An Unconventional Murder (4 page)

Assuming his most presidential air, Upton said, "If you'll point her out to me, I'll have a
chat with her. Maybe I can settle her down a bit. I don't want her ruining my convention."

"I'd really appreciate it. She was getting awfully aggressive."

"I would too, if I thought someone had stolen my book."

Rena frowned and bit her lip. "This convention sure isn't turning out the way I expected.
What else could possibly go wrong?"

"Oh," said Upton in a fatherly tone, "Everything's just fine. People don't remember the
little things that go awry. The real point of these conventions is to create an atmosphere that
inspires people to go home and write. As long as we're accomplishing that, we've done our
job."

Rena hugged him. "Thanks, Art. I'm glad you're able to keep things in perspective."

The physical contact made him uncomfortable. Not knowing what else to do, he tweaked
her playfully on the chin. "Let's get back to the convention."

When Upton and Rena returned to the main convention area, the registration table was
covered with audio equipment. A hand-lettered sign announced that recordings of all of the
sessions were available for seven dollars per CD or DVD. Dozen of conventioneers milled
around the area, chatting in small groups. Upton scanned the crowd until he located a wiry,
rugged-looking man sporting a thick black moustache, a Stetson hat, well-worn blue jeans and
battered cowboy boots. He was seated at one of the round tables at the far end of the room, his
long legs stretched astride the table legs. He seemed to be amusing himself by studying the
throng of people milling around him.

"There's our man," Upton whispered to Rena.

As they approached, the cowboy tipped his hat, removing a toothpick from his mouth.
"Good morning," he said, moving his legs to make room for the newcomers. He gestured toward
the picture windows across the room and spoke in a slow drawl that seemed to flow from
somewhere deep in his chest. "Jeeze Louise! They say it's already snowed a foot and a half out
there--and no end in sight."

"It's a bad one," Upton agreed. "Randy, can we kidnap you for a few minutes?"

"You sure can. Especially if you're inviting me to slip off somewhere for a cancer
stick."

"Sorry," Upton murmured. "I gave up smoking ten years ago." Ceremoniously, he turned
to face Rena. "Rena Oberhaus, allow me to introduce you to Theia Rand."

"Where are we going?" Randy said as Upton led the way toward the swimming pool area
where he and Rena had huddled minutes earlier.

"Somewhere private," Upton replied without slowing his pace. "We need to talk."

Rena eyed the cowboy as though she thought Upton was playing a prank on her. "Are
you really Theia Rand?"

They reached the door marked
Pool and Sauna.
"Actually, the name is Randy
Callahan. Theia Rand is my
nom de plume
." He gave an embarrassed shrug as he added,
"You can see why I have to write under an assumed name. The public couldn't handle the notion
of some dumb farm boy from Oklahoma writing romance stories. You need a mystique--and
Randy Callahan just wouldn't cut it. Not even Randi with an
i
. Hell, even J.K. Rowling
couldn't use her real name." He focused his attention on Upton. "But I get this feeling you didn't
drag me over here to talk about my personal angst, now did you?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Upton admitted. "Randy, we've got a problem. A serious
problem."

"Such as?"

"Were you one of the judges in last year's writing contest?"

The wiry man stroked his chin pensively. "Sort of. I was pretty busy at that particular
time, so I told them I could only help out in the second round." He lowered his voice and
confessed, "I kinda figured, let someone else sort out the wheat from the chaff, if you know what
I mean."

"Believe me, I've judged my share of those contests," Upton said knowingly. "Randy,
there's a woman who entered the contest last year. She claims the plot of your newest book is the
same story she submitted."

Randy whistled silently, slowly tossing his head from side to side like an injured bull. "I
sure don't like the sound of
that
tune. Was her entry one of the ones I judged?"

"We don't know," Rena told him. "This just came up a few minutes ago."

Upton added, "We don't know anything about this woman or whether what she's
claiming has any merit. But I thought you were entitled to know about it."

"I appreciate the heads up." He slapped a hand against his thigh. "Damn! I sure don't
need to be accused of something like this. In these parts, that's worse than being a cattle
rustler."

