An Unconventional Murder (16 page)

"I am. Do you have a few minutes to spare?"

She turned to the trio of admirers. "Sorry, guys. I've got to go off with this handsome
policeman and answer his questions." She added a throaty, "I'm hoping he'll have to frisk me,"
and gestured toward the display table across the room. "Buy lots of my books. I'll
personally
autograph them for you."

Cameron escorted her toward the dining room.

"A little
tête-à-tête
?" she asked in an amused tone.

"Not exactly."

"Too bad. A candlelight dinner would be just the thing." She reached down and took
hold of his left hand. "But I see that you're married."

"
Very
married," he assured her, gently removing his hand from her grasp. "This
is about the murder, Ms. Gibbons-Powers."

"Suzanne. Or, if you prefer, GP. That's what everyone in the CFWA calls me."

Cameron got right to the point. "You told me this morning that you didn't know the dead
man."

"That's right. I have no idea who he is. Or, rather, was."

"Lying to an investigator is a felony, Ms. Gibbons-Powers."

"Are you serious?"

"I am," he said. "Tell me about the dead man."

"I've told you the truth. I have absolutely no idea who he was."

"Or what he was doing at the Marquis Hotel?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

"I saw the way you were flirting with those three men just now," he said, as though that
explained everything.

"You mean you think I was involved in some way with the dead guy?"

"The man found himself unexpectedly stranded at a hotel full of writers. Maybe you and
he got together and--"

"Let me explain something to you, Detective Cameron. I'm a romance writer. That
defines me with my audience. If I wrote mysteries, the fans would expect me to be someone
entirely different. Like, carry a set of lock-picks and a .38 revolver in my handbag. But I write
romances. That means they expect me to be glamorous. The men expect me to flirt with them,
and the women expect me to be the virgin who secretly longs to be swept off her feet by a
mysterious and dangerous, but noble-hearted stranger. It's all part of the packaging."

"So you flirt with all of the men?"

"You bet I do. Except for the ones who put out vibes that they don't want me to. They
don't all picture me in a push-up bra and low-cut dress, with my hair cascading in the wind."

Cameron's enthusiasm was fading. He could see where this conversation was going.
"What is your procedure for autographing books?"

"I don't have a procedure. I sign books for anybody who asks. My books are mass market
paperbacks. That means I need to peddle a lot of them if I want to make any money."

"What do you typically write as an inscription when you sign a book?"

"Whatever comes to mind. Sometimes I write something that ties into the book itself,
like a reference to one of the characters or the setting. Otherwise, I put down their name and
some comment that makes it sound like we're close friends." She shrugged. "Whatever it takes to
sell books."

"Would 'to my dear' and then the person's name be typical?"

"Oh, sure. I do that all the time. It's my old standby." She regarded him curiously. "Are
you telling me that the dead man had one of my books, and I autographed it for him?"

"That's right. 'To my dear Bob Johnson.'"

"Bob Johnson? That's the dead man's name?"

"Does it mean anything to you?"

"No. I heard about the fire, and the weirdo with the wig and moustache, but nobody's
mentioned the dead man's name." She shivered. "It gives me goose bumps to think I signed a
book for him."

"When would you have autographed it?"

"It must have been last night." She added proudly, "I sold nearly forty of them."

"And do you remember--"

"Signing that particular one? I'm sorry, but I don't. After a while, they all look the same
to me. You have to understand, I'm usually sitting down when I sign their books. I generally don't
notice anything above their wallet." She frowned. "I still can't believe he was wearing my
sunglasses."

"Could he have picked them up off the table while you were signing his book?"

"No. It was seven o'clock at night. I don't do the Hollywood thing. I'm sure they were in
the pocket of my coat."

"You mentioned the wig and moustache. Why is it that you know about that?"

She knitted her brows. "Why wouldn't I? Everyone knows about it. I heard it from Randy
Callahan, I think. I'm not telling you anything you didn't already know, am I?"

