An Unconventional Murder (17 page)

"Thank you," Cameron said. "You realize, this thing was planned well in advance?"

"I do. My question is, how did the killer get the victim into the Aspen Room? I'm
guessing he didn't strangle Johnson first and then bar the doors. That would have been way too
dangerous."

"I agree. If anyone walked in, it would have been a disaster. Does that mean Johnson
came here voluntarily and stood by while the killer blocked off the exits?"

"Sounds pretty goofy, doesn't it? Maybe they knew each other."

"Or they met at the hotel," Cameron said. "Johnson was a stranded traveler. He might
have been looking for companionship."

"If so, he would have been better off with Zachary Tuck," Upton observed drily.

"Maybe so. But let's stay on point here."

"Sorry," Upton muttered. "That Tuck drives me crazy. Okay, so we know Johnson had
breakfast with whoever was wearing the Halloween disguise. Let's call him a he. Maybe he
convinced Johnson they were pulling some sort of prank. "

"Makes sense," Cameron agreed. "He would have had to give some explanation for his
getup. So he persuaded Johnson to come here with him, and somewhere along the way, they
picked up the boards wherever the killer had them stashed."

"Right. My bet would be in this room. Anyway, then they came in here and blocked the
doors. Maybe he even got Johnson to voluntarily dress up in the weird clothes."

"And then he struck," Cameron said. "There's no sign of a struggle, so it must have been
swift and sudden. With the doors jammed, he had all the time he needed to arrange the body
without getting caught. Except for the time it took him to remove the boards and place them
behind the overcoat. At a minimum, that would have taken two or three minutes."

"That was pretty gutsy. Of course, he was wearing the wig and fake moustache. If
anyone spotted him, he could have pretended it was part of the mystery game that everyone later
thought we had set up. By the time they figured out otherwise, he--or she--would be long
gone."

"Why would anybody go to all of this trouble?" Cameron said.

"I don't know. Somehow, it's hard not to take this personally."

"What do you mean?"

"This is my first year as CFWA president. Which means my first convention. I can't help
but wonder if this isn't directed at me."

"Why would anybody do that?" Cameron said. "Do you have any reason to
believe--"

"No. Not at all. Sometimes my staff--I work as an architect when I'm not playing
author--tells me I'm a bit brusque, but--"

"This is a hell of a lot more than someone with bruised feelings. Has anybody made any
threats against you or the organization?"

"Just that Ridgeway woman," Upton said. "She's the one who claims one of our board
members stole the plot to her novel and used it as his own."

"Mr. Fontaine told me about her. Is she right? Did someone steal her story?"

"I don't think so. Royce is looking into it. I'm hoping he can convince her she's
wrong."

"Why him? You're the President."

"Yes, but he volunteered to take a look. The man is a walking encyclopedia of writing
technique. And pretty much everything else. It's really quite irritating."

Cameron eyed the writer skeptically. "Do you think she'd give up just because Fontaine
said so?"

Upton grinned. "Hell, no. But it gave Royce something useful to do and it got her off our
backs for a couple of hours. Two birds with one stone. You know, putting that aside, there's
something I think you should know about."

"Oh?"

"Nothing earth shattering. A while back--God, it seems like this day has dragged on
interminably--I happened to pass one of the men's rooms on the convention level, and I heard a
loud banging noise. Foolishly, now that I think about it, I went inside to investigate. I found a
man abusing the trash bin."

"Was he trying to start a fire?" Cameron demanded. "Did he have matches or--"

"No, no, nothing like that. He was banging on it with his bare hand. I asked him what the
hell he was doing. He said he was just blowing off steam. Evidently, he'd just come from an
appointment with Tuck."

"The guy was hacked off at the agent?"

"Was he ever! But I got him calmed down. Then I took him to the bar and bought him a
drink. He ordered iced tea, in case you're wondering. As it turns out, he's not such a bad
kid."

"Iced tea? I don't--" Cameron lips tightened. "Oh. Brady?"

