An Unconventional Murder (14 page)

Cameron eyed Tuck. "You were in the Aspen Room this morning?"

"That's right. I was a speaker. My topic was--"

"When?"

"During the second session. It was supposed to start at 10:30. We didn't get going until
nearly eleven."

Cameron leveled his eyes at the literary agent. "Where were you between 7:30 and 9:30
this morning?"

"You're asking me where I was--as though I might have had something to do with killing
a man?"

"That's right, Mr. Tuck. Where were you?"

"This is outrageous! I'm not going to stand here and tell the whole world about my
personal life. I'll not say another word."

Upton stepped forward. "Listen, you little weasel, you're going to--"

Tuck jumped back. "Don't you touch me, Upton! I should have pressed charges that day
when you assaulted me in the middle of downtown Manhattan. You could have--"

Cameron stretched out an arm, forcing Upton to back off. "Nobody's going to assault
you, Mr. Tuck. If you prefer to do this in private, that's fine with me. But you are going to tell me
what you were doing. Otherwise, I'll have to detain you as a material witness."

"Oh, yeah? Just try it!"

Cameron took him firmly by the arm. "Suit yourself. I'm hereby taking you into custody.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say--"

Tuck jerked his arm away. "Fine! I'll tell you! I'm not ashamed of who I am. I spent the
night in my room, number 510. We didn't get up this morning until eight o'clock. Then I had a
quick breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, or whatever they call it here. The little germ factory on
the first floor."

"Who is
we
?" Cameron said.

"Someone I met in the bar last night."

"Who is she, Mr. Tuck?" Cameron demanded.

"Why do you need to know who I was with?"

"To verify that you were really where you say you were, you little weasel!" Upton
said.

Tuck ignored Upton. "Is that right?" he demanded of Cameron.

"It is, Mr. Tuck. I'm afraid I need her name. If you want to do it privately--"

Defiantly, Tuck met Cameron's eyes. "
His
name is Bernard."

"Bernard?"

"That's right. Bernard. He was checking out this morning. He's from Baltimore." He
added sarcastically, "Sorry, but I didn't get his mailing address."

"The hotel will have that information," Upton said.

"If I need to, I'll have a talk with him," Cameron said. "He obviously won't be flying
back to Baltimore any time today. What time did you have breakfast?"

"I don't know. But the waitress might remember me. I had to send the eggs back because
they were too runny." He turned to the hotel manager. "Don't you people know how to cook
around here?"

"We do our best," Forrest replied with the weary shrug of a man accustomed to handling
complaints. "We're short staffed today."

Upton said, "So you were in the dining room at about nine o'clock?"

"That's right. Do you have a problem with that? Or do you want to make more absurd
accusations about me, only this time with witnesses present?"

"Neither," Upton said. "I want to know if you saw this man," He reached into his
convention notebook and pulled out the picture of the dead man.

Tuck squinted at the picture. "No. He doesn't look familiar."

"This isn't Bernard?"

"Good God, no. Give me a break, Upton. Look at the way he's dressed."

"Did you happen to see anyone in the dining area wearing what looked like a Halloween
wig?"

"A Halloween wig? What are you, delusional?"

"Look, Tuck, you and I have no love for each other. That's our personal problem, and
we'll deal with it, one way or another. But I'm the president of CWFA and someone has
committed a murder at my convention. Now someone has started a fire in the men's room. I don't
like that. I intend to find out what's going on here. For your information, the dead man was seen
in the hotel coffee shop this morning, in the company of a man or woman wearing a black fright
wig and a fake moustache. You had breakfast in that room at just about the same time. You must
have seen him--or her."

"Well, I didn't," Tuck asserted. "I was reading a manuscript from one of my newest
clients." He sneered at Upton, "Somebody who actually
knows
how to write." Tuck
turned his back on Upton and addressed Cameron. "His name is Ashley Wade, in case you need
to know. And as to that coffee shop, once the waitress brought my food, I couldn't have cared
less who else was in that dump."

Cameron pointed to the photograph in Upton's left hand, "So you didn't see anyone who
looks like him?"