"No. I knew a few people were aware of it. I just didn't realize that everyone in the
CFWA knew about it. Will you excuse me? I need to have a talk with someone."

"Sure." She wriggled her eyebrows at him. "If you want me to autograph any books for
you, I'll be at the book fair at six o'clock."

Cameron had no intention of attending the book fair. The last thing he needed was to
take home a personally inscribed romance novel.

One divorce in his life had been more than enough.

Tuck charged his bar tab to his room so that Madeline Brogner would have to reimburse
him for it. He crossed the room and headed out into the hallway. Back to round two of dealing
with the hayseeds. When he got back to New York, he was going to lay down the law with
Madeline. No more of these stupid conventions. Period. He wasn't doing this any more.

He glanced as his wrist watch as he strutted down the hall. Only one more hour. Then he
was on his own time.

Yippy ky yo ky yay!

As he walked, Tuck realized he needed to use the men's room. The nearest one was
where he'd helped put out the fire. He smiled at the thought of returning to the scene of the crime.
Of course, he wasn't the criminal, but there was still something entertaining about the
thought.

He headed down the hallway, mentally composing the ultimatum he was going to deliver
when he got back to New York. He stopped when he saw the OUT OF ORDER sign on the door
of the men's room. "Crap!"

He turned and looked around. Just across the hall was the swimming pool area. There
had to be a restroom there. He pulled out his plastic room key and opened the door. His guess
turned out to be right. There was a bathroom in the corner, adjacent to the hot tub.

Three minutes later , he emerged from the pool area just as someone he recognized came
around the corner, apparently lost in thought.

A sudden realization jolted him.
That's what it was!

That's what seemed so familiar about the bizarre events at this convention.

He blurted, "It's you. It's you!"

The other person looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"

"This is your plot," Tuck said. "I remember reading it!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The things that have been going on around here today. They're from your story. You
handed me the outline two or three years ago. Of course, I wasn't interested in it, but--"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't--"

"Sure you did," Tuck said. "It was a locked room mystery. That stupid, worn-out
cliché! The victim was dressed in clothes stolen from--"

"No! That wasn't me."

"Yes, it was. Come on, admit it. Everything that's happened today came right out of
your--hey, what are you doing?"

The other's hand emerged from somewhere behind his back, holding something that
glinted ominously in the light.

"That's a knife," Tuck said. "That's a fucking knife!" He retreated as the other came
toward him. "Are you crazy? What are you doing? You can't--"

"I have to. Goddamn you! I have to."

A sharp, white hot pain spread through his stomach as the blade sliced into his abdomen
and tore upward.

He gaped in disbelief. This couldn't be happening!

The lunatic pulled the knife out and struck again.

He cried out in pain. Over and over, the blade ripped into his body.

Everything was moving in slow motion, the world growing colorless and dim. The room
spun around him. He fell to the ground, unable to move.

And then there was nothing.

After questioning half a dozen people in the convention area, none of whom were able to
help him, Cameron had an inspiration. He headed for the bar.

Upton, now wearing a dark blue suit, was seated in a booth, a stack of papers spread out
on the table in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Cameron said.

"Polishing my speech. I'm the keynote speaker tonight. Have a seat," he said, without
looking up.

Cameron sat down on the opposite side of the booth while Upton made a note on one of
the pages.

"When I was still a beat cop, there was a sergeant who used to tell me not to reach any
conclusions in an investigation until all the facts were in. I'll bet he told me that a hundred
times."

Upton looked up. "Oh?"

"Look, I jumped the gun before," Cameron said. "I thought you were the only one other
than me who knew about the wig and moustache."

Upton smiled. "Is this your version of an apology?"

Cameron smiled in return. "It's as close as you're gonna get."

"Then it'll have to do." Upton set aside his speech. "So there were other people who
knew?"

"The entire CFWA board. Plus anyone they told. The number could grow
geometrically."

