An Unconventional Murder (20 page)

"Oh, yeah?" Brady said, with a nervous glance in Upton's direction. "What else did he
tell you?"

Cameron perceived instantly, from Upton's alarmed expression, that it was time for a
little white lie.

"What else would he tell me? He noticed we had the same last names, and he asked if
we were related. When I told him you were my son, he let me know he'd read some of your work
and was impressed by it. It was nice to hear that."

Upton's expression registered relief--and approval at the way Cameron had handled it. "I
wasn't just saying it, Brady. I wanted your dad to know his son has talent." His eyes twinkled as
he added, "I didn't bother to tell him how we happened to meet."

"Thanks," Brady muttered, looking more confused than grateful.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Mitch said.

Brady hesitated, as though trying to figure out what the catch was. "I guess so."

"Aren't you going to buy one of my books?" Upton protested, looking hurt as father and
son started off. "I'll even autograph it for you!"

"Hold a copy for me," Cameron told him. "I'll be back in a little while. There are things
you and I need to talk about."

Cameron collared a server and convinced her to bring a cup of coffee to the round table
where he and Brady were sitting. The night was just beginning, and caffeine might help him stay
alert. Hunched over the table, Brady sullenly declined the offer of a drink, as though accepting
might constitute a concession to his father.

"So how are you enjoying the convention?"

With a noncommittal shrug, Brady answered, "It's okay."

"I was surprised to hear you were here. I didn't know you were interested in
writing."

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Maybe it's time I found out."

"Why bother?"

"Because you're my son and I happen to care about you. I know we haven't gotten along
very well over the last few years--and, obviously, the divorce didn't help any. But--"

"Mom says you were the one who wanted it."

Cameron felt his jaw tighten. "Mom says a lot of things I don't agree with." Brady
opened his mouth, clearly intending to defend his mother, but Cameron continued, "It was a
mutual decision, Brady. We had reached the point where all we ever did was yell at each other.
There wasn't a moment's peace for either of us. That's no way to live, let alone raise a child."

"So you chose not to raise me at all?"

Cameron flared, "Is that how you see it? Who showed up at every one of your soccer
games? And came to every Christmas pageant, and every one of your science fairs? God, I hated
those science fairs. Your mother did everything she could to make it difficult for me, but I always
managed to get there--even with the crazy hours I was working back then."

"Yeah? So where were you when I really needed you?"

"I did what I could, Brady. Some things, for obvious reasons, had to be done behind the
scenes. But I did what I could."

"Which was pretty damn feeble," Brady complained bitterly.

"What did you expect? I'm a cop. That's what I do for a living. What was I supposed to
do when my own son got caught red-handed--again--breaking the law? Look the other way? Tell
him I send people to jail every day for doing the same things he was doing, but since he was my
son, it was somehow okay? I was disappointed, Brady. I thought I had done a better job of
teaching you the difference between right and wrong."

Brady raised his hands into the air. "Okay, so I screwed up. I guess that makes me a
criminal. But I did my community service, and I paid all of my fines. Every damn penny! What
more do you want from me?"

"Nothing," Cameron replied, genuinely surprised at the question. "I was never out to
punish you. My concern was trying to figure out how to keep you from getting into something
even deeper. What I needed--and never got--was some sign that you knew you had messed up
and it wasn't going to happen again."

"Yeah?" Brady said with a disbelieving curl of his lips.

"Yeah. That's really all I was looking for. Everybody makes mistakes. What matters is
what you do to keep from repeating them."

Brady stared at his father. His shoulders rose as though a weight had been lifted from
them. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. That's how I always felt about it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did. Or, at least, I thought I had. Obviously the message didn't get through. The word I
got was that you wanted me to leave you alone."

"Bullshit. I never told you anything like that."

Cameron regarded his son and decided this was no time to hold back. "Your mom did. In
no uncertain terms."

Brady wrinkled his brow. "Why would she do that?"

"I don't know. Ask her. Evidently she thought it was best for you. As far as I'm
concerned, you've always been an important part of my life. And I hope you always will be."