"Uh huh. Evidently, Tuck was pretty brutal in critiquing his manuscript. Given that it
was Tuck, it isn't hard to see why--"

"Brady's written a manuscript?"

"He has. At least, the first few chapters. It's not half bad, either. With a little training and
experience, he could be a decent writer. But he's going to have to learn to accept rejection. It's a
basic part of the process. And he's going to have to get his temper under control."

"Some of that may be my fault. The divorce," Cameron explained. "Brady took it pretty
hard."

"The kids always think it's their fault," Upton observed. "Or else they think it's their
responsibility to try getting the parents back together."

"He did both." Cameron let out a deep sigh. "Maybe I ought to have a talk with
him."

"I would if I were you."

They left the Aspen Room and walked in silence down the hallway to the registration
area.

All of the tables had been removed. Three portable bars had been set up outside the
still-closed doors of the banquet room. People were streaming in, and the area was noisy. Some stood
in groups, talking in animated tones. Others seemed to be just standing there, waiting.

Upton noticed a dark-haired woman who stood on the perimeter, her hands fidgeting,
gazing around the room as though she was desperately looking for something. She spotted Upton
and with a wave of her hand beckoned him to come join her. He moved across the room, aware
that Cameron was keeping pace.

"Hi, Myra. Is something wrong?"

She appeared to be fighting back tears. "That Zachary Tuck!"

He gritted his teeth. "What's he done now?"

"It's not what he's done," she said, "it's what he
hasn't
done. He had six agent
appointments scheduled for this afternoon, starting at four o'clock. He didn't show up for any of
them. Nobody has any idea where he is."

Upton gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Myra. We'll find him."
With a disgusted glance at Cameron, he added, "And God help him when we do!"

Rena breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the reception area fill with throngs of
chattering people. The afternoon sessions were finally over. All the speakers had completed their
presentations and the convention was nearly back on schedule. The difference could be made up
during the cocktail hour.

The snow had continued to fall mercilessly all afternoon. Instead of going to her own
room, she had made periodic trips up to the honeymoon suite to catch the special news reports.
Twenty-seven inches and counting. Life in the metro area had ground to a complete halt. The few
businesses that managed to open at all had closed early. All the local churches had cancelled
Sunday services. The hostage crisis at the Heritage Center was still dragging on, having turned
into a long, tense standoff. DIA was shut down entirely with hundreds of stranded passengers
camped out along the concourses.

After the first afternoon session, she'd met with the hotel manager to discuss what to do
with all the conventioneers stranded at the hotel. Since there were not enough rooms for
everyone, she told Mr. Forrest that she and the other board members could move into the
honeymoon suite, freeing up four rooms for other people.

Now, at 5:30 she was standing in line at one of the portable bars. She deserved a
drink.

Maybe two or three.

She noticed Art moving rapidly through the crowd, looking very distinguished in his suit
and tie. He headed straight toward a woman whose name was Myra something. Detective
Cameron accompanied him. Rena waved, but neither of the men noticed her. They spoke briefly
with the woman and then headed in Rena's general direction. She had to crane her neck to keep
them in sight as they maneuvered through the shifting currents of the crowd.

When Upton happened to glance in her direction, she waved again. This time he spotted
her. She watched him say something to the policeman, and they began working their way through
the throng to come join her in line.

Neither of them looked very happy.

"Is something wrong?" she said.

"Nothing serious, I guess," Upton said. "That jackass, Zachary Tuck. He blew off all of
his late-afternoon appointments."

"He did? Why would he--"

"I have no idea. He didn't say anything to anyone about it. He just didn't bother to show
up."

Rena felt a flush of anger. "Where is he now? I'd like to give him a piece of my mind.
That's so irresponsible!"

"Forget about it, Rena. He's probably in the bar, or upstairs having another session with
his buddy, Bernard. We'll deal with him later. Maybe a call to Madeline Brogner would--"

"Ms. Oberhaus!" a loud voice interrupted. "And Mr. President. There you are!"