"Rena must have been talking. Which is disappointing, but it means she's probably not
the one who set that fire." He frowned. "Doesn't it?"

"I've jumped to enough conclusions for one day," Cameron said. "I'll reserve judgment
on that one."

Upton smiled sympathetically. "You know, despite your idiot notion that I might have
set that fire, I like you. I would have enjoyed having a partner like you. Any progress in the
murder investigation?"

"Not much," Cameron admitted. "I keep going around in circles, especially on that
locked door business. Jimmy claims he unlocked the doors to the Aspen Room at 7:35 this
morning. Royce Fontaine, swears the doors were locked when he tried to get inside at 8:15. He's
certainly as credible as Jimmy, probably more so. But by the time you and Fontaine arrived at
9:30, Johnson was already arranged on the floor. "

"Remember," Upton said, "Johnson finished his breakfast at 7:38. That was the time
stamped on the check when he paid for his food."

"Right," Cameron agreed. "That narrows the time of death to roughly an hour and a half.
I've been meaning to ask you, was Johnson signed up for the convention?"

"No. As far as I know, he had nothing to do with the CFWA."

"He was at least aware of the group," Cameron said. "I found an autographed copy of
one of Suzanne Gibbons-Powers' books in his room. It was autographed, 'To my dear Bob
Johnson.'"

Upton arched his brows. "GP? You think she slept with him?"

"She says she didn't. But you know her better than I do. What do you think?"

"I doubt it. She passes herself off as practically a nymphomaniac. But, the truth is, she's
married--happily as far as I know--and to the best of my knowledge she's never gotten involved
with anyone at the CFWA. I think I'd know about it if she had. That sort of news would travel
fast."

Cameron let out a sigh. "So we're back to square one."

"Maybe not. Let's assume that Johnson and his disguised companion went directly from
the coffee shop to the Aspen Room. Is there some way they could have locked the doors?"

"I don't think so. The facilities manager swears nobody else at the hotel had a key. And
that nobody could have gotten hold of a copy."

"And it takes a key to lock the doors?"

"It does. I took a good look at those locks. The outside has a lever and the inside is a
panic bar. The only way to lock the door is with the key."

"Could you jam something on the inside of the door to keep it from opening?" Upton
suggested. "I know that's a stretch, but--"

"Maybe not." An image of the Aspen room flashed in Cameron's brain. Something that
had seemed confusing suddenly made perfect sense. He jumped to his feet. "I think I know how it
was done!"

* * * *

The Aspen Room remained exactly as Cameron had left it three hours earlier. He had
vaguely hoped it was just a bad dream. Maybe there would be no dead body. Maybe it
was
just a charade dreamed up by the CFWA board to liven up their convention. But, no, as soon
as he opened the door, he could see the lifeless figure of Robert Johnson lying on the carpet in
the corner at the back of the auditorium, the garrotte still twisted around his neck.

His presence seemed to fill the room.

Cameron said, "Keep back, okay?"

"You're in charge, boss," Upton answered.

Stooping next to the corpse, Cameron picked up the two boards he had leaned against
the wall next to the corpse and returned to where Upton was standing.

"How did those boards get here?" said Upton.

"I found them shoved inside the back of his overcoat and wedged down his pants."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"One of their purposes was to prop him up."

"Good thinking. That hadn't occurred to me. He would have flopped over if something
wasn't holding him up."

"Right." He pointed. "Note the ends."

Upton leaned forward and studied one of the two-by-fours without touching it. "I see
that they're beveled. I just don't see--?"

"I'll show you." Cameron marched over to the door. He tried to slide one of the boards
behind the panic bar but it didn't quite fit.

"Now I see what you're doing," Upton said. "Try angling it the other way, with the right
end higher than the left."

"Perfect." He slid the board into place and pushed against the panic bar.

It wouldn't budge.

Upton clapped his hands, as if appreciating a virtuoso performance. "So now we know
why an unlocked door appeared to be locked. Well done, Mitch."