We’ll Always Have Parrots (14 page)

“Nate, what’s up?” I asked. “You look like a man with a mission.”

“Just getting some coffee before another panel,” he said.

“Damn; I was hoping you’d had some news about the show.”

“Not yet,” he said. “And frankly, I don’t think we’ll get a decision until the police solve the murder. What if the network announces that the show will go on, and then the police arrest the wrong person?”

“By wrong person, I assume you mean someone connected with the show.”

“Well, yes,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know what we’d do if that happened. And if the police don’t find the killer soon, then I think the network will pass, even if the killer ultimately has nothing to do with the show.”

We’d reached the green room by this time, and found Maggie, Walker, and Michael seated around a table, laughing uproariously. Detective Foley stood nearby holding a cup of coffee and looking puzzled.

“What now?” Nate muttered.

I strolled over to perch near Michael. Nate followed more warily.

“Have a seat, Meg,” Maggie called, waving a spiral-bound booklet toward a chair. “You’ve got to hear this one.”

“This one what?” Nate asked.

“She’s a hoot when she does this,” Michael murmured in my ear.

Maggie sat up very straight, assumed a solemn expression, and began reading out of the booklet.

“‘Your bath is ready, my lord Duke,’ the buxom servicing wench announced.”

“Servicing wench?” Walker interrupted. “Shouldn’t that be serving wench?”

“Shush,” Maggie said. “The Duke of Urushiol dismissed the comely wench who had drawn his bath water and removed his clothes after she was safely out of the room.”

“Wait a minute,” Michael said. “How could she remove his clothes after she’s out of the room?”

“She didn’t,” Walker said. “He did.”

“No, Michael is right,” Maggie said. “Grammatically speaking, she did, from afar. She has strange gifts, this buxom, comely servicing wench.”

“Go on,” Walker said. “Get to the part where the babe shows up.”

“Oh, God,” Nate said. “Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything!” Walker said, with mock innocence. “See, my hands are on the table.”

“I can’t stay and listen to this!” Nate warned.

“The duke, hearing a noise behind him, startled,” Maggie intoned.

“Startled who?” Michael asked. “Or should that be whom?”

“Yes, it should be whom,” Maggie said. “And yes, startled is usually a transitive verb. Has anyone got a red pen?”

“Here,” Michael said. “It’s not red, but it makes nice little blots all over everything you write on.”

“Serves you right for bringing a cheap pen to your autograph line,” Walker said, shaking his head.

“I had a nice pen before someone stole it,” Michael countered.

“I’m leaving,” Nate said. “You know I can’t listen to this.”

Maggie made corrections on the page, and then resumed.

“Expecting to see the beautiful Sebacea—”

“Ooh, the comely mermaid queen!” Walker crowed.

“Doesn’t do a thing for me; I’m a leg man,” Michael said.

“The embarrassed duke looked around for something to salvage his modesty.”

“Finding nothing large enough—” Walker said, with a swagger.

“Imagine his surprise,” Maggie continued, “when he saw the sinister magician Mephisto standing in the doorway, eyeing him with a strange look of intenseness in his aquiline eyes.”

“Ick!” Walker exclaimed. “Not of general interest.”

“Aquiline eyes?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “I’m dying to find out what the sinister magician’s up to, aren’t you, Meg?”

“I do not do slash,” Walker said. “Maybe it’s a character flaw, but I just can’t deal with it.”

“Would someone mind explaining all this?” Foley said.

Maggie and Michael collapsed in giggles. Even Walker looked mildly amused. Foley looked at me. Was I doomed to spend the entire weekend explaining TV fandom to the police?

“I’d be happy to explain if I knew what was going on,” I said. “Why are you all sitting around reading fan fic?”

“I asked Ms. West to explain something one of my officers overheard in the hallway,” Foley said, “and the next thing I know, I’m standing here listening to them read me bits of badly written erotica.”

“He wanted to know what slash was,” Maggie said, fighting laughter. “So we were showing him.”

“I came in late,” Walker said. “I thought you were doing ordinary fan fic.”

Foley sighed, and looked at me.

“After the fans have watched every single episode of Porfiria about seventeen times, some of them write their own stories,” I said, “set in the same universe, using the same characters.”