Upton watched in sympathetic silence. He understood what even an accusation of
plagiarism could do to a writer's career.

Abruptly, Randy said, "You know, Art, something just occurred to me. Maybe we ought
to go hunt GP and see whether she can shed any light on the subject. She's the one who--"

"I've had the same thought."

Rena pointed at her wristwatch. "We may have to wait a while. She's just starting her
speech."

"Then let's go and listen to what she has to say," Randy suggested. "It sure beats standing
around here twiddling our thumbs and fretting up a storm. Besides, we might learn something
from her. That woman sells a lot of books."

* * * *

Because the second set of morning sessions were in full swing, the hallway outside the
meeting rooms was nearly empty. Its most notable occupant was a woman in designer jeans and
an orange-and-blue Broncos sweatshirt.

"Hi, Fay," he said as he approached the table where she was seated. "How are things
going?"

She colored slightly. "It's Rae."

With an embarrassed shrug, he said, "Rae. Sorry about that. I don't suppose you know
where Suzanne Gibbons-Powers would be?"

She consulted the printed outline on the table in front of her. "She's in the Aspen Room,
presiding over a panel on
The Care And Feeding of Literary Agents.
"

"Much obliged," Randy Callahan said, tipping his hat as he left them.

Rae reached out and caught Upton's sleeve. "By the way, the murder mystery is the most
marvelous idea! People have been raving about it all morning."

"What do you mean?"

Rae giggled. "The dead body in the Aspen Room. But there's just one thing. People keep
asking me what they'll win if they solve the crime. I don't know what to tell them."

Upton frowned at Rena. "You planted a dummy in the Aspen room? I'm supposed to be
a mystery writer, and I didn't even notice it. Neither did Royce Fontaine. You should have told
me you were going to--"

"I did no such thing," Rena asserted indignantly. "Rae, I have no idea what you're talking
about."

Rae's eyes shifted between Upton and Rena. "Oh, come on you guys. A dozen people
have asked me about it. They say it's somewhere in the Aspen Room." Her voice rose in alarm.
"You really don't know about this?"

"I really don't," Upton growled between clenched teeth. "But I sure as hell intend to find
out!"

He turned and headed toward the Aspen Room.

In tight-lipped silence, Upton slipped through the doorway into the rear of the small
auditorium, followed by Rena and Randy. There were no vacant seats, so the three newcomers
joined the rows of people standing along back wall.

Two men and a woman were seated at the speaker's table. One of the men, in his early
thirties with pallid skin drawn too tightly over his face, was saying, "...and the odds are that only
one or two of you are writing the quality of material that would even remotely interest someone
like me."

Upton flushed with anger. The speaker was Zachary Tuck, the New York literary agent
who had represented him for three miserable years. He was tempted to step forward and demand,
"Where do you get off throwing a wet blanket on the aspirations of these people, Tuck?"

But he held his tongue.

He had something more pressing on his mind.

Methodically, he scanned each seat, waiting for its occupant to show some sign of life.
Within ten minutes, he had concluded there were no dead bodies occupying any of the seats. He
turned his attention to the thicket of people along the walls. One by one, he verified that they,
too, were alive and showing the normal signs of human activity.

There was only one place left to check, but the room was filled beyond capacity and he
nearly missed it.

In fact, he did overlook it at first. In a corner of the room, along the wall to his right,
someone was seated on the floor, legs jutting out along the carpet. All Upton could see from his
vantage point was a pair of black dress shoes and gray slacks. He studied the motionless figure
for several minutes, waiting for some twitch or kick or other sign of life.

But there was nothing.

He leaned over and whispered to Rena, "I think I've spotted it, over in that far corner. It
looks like it's just a mannequin. There's probably nothing to worry about."

"That's a relief," she said.

"And even it if isn't, there's nothing we can do about it until this session is over. We
wouldn't want to set off a panic."

Upton turned his attention to the panel of agents. He was gratified to note that the other
speakers were much more encouraging than Tuck, as they answered every question put to
them:

"Do I really have to pay an agent to read my manuscript?"