"No. Can I go now?"

"For now. As long as you don't leave the hotel."

"Where the hell would I be going? There's a fucking blizzard outside. Don't you people
around here have any brains?"

He turned his back to the group like a cat contemptuously lifting its tail into the air, and
strode away.

"I found some tongs," Jimmy said as he returned, breathing hard. "I also found this
plastic sheeting."
Puff, puff.

Upton suspected the young man was putting on a show to impress his boss.

Cameron had propped the men's room door open with the fire extinguisher. He took the
plastic roll from Jimmy. Most of the water from the sprinklers had escaped through the floor
drain, but the floor was still very wet. The room smelled awful, a mixture of smoke and steam.
The wall near the trash bin was black.

"We can set up in the pool area," Upton suggested.

"Right." There was something guarded in Cameron's tone.

Upton raised his brows in a silent question, but received no response. He crossed the
hall. The sign on the door said, "Pool For Use of Hotel Guests Only. Access Using Room
Key."

"Can you unlock it?" Upton asked the manager.

Forrest pulled plastic card from his wallet and unlocked the door. Upton and Cameron
stretched the plastic sheet along the tile floor. The pool area had the same blue and gray
décor as the rest of the hotel. The usual smell of chlorine mixed with the distinct odor of
smoke. In the distance were an oval-shaped hot tub and an exercise room with a stationary bike
and treadmill. There was also a unisex restroom.

"What are you doing?" Jimmy said.

"We need to sort through the remains of that trash bin," Cameron explained. "And if you
don't mind, I'm going to ask you gentlemen to leave us alone."

The manager said, "I don't envy you
that
job. You'll need a key to get the bin
open. What's left of it." He pulled a key ring out of his pocket. "It's the little silver one. I'll leave
the whole set with you, if you'll just drop them off at my office when you're done."

When they'd gone, Upton gestured toward the burned trash bin. "Do you want to do the
honors?"

"Yes, since I'm official." Cameron rolled up his sleeves. His left forearm bore angry red
gashes from breaking the glass to grab the fire extinguisher.

"Make sure it's cooled down." Upton cautioned. "You don't need burned fingers,
too."

"Thanks." Cameron flicked tentatively at the metal with his fingertips. "It's not hot."

He unlocked the front panel, removed the container and carried it across the hall where
he carefully spread the contents over the plastic sheet. Using a ballpoint pen, he began sifting
through the pile of rubble.

Upton pointed to a charred rectangular object. "From that little piece of logo that wasn't
burned, I'd say it came from this hotel. I've seen matchbooks with the Marquis Hotel logo
floating around downstairs."

"I have, too," Cameron agreed. There was still something guarded about his tone. Upton
considered making a comment, but Cameron had already returned to sifting through the pile.

They found nothing significant among the other small items. Cameron had left two
larger pieces untouched. One was approximately six inches long; the other, much larger, looked
vaguely like a dust mop.

Both items were black and stringy, and only partially burned.

"The infamous wig and moustache?" Upton said.

"I assume so."

"So why didn't they burn up?"

"Under federal law they have to be fire retardant. Evidently whoever did this wasn't
aware of that." Cameron slipped the two items into plastic evidence containers. "I guess we're
finished here. I'll keep these in my custody." He stood and faced Upton. "Now, I have a question
for you."

"It's about time, Cameron. I know you're steamed about something. Why don't you tell
me what it is?"

"The timing of the fire."

"What about it?"

"Less than an hour after you told me the dead man had breakfast with someone wearing
a fake wig and moustache, the murderer suddenly decided to dispose of them. No one but you
and I knew about those two items, Upton. And nobody knew you had decided to go searching for
them. If you were in my position, what would you think?"

"I suppose it would be pretty hard to accept as a coincidence, wouldn't it?" Upton rubbed
his chin thoughtfully. "I guess I'd want to talk to everyone else who knew about the wig and
moustache."

"Everyone else? Are you saying someone other than you knew about them?"

"Of course I am. Don't you remember? Rena Oberhaus was with me."