“As they understand them,” Michael said.

“That’s what you call fan fiction,” I said. “Or fan fic for short.”

“Are they allowed to do that?” Foley said, frowning.

“Bingo!” Walker exclaimed.

“Technically, no,” I said. “Technically, Miss WynncliffeJones owns—well, owned, anyway—not just the show but the characters, setting—everything.”

“I own them,” Michael muttered, but so softly that I wasn’t sure anyone else heard him.

“And if you want to use them in any way, shape, or form you need her permission or you’re in violation of copyright or trademark, I forget which,” I continued. “Say a toy manufacturer wants to do an action figure like this one of Walker,” I said, picking up a six-inch plastic toy that Walker had apparently been playing with. “Before they can do it, they have to get Miss Wynncliffe-Jones’s permission. Or her heirs’ permission from now on. Nice likeness, by the way,” I said, holding it out to Walker.

“Keep it,” he said, folding my fingers around the doll. “I put myself entirely in your hands. Be gentle with me.”

“Watch it,” Michael said. “My aquiline eye is on you.”

“And how rigorously is this enforced?” Foley asked,

“Speaking completely unofficially,” I said, “since unlike anyone else at this table, I have no actual connection to the show—”

Maggie laughed at that, and Michael and Walker looked sheepish.

“As long as they aren’t blatant about it, no one really cares, as far as I can see,” I said. “If you come home from the movies and fantasize that you’re hunting for the lost ark with Indiana Jones, or maybe playing one of the lead roles in
Body Heat
, who cares? It’s harmless.”

“And it sells tickets,” Maggie said.

“And if you’re a would-be writer, and you want to put your wish fulfillment down on paper, again—who cares? But at some point, if you start passing it out to other people and putting it up on web sites, and even selling it, the production company has to do something or risk losing their rights.”

“It’s a little hard to see how anything like that could steal the show’s thunder,” Foley said.

“No, but what if some other production company wants to do a Porfiria movie?” I said. “They’d have to pay through the nose for the rights—unless they can prove that the QB hadn’t done anything to defend her ownership. So, petty as it sounds, by law, unless she wants to let some big crook take advantage of her, she has to slap around all the harmless little fans who are only having fun playing with characters they adore.”

“But she doesn’t want to slap them around,” Maggie said. “For one thing, it creates ill will, and for another, who wants to pay a bunch of lawyers to do it?”

“So nobody’s going to search every booth in the dealers’ room to see if some of them might be selling fan fic,” I said. “As long as they’re discreet, they can do whatever they want.”

“Except hand it to us,” Michael said. “Technically, we’re employees of the production company. We’re not supposed to look at the stuff. Because as long as the company doesn’t officially know it exists, it doesn’t have to do anything.”

“Besides, it creeps us out,” Walker grumbled.

“Speak for yourself,” Maggie said, with a grin. “When I find out some guy gets his jollies writing steamy fantasies about me—hell, at my age, I’m flattered.”

“Well, you don’t get the slash,” Walker said.

“That’s where I came in,” Foley said. “Maggie, someone said you broke up a group peddling slash in the lobby. That was what I wanted to hear about.”

“Slash is fan fic that takes two characters from the show who would absolutely not be involved,” Walker said, “and puts them in a…romantic relationship.”

“Usually two male characters,” Maggie said, “and for ‘romantic,’ substitute ‘erotic.’ But apart from that, yeah.”

“So this isn’t anything horrific,” Foley said. “For some reason, I got the idea it might be something like a snuff film. Or something drug related.”

“Nothing like that,” I said.

“Just fan fic written by gay fans,” Foley said.

“No, usually by women,” Maggie said. “God knows why; if I see an actor I like, I fantasize about seeing him with me, not with another guy. The name comes from the slash sign used to punctuate it. Mephisto-slash-Urushiol. For some reason, it bugs Walker.”

“Duchess-slash-Porfiria,” Walker countered.

“Point taken,” Maggie said, with a laugh.

“So we’re not talking about anything violent,” Foley said.

“No, but it does bring up an interesting possible motive for murder,” Walker said. “What if one of the fan fic people got a cease-and-desist letter from the QB’s lawyers and took it way too personally?”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Foley said, not sounding convinced. He swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the general direction of the trash can as he turned to go.

