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Authors: Kenneth L. Levinson

Tags: #Mystery, #Murder - Investigation, #writing, #Colorado

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BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
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"Not a problem," the manager assured him. "At least, until noon tomorrow. There's a
wedding party scheduled to arrive at 5:30."

"Thanks. We'll be out of there by then."

He nearly added, "I hope."

* * * *

Upton slid one of the plastic keys across the scanner and opened the door. He was
surprised at the size of the suite. The large living area held three groupings of furniture carefully
arranged on the plush gray carpeting. Off to the right was a breakfast nook that normally would
have provided a spectacular view to the south; today, all Upton could see was a depressing,
relentless curtain of falling snow. Around the corner were a kitchenette and a large combination
bed and bath suite.

"Not bad," GP commented as she surveyed the suite. "Some of that art work, especially
the pottery, is decent stuff."

Fontaine strode across the room, stopping in front of a large vase on a hardwood
pedestal. He inspected the bottom and raised a brow in approval. "It's a Van Briggle. Made right
here in Colorado. This appears to be one of his later works."

"I'm impressed," GP said. "How do you know about pottery?"

"I'm a historian," he huffed. "I make it my business to know things."

"Folks, we have a different kind of business to attend to," Upton said, grabbing one of
the captain's chairs.

Fontaine lowered his thin figure onto another. GP positioned herself on the couch, next
to Ashley Wade and Randy Callahan. Rena sat cross-legged on the floor, beside a glass-topped
table.

"This is going to be one of our more memorable conventions. For all the wrong
reasons."

"You have a frightful gift of understatement, Arthur," Fontaine declared. "This is the
worst crisis the CFWA has ever faced. A man murdered in our midst!"

"Forgive me for sounding unfeeling," said GP said. "But I don't exactly see this as the
end of civilization as we know it. If--"

Fontaine said, "I am astounded! How can a romance writer be so insensitive to--"

"Look," she interrupted, "I understand that a man was murdered, right here in this hotel.
It's undoubtedly a tragedy for him and for his family, assuming he even has a family. Once we
know who he is, we might even send flowers. But how does this become a life-or-death struggle
for the CFWA? I mean, it's not like one of us had anything to do with it."

"I agree," Ashley said. "What's with all the hand wringing?"

Upton pounded on the chair. "The man was murdered at our convention. In one of our
meeting rooms. He was wearing my hat. And Royce's scarf. And Randy's overcoat. And
Suzanne's sunglasses. And your wrist watch."

"I understand all of that. And it gives me the creeps. But that doesn't mean--"

"Let me finish, Ash," Upton snapped. "Dozens of our members passed through that room
this morning. The police will be questioning all of them--and everyone in this room--until
whoever did this is exposed and caught. This murder affects every one of us."

"Oh," GP muttered. "Well, I asked, didn't I? I don't suppose it was suicide?"

"Not a chance," Upton said. "That man didn't strangle himself, and then sit down in the
corner of the Aspen Room."

Callahan slipped his stockinged feet out of his cowboy boots and stretched his legs
across the glass-topped table. "What I wonder is, why was he wearing my overcoat?"

"That," Upton agreed, "is a good question. And something else. Did he dress himself that
way, or did the killer do it?"

"Why would the killer want to do that?" said Rena.

Upton shrugged. "You're a mystery writer. You tell me."

She studied his face as though she suspected he was teasing her. "You know, I just might
do that. And I have an answer to your question, Suzanne. About why we don't just let Detective
Cameron handle this. He needs our help. There are three mystery writers in this room alone, and
three other authors with a wealth of information about a whole world of subjects. We should be
able to figure this out ourselves."

"You think so?" Randy said dubiously. "I'm not so sure--"

"Well, I am," Ashley declared, falling into the spirit of things. "I think it's a hell of an
idea. Maybe we're up against some sort of criminal mastermind. Where do we start?"

"I don't know," Rena confessed. "I guess--"

"I do," Upton declared. "We need to match a name with the dead man's face. Once we
know who he was, we'll have a better idea why he was murdered. And maybe by whom."