"Oh," Brady said.

"Are you still working at that pizza place?"

"No, that was just something over the summer. Three years ago. Then I went through
auto mechanic training. I've been working for a guy I know. He's taught me a ton of stuff. It turns
out, I'm pretty good at it."

"I could see that. You were always good with your hands. What--"

"I've also stopped hanging around with Justin Cronan," Brady said. "I finally figured out
that being around him kept getting me into trouble."

"Good thinking. He was headed for serious jail time." Cameron slid his chair closer to
the table. "So when did you start writing?"

Brady's face brightened with a boyish eagerness. "A couple of years ago. First I started
keeping a diary. I'm not really sure why. Man, that was a total eye opener. It's amazing how
stupid you sound when you go back later and read the things you wrote. You feel like a total
loser. Anyway, writing in the diary gave me the idea that maybe I could actually write serious
stuff. Every now and then I'd stumble across something I'd jotted down, something I'd completely
forgotten about, and it didn't sound half bad. Once I started writing for real, someone told me I
should join a writer's group."

Cameron listened with a mixture of pleasure and bittersweet memory as Brady continued
talking. He remembered how outgoing Brady had been in grade school, before the divorce.

Before Cameron caught his wife in bed with another cop.

Delighted as he was to have made contact with his son, Cameron had no illusions about
where they stood. Too much had happened to be simply swept away in one night.

It was going to take time.

Especially since Brady was a suspect in two brutal murders.

* * * *

Upton slumped wearily in his chair. The banquet room was nearly empty. The hotel staff
had finished its work, and all of the tabletops had been cleared. A few dozen people were still
seated, scattered among the tables, chattering in small groups. One of those groups consisted of
the two Camerons. Upton was pleased to see that they seemed to be having a friendly
conversation.

He glanced over to where GP was signing her last autograph of the evening.

"Whew!" GP said, meeting his eye. "We're finally done."

"How did you do?"

"Not bad. I sold all but nine of the books I brought." She grinned. "And I brought a lot.
How about you?"

"Pretty well, I suppose. It's not as easy to sell hardcover. People think twice before they
shell out nearly thirty bucks."

Randy Callahan dropped into a chair next to Upton. "Man, my feet are killing me!"

"It's those boots," Upton opined. "They give no arch support."

GP snorted. "Try wearing high heels sometime." A mischievous gleam danced in her
eyes. "Or doesn't Theia Rand go in for women's clothing?"

"Stuff it, Suzanne." Callahan gestured toward the table where a stack of his books
remained. "I can't tell you how sick I am of explaining about Theia Rand. People keep giving me
that
look.
You know, like I'm a cross-dresser or something."

Ashley and Rena joined them. "What's wrong with being a cross-dresser?" Rena said as
she slid onto the chair next to Upton's. "Some of my best friends are cross-dressers."

"Not in my field," Ashley said. "Financial planners are a conservative bunch."

"You know," Randy said. "It struck me while I was standing around like a jilted suitor,
hoping someone would stop and pick up one of my books. Maybe I ought to give it up. I mean,
who am I kidding? I'm just a dumb farm boy from Oklahoma. What business do I have trying to
hawk romance novels?"

Royce Fontaine was packing the last of his books into a sample case. He appeared not to
have been listening, but he said, "Why would you quit? I understand that your Theia Rand books
are quite successful."

"They do okay in bookstores," Randy conceded, "but--"

"Then perhaps the solution is to stop peddling your wares under a pseudonym. Let
people know who you really are. Readers can be surprisingly tolerant."

Callahan's expression brightened. "Maybe you've got a point there. I'll give it a thought
or two. Much obliged."

"Arthur, I've been waiting for the opportunity to ask you about that commotion during
dinner." Fontaine said. "When you and that policeman rushed out of the room."

"Yeah," Callahan said. "Did someone really kill Zachary Tuck?"

Upton glanced cautiously around. Other than the board members, there was no one
within earshot. "At this point, I see no reason not to tell you. There was a dead body floating in
the hotel swimming pool. He'd been stabbed to death. It was Zachary Tuck."