"Absolutely not," answered the female agent, a brunette who was dressed in a tailored
black blazer and slacks. "Most good agents don't charge a reading fee. I would never recommend
paying someone extra money to do his or her job."

"What kind of questions should you ask an agent before you sign up with him?"

The other male agent, whom Upton knew had been in the business for decades, said,
"Everything you can think of. Don't be shy. This is your
career we're talking about."

As the questions continued, Upton began staring obsessively at his wristwatch, wishing
somehow he could will the minutes to move faster. Finally, the session was over. He flattened
himself against the wall, letting the parade of departing writers pass him by. The usual hopefuls
flocked forward, eager to engage the agents in conversation on the off chance one of them would
agree to read a sample of the writer's work.

Fat chance
, Upton thought,
at least if the agent was Zachary Tuck.
He
gently elbowed his way toward the corner of the room, moving against the flow of the
crowd.

There it was.

Seated on the floor, leaning against the two converging walls was an unmistakably male
figure bundled up in a heavy overcoat. A plaid muffler was wrapped around its neck and its head
was covered by a knit ski hat. The eyes were obscured by a pair of sunglasses.

Upton reached down and touched the inert figure on the cheek, quickly jerking his hand
back as his fingers encountered human skin.

Rena gaped at the figure on the floor. "What--"

"This is no dummy," Upton muttered. "This is a real flesh and blood person."

"Is he asleep?"

"I don't think so." He felt for a pulse.

There was none.

"Rena, this man is dead."

All of the color drained from her face. Upton was afraid she was going to faint. He took
her gently by the shoulders.

She took a deep breath. "I'm okay, Art. Really." She glanced down at the body. "This is
just too bizarre!"

"It certainly is," he agreed. "Say, isn't someone from the Lakewood Police Department
hanging around this place somewhere?"

"Mitch Cameron. He spoke during first session. But I assume he left the hotel an hour
ago."

"With all this snow, maybe not. Go and try to find him. We need to handle this as quietly
as possible."

"Shouldn't you be the one to tell him? After all, you're the president of the CFWA."

"Someone has to stay here with the body. I think it needs to be me." He glanced down
toward the dead man. "Particularly since we don't know what he died of."

"What do you mean?"

"Just go and find that policeman before he leaves the building," he urged her.
"Okay?"

Upton realized from her cross look that she resented being bossed around. "I used to be a
cop," he explained. "Old habits die hard."

"You were a cop? I had no idea. When--"

"I don't make a habit of telling people about it." He gently grabbed her shoulder and
twirled her in the direction of the door. "Now, go!"

As she left the room, Upton made note of the time: nine minutes after noon. Although he
had seen his share of dead bodies back in New York, he found himself staring at the motionless
figure on the floor, looking for any sign of movement--the irrational but eternal hope that a dead
body might suddenly jump up and start moving.

He leaned against the wall and waited.

Seven minutes later Rena returned, accompanied by an athletic-looking man in an Orvis
shirt and brown corduroy pants.

"I'm Detective Cameron," the newcomer declared in a businesslike manner. "I
understand you've found a dead body?"

Upton pointed toward the corner of the room. "I'm afraid so."

Cameron kneeled down beside the dead man. "Have you touched him?"

"Just long enough to check for a pulse. Otherwise, I haven't disturbed anything. I used to
be a cop. Midtown Manhattan. I spent most of my time assigned to the Nineteenth Precinct."

"Oh yeah?"

Cameron reached for the leather case attached to his belt. He pulled out a cell phone,
punched in a number and waited. "This is Mitch Cameron. I'm at the Marquis Hotel." He gave
the address. "We've got a dead body."

Upton couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but whatever Cameron was being
told, it wasn't good news.

The color rose in the policeman's face. "What? What are you telling me? Are you
serious? Yes," he said in an exasperated tone, "I know it's been snowing all morning. But there
must be someone who can-- Okay, okay I get the picture. Do the best you can." He stabbed at the
button to end the call. "There's nearly two feet of snow on the ground and they're predicting
another foot and a half by sundown. Apparently there's also something else going on. The
dispatcher can't even promise to get an ambulance out here."