"So how do we identify him?" GP said. "I mean, I'm pretty good at wheedling
information out of people, but I don't think my charms will work very well on a dead man."

"Don't be so sure," Upton retorted. "Although it's possible that Cameron has already
found a wallet or something to identify our stranger." He sighed. "Somehow, I have a feeling it's
not going to be that easy."

"Is Cameron that handsome policeman?" She batted her eyes. "From him, I could cajole
all sorts of information."

"Lay off him, Suzanne," Randy said. "There's a gold wedding band on his left hand. He's
married. In case that matters to you."

"And you noticed this?" she retorted.

"Yeah, I did. I notice all sorts of things," Callahan told her. "As far as I'm concerned, the
details in a story are everything."

She flashed him a feline grin. "I know. I've read your newest book. Randy, darling, you
know I love you dearly, but as one romance writer to another, I think you get too bogged down in
details. It stops the action."

"It's called pacing, Suzanne. You ought to try it some time."

"Pacing?" she flared. "What would you know about--"

"Stop this!" Upton's anger suddenly boiled over . "We've got more important things to
deal with. In addition to the murder and our bollixed up convention schedule, there is another
problem. Rena?"

She stared blankly at him. "Oh, I forgot! This morning a woman came up to the
registration desk and gave me an earful about how one of our members took the story line from
her entry in last year's contest, changed it around a little bit and published it under a new name.
She says the CFWA is responsible for it."

"Are you serious?" Ashley said. "Who would do something like that?"

"Me! Or, rather, Theia Rand." Randy Callahan's face was ashen and twisted. "Or, at
least, that's what she's claiming."

"You admit you stole her story?" Fontaine demanded.

"Of course not. I didn't steal anything. I have no idea what this woman is talking about."
He addressed the group. "That's the absolute truth. I swear it, on my mother's grave."

"Relax, Randy," Upton said. "No one in this room is accusing you of anything." He cast
a cold stare in Royce's direction, "Are we?"

"Not without proof," the elder author replied. "Not without proof."

"I believe you, Randy," said GP. "Or should I say Theia? And, by the way, where on
earth did you get that peculiar name? I've been wondering--"

Callahan glared at her. "Where in blazes do you think? I made it up. You know full well,
a man wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell in the romance market. So I came up with a
woman's name."

"Yeah, but why
Theia
?"

Fontaine cleared his throat authoritatively. "Actually, it's quite an appropriate name. If I
recall correctly, Theia was one of the Greek gods. Some of the legends refer to her as
'Thea.'"

"That's right as rain," Callahan agreed. "She was one of the Titans. The 'Rand' part is
short for my first name."

Upton studied Fontaine with reluctant respect. "You're quite a fount of information,
aren't you? Remind me not to underestimate you."

"I shall do so at every opportunity," Fontaine replied.

"So what do we do about the woman who claims her book idea was stolen?" Ashley
said.

"We need to find out whether there's any truth to her claim." Upton shifted his attention
to Callahan. "I don't think for a minute that you stole her plot, Randy. But, even so, we're obliged
to hear her out."

"I understand," Callahan agreed with a hangdog expression. "Do what you've got to
do."

GP shifted in her chair. "Who is this woman, anyway?"

"Her name is Thelma Ridgeway," Rena said. "Does that ring any bells with
anyone?"

"Not with me," GP said, "but I can probably find out about her. I still have all of the
paperwork from last year's contest. It's sitting in a box in my basement. Randy, weren't you a
judge?"

"I was, but only for the second round. Remember? I couldn't--"

"Oh, yeah, I remember," she cut in, aiming an accusing finger at him. "You bugged out
on the first round. Claimed you were too busy." She turned to Upton. "So, we have to figure out
whether this Ridgeway woman made it past the first round. I can find out, but not until I get
home." She glanced toward the windows. "Which isn't going to be tonight. And maybe not
tomorrow night."

"Something tells me I ought to have a little chat with Ms. Ridgeway," Upton said. "If she
happened to save any of her contest materials, they might provide an indication as to how far her
entry advanced. It might help to establish who judged her submission. Especially if she paid her
ten bucks for a critique."