Rena turned and found herself face to face with Thelma Ridgeway who, as before,
looked outraged. It seemed to be a permanent feature of her personality. Rena glanced toward the
people directly in line behind them. They hadn't complained when Art and the policeman butted
into line, and they weren't paying attention now.

"Good evening, Ms. Ridgeway," Upton said in a calm voice. "Is something wrong?"

"You bet your life there is!" she said, turning her full wrath upon him. "First, you people
steal my story, then you sabotage my agent appointment. I thought this group was supposed to
help writers, not play stupid games with them!"

"Just a minute, Ms. Ridgeway," he said. "First off, it hasn't been established that anyone
stole your story. We're still looking into that. Secondly, this--" he said, gesturing to indicate their
surroundings, "--is hardly the place to have this conversation."

"It's an established fact as far as I'm concerned. That Theia Rand character filched my
story. And I don't give a hoot what surroundings I'm in."

"Evidently not," Upton replied. "What's this nonsense about our sabotaging your agent
appointment?"

"As if you didn't know. A meeting with a New York agent, that's what the brochure
promised. But mine got cancelled." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that. With no
explanation."

"Who were you supposed to be meeting?"

"His name is..." She glanced down at the slip of paper she was clutching tightly in her
hand like a precious treasure. "...Zachary Tuck. What did you do, give him orders to avoid me
like the Plague, just because I had the guts to speak up about one of your members stealing my
story? Because if that's what you've done, then so help me, I'm going to get a good lawyer and
sue every one of you!"

"That's not what happened, Ms. Ridgeway," Rena said. "Mr. Tuck seems to have skipped
all of his appointments this afternoon."

"Is he sick?"

"Not to my knowledge," Upton said. "We don't know exactly what happened. I only
know that you're not the only one he stood up."

"Well, I still want to talk to him about my manuscript. I think I'm entitled to that."

"I agree. The problem, Ms. Ridgway, is that nobody knows where Mr. Tuck is."

"What did he do, go romping out in the snow?"

"Of course not. But--"

"Then where the hell is he?"

"We don't know."

"You don't know," she repeated. "Nobody around here knows anything, do they? I'll tell
you this, Mr. President. If I don't get some satisfaction by the end of this convention, you're all
going to be hearing from my lawyer. I'm not some creampuff you can just blow off. I've got
rights!"

Before anyone could answer, she turned and huffed away.

"Gee, and I was just starting to feel better about this convention," Rena said as they
reached the front of the line. "Now I really need a drink." She told the bartender, "Whiskey sour.
Art?"

"Scotch on the rocks. Mitch?"

"I think we need to find Mr. Tuck."

"Oh? You think it's something serious?"

"I don't know," Cameron replied in a hushed tone. "But he's the one who was sitting on
the john in the men's rest room when the fire started. And there's still some maniac running loose
in this hotel with a stiletto."

With a grim sigh, Upton yielded. "I suppose you're right. Damn him! Bartender, cancel
the scotch." He pulled out his wallet, paid for Rena's drink and turned to walk away.

She looked disappointed. "Where are you going?"

"To see if we can find Tuck," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "Save me a seat next
to you at the head table?"

She colored. "Of course."

"Shall we split up?" Upton asked Cameron.

"I don't think so. With a little luck, he's just hiding out in his room."

"Or down in the bar, trying to pick up tonight's date."

"Let's try the bar first," Cameron suggested. They crossed to the escalator, which
whisked them down to the first floor. As they descended, Upton glanced toward the wall of
windows at the front of the hotel. Even in the dim dusk of the autumn evening, he could see
snow still falling. "I've never seen anything like this."

"Me, neither," Cameron said.

At the main lobby level, Upton was startled to see the daily events board that still
announced the day's scheduled events. It seemed like weeks since he had hurried past that sign,
angry at himself for being late for his presentation. If he had known how the rest of the day was
going to go, he wouldn't have wasted even a moment worrying about whether he was on time or
not.

They paused at the entrance to the bar, getting their eyes accustomed to the subdued
lighting. The place was teeming with customers, many of them talking and laughing boisterously.
All of them had a drink. There wasn't much else to do on a night like this but drink.