Fontaine gripped the sides of the table. "Who is doing all of this, Arthur?"

* * * *

Brady yawned and stretched against the chair. Cameron stifled a yawn of his own. The
banquet room was quiet now. The waiters had cleared the tables and disappeared. The book sale
was winding up. Across the room, Arthur Upton and a group of other writers were talking and
packing up their books.

"It's almost eleven," Brady said, glancing at his wrist watch. "This has been a long
day."

"Tell me about it," Cameron said. "And it's not over yet. Do you have a place to
sleep?"

"No. I figured I'd just crash downstairs somewhere. In the lobby, or wherever. I can sleep
anywhere. All I have to do is put my head down and I'm out for the night. What about you?"

"So far I don't have anything lined up. But the CFWA board has taken over the
honeymoon suite, upstairs. I was thinking maybe I could sleep on one of the couches up there. I'd
imagine there's room for you, too. Do you want me to ask?"

Brady considered for a moment. "I guess so. Yeah, that would be okay."

They rose and crossed the banquet room, to where Upton and the other board members
were sitting congregated.

"Is this a private meeting?" Cameron said.

"No," Upton answered. "We're trying to sort out the day's events. Would you care to join
us?"

"Sure. Everybody, this is my son, Brady Cameron. Brady, you've met Mr. Upton. This is
Rena Oberhaus, Suzanne Gibbons-Powers, Randy Callahan, Ashley Wade, and Royce
Fontaine."

"Hi." Brady looked bewildered and embarrassed by the sudden attention.

"Brady's a promising young writer," Upton told the group. "He and I met this afternoon."
He looked at Cameron. "Is there anything new?"

"We need a place to sleep and were hoping there might be room somewhere in the
honeymoon suite."

"There are a couple of couches and plenty of floor space, if you don't mind roughing it a
bit."

"We'd really appreciate it," Brady said. "It's nice of you to--"

Thelma Ridgeway came charging toward the group. "Here they are, the bunch of
thieving scoundrels, roaming in a pack like wild dogs." It was evident from her stagger and her
slurred speech that she had been drinking.

"Are you referring to us?" Upton demanded.

"You bet I am," she said, poking her finger in his chest. "I've been thinking all night
about the brush-off you folks gave me this afternoon. And the more I think about it, the madder
I'm getting. This man--" She made a bleary-eyed survey of the group until she found Randy
Callahan. "This man stole my book. He's profiting from the fruits of my labor. And all of you are
his accomplices. Every damn one of you. You're going to pay for this. You're going to pay!" She
turned away, mumbling, "You're going to pay."

From behind Cameron, Royce Fontaine's voice rang out. "Ms. Ridgeway!"

She froze in her tracks.

"Ms. Ridgeway," Fontaine repeated. "Come here!"

She turned slowly. "What do you want?"

"If you believe we are ignoring you, Madam, you are sadly mistaken. I spent the better
part of this afternoon perusing your partial manuscript. I have also read
Dark Passages
by Theia Rand in its entirety. Perhaps you would care to hear the results of my inquiry."

"Perhaps I would," she returned. "Then you can tell me how he's cleverly changed the
story around just enough so it's not technically plagiarism, right? Is that the bill of goods you're
hoping to sell me?"

"No. To the contrary, there are clear similarities between the two works."

Randy Callahan stirred resentfully. "Hey! What are you saying here?"

Fontaine folded his arms. "I will not discuss the matter any further standing here in this
room. If you'd care to come upstairs, I will have much more to say. To both of you."

Callahan and Ridgeway exchanged bitter glances. They reminded Cameron of two
squabbling children being sent to the principal's office.

Upton ushered the group into the honeymoon suite. "Pick a seat, everyone, this may take
a while." After everyone had settled in, he said, "First, you understand, Ms. Ridgeway, that this is
not an official board meeting. We're just here to talk. Is that acceptable to you?"

"That's fine." She turned to Fontaine. "You were saying that
Theia Rand
stole
my story?"