"Oh, she has all of the stuff with her. She told me so." Rena grimaced. "In fact, she told
me three times."

Upton let out a sigh. "Why don't you hunt her down and see if she's willing to meet with
me. With a little luck, we can nip this thing in the bud."

CHAPTER EIGHT

For the first time that morning, Upton found himself alone. Rena had set out to find
Thelma Ridgeway. Randy Callahan and Ashley Wade headed for the bar, located down on the
lobby level.

GP simply wandered away. No one asked her where she was going and she offered no
explanation. It seemed to Upton that something was bothering her.

Fontaine, looking old and drawn, announced that he was going to his room for a
nap.

Upton wanted to do something to help Cameron, but wasn't sure what. He stood for a
while at the bank of windows near the top of the escalator, letting his mind go blank as he
watched the endless parade of snowflakes. If he had ever seen a worse blizzard, he couldn't
remember when. This was nearly a white-out. He couldn't even make out the outline of the
Mexican restaurant he knew was just across the street.

Something about the scene reminded him of that terrible gray day when his wife finally
lost her battle to throat cancer, and the terrible loneliness he felt as he left the hospice for the last
time. With a shudder, he roused himself from the hypnotic spell of the falling snow. Marching
past the now vacant registration table, he headed for the Aspen Room. He ignored the
hand-lettered sign that ordered, "Keep Out! By Order of Lakewood Police Department" and poked his
head inside.

Cameron was at the speakers' table, busily making notes on a legal pad.

"Mind if I come in?"

Unhurriedly, the detective finished writing. "No."

"Find anything significant?" Upton said, as he crossed the room.

"Bits and pieces," Cameron muttered.

"Did you find a wallet or any i.d.?"

"No."

"So we still don't know who the victim is?"

"I don't. But somebody in this building does."

Upton lowered himself onto one of the front-row chairs. "Look, if I were in your position
I would play it just as close to the chest as you are. I wouldn't let anyone rush me into anything,
either. But tonight is our awards banquet. I'm the keynote speaker and I'm nervous as hell. I
would like to get as much of this murder investigation behind us as possible."

Cameron eyed him with disbelief. "You want me to get it wrapped up this
afternoon?"

Upton smiled. "That's not what I'm saying. Or maybe it is. Hell, I don't know. But a
couple of things about this murder strike me as significant. I hope you don't mind my sharing
them with you. I figure that two heads are always better than one."

Cameron shrugged. "I'm always willing to listen. You never know where important
information may come from. If you used to be a cop, you know that."

"I do." Upton fell silent, as a rush of memories--some good and some almost too
painful--flooded his mind. "God, that seems like another lifetime. I'm becoming downright maudlin.
Anyway, there are two points I wanted to raise with you. First, I have nothing particular to do for
the next couple of hours." He gestured toward the pile of papers spread out on the table beside
Cameron. "I see you managed to print out some pictures of the victim. I'd be willing to grab a few
of them and start asking around, to see if anybody knows anything about him. Or happened to see
him wandering around the hotel this morning. As president of the CFWA, I could do that without
causing too much alarm. It's snowing like hell out there, and I'd hate to have a hotel full of people
in a panic over the thought of being stranded with a murderer."

"Let me think it over." Cameron glanced down at the photographs as though to avoid
meeting Upton's gaze. "What was your second suggestion?"

"Lunch. It's nearly 1:30 and neither of us have eaten. They'll be shutting down the buffet
in a few minutes."

Cameron smiled. "Now, that's a suggestion I don't need to think about."

When Upton and Cameron reached the hotel's main dining room, it was nearly empty.
Only a few stragglers remained, chatting in small groups. Upton recognized two of the people
and gave a perfunctory greeting, not wanting to seem rude but also not inviting conversation.

The buffet had been thoroughly picked over. Most of the stainless steel serving
containers, especially the larger ones for hot dishes like beef stroganoff and lasagna, were
completely empty. He and Cameron managed to fill their trays with plates of cold meats, salad,
fruit and bread. The dessert tables had already been cleared.

Upton gestured with his chin. "How about that table over in the corner? That ought to
afford us some privacy."

BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
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ads

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