Not merely the literal, linear plot progressions. The writing style, character
development, and other writing characteristics. I would like to know for my own edification just
how much the two works resemble one another."

"Is that all right with you?" Upton asked Thelma Ridgeway.

She shrugged carelessly. "I don't see as how it can cause any harm. Just as long as I get it
back."

"You will," Royce assured her.

"You'll see," she assured him. "Theia Rand stole my book. And if it turns out that any of
you helped him..."

After Upton had ushered Thelma Ridgeway to the door, he asked no one in particular,
"What do you think?"

Suzanne GP spoke up. "I think she's a crackpot. How can a German character named
Franz have a sister named Angeline? And that plot! Could you come up with anything more
hokey?"

"Actually, it has a few similarities to
Dark Passages
," Callahan said weakly.
"Damn it! All I ever wanted to do was write romance stories. I can't use my own name and have
to put up with ridicule everywhere I go. And the corker is that now someone like
that
is
accusing me of stealing her story."

GP leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally, dear. And, for
what it's worth, you look a lot more like a romance writer than she does. She's not exactly a
delicate flower."

"For my money," said Ashley Wade, "she belongs on the front cover of
Bowling
World.
"

Rena put in, "Or
Popular Mechanics
."

Something about the situation suddenly struck Callahan as amusing. He broke into a
smile. "Thanks, guys. And gals. I appreciate what you're trying to do."

Upton said, "We stand by our own. But this thing could get rough before it's over,
Randy."

"I know. I probably ought to get myself a lawyer."

"Hmm," Royce Fontaine muttered, apparently lost in thought as he pored over Thelma
Ridgeway's manuscript. "This," he declared, "is going to be interesting. Very, very
interesting."

"Here it is." The hotel manager pulled a card from the little file box, holding it carefully
by the edges. "Johnson, Robert C. This is the man you're looking for."

Cameron leaned forward, to get a closer look at the card. "I'm going to need the original,
Mr. Forrest. The lab will want to compare the fingerprints with those of the dead man. You can
make a copy for your records. "

"I understand," Forrest crossed to the photocopy machine.

"While you're at it, can you make me a couple of copies?"

"Sure thing." The manager carefully placed the card on the platen of the copier and
pressed the print button. He gestured for Cameron to pick up the original. "Here you go."

"Thanks," Cameron said. He eased it into one of his plastic crime lab envelopes. Then he
studied one of the copies. It said, "Johnson Network Components," with an address in Walnut
Creek, California. In the space for the license plate number, someone had written, "rental."

"How long has he been staying here?"

"Let me pull it up on the computer." Forrest circled his desk, leaned over the keyboard
and entered a series of characters. "He checked in last night at 9:37. He was a walk in."

"How so?"

"That means the registration wasn't made in advance. Would you like my guess as to
how it happened?"

"Sure."

Forrest glanced down at the computer screen and back at the copy of the registration
card. "I'd say he had business somewhere in the neighborhood and was planning to fly out of DIA
last night. His flight was delayed or cancelled due to the weather. He needed a place to spend the
night, so he stopped here and checked in, figuring to fly out this morning."

"How much of this is pure guesswork?"

Forrest smiled. "Oh, about half. People planning to stay over on a Friday night usually
make their reservations in advance. A lot of hotels fill up on the weekends, and most experienced
travelers want to make sure they'll have a place to stay. According to the computer, he made four
phone calls last night. One to area code 925, which I believe is somewhere in California." He
indicated the address on the registration card. "Walnut Creek seems right, but I can't swear to
that. So, most likely, he was calling his office or his house, to let them know he was delayed.
There were three more calls, which were technically charged as local calls. But two of those were
800 numbers, which could mean an airline or the rental car company."

"Can you print me a copy?"

"Sure thing."

Forrest deftly manipulated the mouse. Soon a laser printer behind him began making
whirring noises. He caught a sheet of paper as it emerged from the machine and handed it to
Cameron.

"Thanks. I'm going to need a key to his room."

The manager frowned. "Didn't he have a key with him?"

"There wasn't one on the body. It could have been in his wallet, but that was
missing."

"Odd. Very odd. Of course, I'll get you a new one." He left the room and returned a
minute later, carrying a plastic room key card. "Please be careful when you enter his room," he
implored. "Just in case."

* * * *

Brady Cameron had mixed feelings about attending a writer's convention. If any of his
friends ever found out what he was doing, they'd give him no end of grief. The guys he hung with
were into retro Van Halen and AC/DC. And, of course, Metallica. Spending time writing books,
especially science fiction books, was for wusses. Definitely not for a twenty-two-year-old
paint-and-body man who could take any wrecked vehicle--no matter whether it was built in America or
Japan or Germany--and put it back together, as good as new.

It had always been that way for Brady. He could fix anything. At least, anything
physical. Dealing with people was something entirely different. Something just didn't click,
except with his few friends, most of whom he'd known since middle school. Maybe it was his
anger. Maybe everyone else was just stupid. All he knew was that people pulled away from him,
even when he was doing his best to connect with them, and he usually ended up feeling like an
outsider.

Or a freak.

Here at the CFWA he felt almost comfortable. The people were mostly nice, even
though some of them looked like complete losers, and he liked the way everyone seemed to be
treated the same. From the big-name writers who were getting rich off of their work to the
beginners like himself, who were still trying to write their first book, there was a certain kinship
that appealed to him. And then there was the mysterious Published Writer's Guild that you could
only join if you'd had something published. It was almost like being part of some secret medieval
society.

It was totally freaky that his dad was here. Like nearly everything else in his life, Brady
had mixed thoughts about that. It had been more than three years since they last spoke, if you
could call it speaking. The conversation had taken place at the Denver Police Detention Center
and Brady was behind bars, dressed in orange prison clothes. It was only a failure to appear
warrant. Brady prided himself on having never gotten into any really serious trouble. But the look
of disappointment--no, revulsion--in his father's eyes was excruciating, even after all this
time.

He could still hear his father's parting words: "If you ever decide to get your life
straightened out, give me a call. Otherwise, I don't want anything more to do with you. You're a
lost cause."