"You're suggesting she did this? She came into the men's room and--"

"Good heavens, no! But she's the only other person who knew what I was doing. She
must have told someone else. I'd better go talk to her."

"No, you won't. I'll talk to her. Until I do, I want you to keep away from her. And
meanwhile, please don't leave the hotel."

"Where the hell would I be going? And what happened to our working together
on--"

"You'd do the same thing if you were in my place."

* * * *

After leaving Upton in the hallway outside the men's room, Cameron rode the escalator
up to the convention area. That seemed the most likely place to find Rena Oberhaus. He noticed
Royce Fontaine standing in the registration area, talking with another one of the board members,
the one who looked like who looked like a banker. Ashley Wade. Fontaine was holding a manila
file folder against his left hip.

Cameron decided to take advantage of the opportunity. "May I speak with you, Mr.
Fontaine?"

"Of course," Royce answered. "What would you like to discuss?"

"I meant alone, Mr. Fontaine."

Ashley flashed a good-natured grin. "I can take a hint, officer. I'm out of here." He
saluted and strode off.

"Let's go into the dining room. We can talk there." Cameron led the way down the hall.
The tables in the large banquet room were still arranged where they had been hours earlier, but
the table cloths had been removed. Cameron selected a table and gestured for the writer to have a
seat. "I presume you've heard about the fire in the men's room?"

"I have. Inexcusably careless of someone."

Cameron narrowed his eyes. "Inexcusably careless?"

"It would be folly enough to cause a fire on a normal day," Fontaine said. "But in this
weather, the fire department could never have arrived in time to cope with a serious blaze.
Inexcusable carelessness."

"This fire was intentionally set, Mr. Fontaine."

"It was? How--"

"What have you been doing this afternoon?"

Fontaine's eyes widened. "You mean do I have an alibi?"

"That's right."

"For what time period?"

"The past hour."

"Let me think." He glanced at his wristwatch. "It is now three o'clock. I entered this
room for lunch at approximately 12:30. Since I had no further responsibilities as a speaker, I
lingered over coffee. It must have been nearly 1:45 when I departed."

"Did you eat alone?"

"Yes and no. I dined with Randy Callahan and Ashley Wade, two of our board members.
They left me at one o'clock. Randy was speaking in the Birch room about something to do with
romance novels."

"And Mr. Wade?"

"I don't know."

"He wasn't speaking, too?"

"Absolutely not," Fontaine answered. "He is not a published author. Only editors, agents
and published authors ever speak at our conventions. Whatever session he attended, he did so as
a member of the audience. Come to think of it, I believe I can tell you which one. There was
going to be a presentation on electronic publishing." He curled his lips in distaste. "They say it's
the way of the future."

"Let me talk to you about this morning," Cameron said. "What time did you arrive at the
hotel?"

"I didn't arrive at all. I stayed here last night. I live in Castle Rock, and I prefer not to
commute back and forth to these conventions."

"I see," Cameron made a note on his legal pad. "What room are you staying in?"

"Room 602."

"What time did you get up?"

"At seven o'clock. I had set the clock in the room, as well as having requested a wake-up
call from the hotel operator."

"What did you do after that?"

"I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth. Then I went downstairs for breakfast in the hotel
restaurant. It is located on the first floor of the hotel."

"Did you have breakfast?"

"Yes, sir. Half a grapefruit and a bowl of oatmeal."

"You didn't happen to notice someone with thick black hair and a Pancho Villa
moustache, did you?"

Fontaine smiled. "No, I did not. I've heard rumors that someone in a fright wig dined
with the man who was killed. However, I didn't happen to see either of them. I was going over
my notes for the presentation I was going to make this morning."

Cameron eyed him. "You knew about the person with the wig?"

"Certainly. Rena Oberhaus has diligently kept the board members informed of the
extraordinary events taking place here today."

"She has?"

"Naturally. We haven't spoken about the fire, or I would have been aware of its
intentional nature. I knew, of course, about the wig and moustache. I take it, you also know about
the accusations being leveled by Ms. Ridgeway?"