“You know,” I said. “Since Porfiria’s based on a comic book, I suppose the show’s lawyers also have to worry about fake comics, too.”

Foley stopped when he heard that, and turned back.

“You see a lot of that?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Do we see it? No,” Maggie said. “We work very hard at not seeing it. But it happens.”

“I suspect you can find a lot of it in the dealers’ room,” I said. “Most of it’s probably pretty crude and amateurish, but some of it, I bet you’d think it was the real thing.”

Foley glanced back at me and nodded. Then he turned on his heel, and this time, he made it out the door.

“What was that in aid of?” Michael said.

Okay, so maybe the cops weren’t as short-sighted about the comic scrap as I’d assumed.

“I wish they could leave the poor fans alone,” Maggie said. “Who are they really hurting?”

“It’s a legal thing,” Walker said, with a shrug.

“Oh, and as long as it’s legal, it’s perfectly fine, right?” Maggie said. “Remember that the next time you’re complaining about your contract.”

“You know what strikes me when I look at this stuff?” I said. “It’s not that different from what Ichabod Dilley was doing when he first started writing and drawing the Porfiria stories.”

“He made up his own world,” Michael said.

“Out of bits and pieces of popular culture,” I said. “Tell me you don’t see bits of Conan and Tarzan and Tolkien characters in the Porfiria comics. And I bet the early underground comics were just as crudely produced as these are.”

“Worse, from what I remember,” Maggie said.

“And come to think of it, if Ichabod Dilley were still alive, I wonder if he’d have to get the QB’s permission to do new Porfiria comics, too.”

“Is this significant?” Michael asked. He didn’t say more, apparently remembering that he was the only one here who knew anything about the scrap of comic I’d found in the QB’s hand.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Just then, we noticed a couple of convention volunteers lurking in the doorway.

“Come on, boys,” Maggie said. “It’s time for lunch with the stars. Assuming they’ve found a restaurant that’s open.”

“Lunch with the stars?” I repeated.

“We each sit at a table with eleven people who have donated obscene amounts of money to charity for the privilege,” Michael said. “Dinner, however, is another story. I would rather dine with the star of my own personal firmament, if you can get away from your booth for an hour.”

“Flattery will get you anywhere, and Chris can fill in at the booth,” I said. “He owes me. What time?”

“Probably around six,” he said. “Early, anyway. I can come by when I’m free. We have to make it early, because the festivities start up again at seven. We’re judging the open costume competition.”

“And Chris and Harry and I are doing another stage combat demonstration,” I said. “As if everyone at the convention didn’t get to see me stab myself in the foot the first time around.”

“Well, I didn’t see it,” he complained. “I was off signing, remember?”

“I take it back,” I said. “For you, I’ll gladly make a fool of myself again.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said. “I’ve been doing that all day, and people keep applauding. Gotta run; try not to tick off Foley so much that he arrests you before dinner.”

“I have no intention of ticking him off at all,” I called after him, as he headed for the door. “I’ll be sitting in my booth.”

“I thought you’d be sleuthing,”

“That, too.”

As I turned to go, I realized that they’d left the dozen or so samples of fan fic on the table. I tidied them into my tote. Odds were they had nothing to do with the murder, but you never knew.

But as I walked back to the dealers’ room, I found myself thinking about the fan fic. And about the scrap of paper I’d found in the QB’s hand. Was it fan fic, or the real thing?

And was it perceptive, or just stupidly obsessive, to keep coming back to that scrap of paper? And to the perhaps irrational feeling that to understand it, I needed to know a lot more about what happened back in 1972? Maybe it was a good thing that I’d steered Foley to the fake Porfiria comics in the dealers’ room. But it would be even better if he’d poke into the real ones. Into the past. Would it do any good to suggest it?

No harm, anyway.

When I got to the dealers’ room, I found Foley himself standing just outside the door. He looked free, so I decided to tackle him.

“Have you got a moment?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at his watch as if to say, “But only a moment, so make it snappy.”

“Look, this may sound stupid, but are you looking at what happened back in 1972?”

“For example?”

“For example, that around 1972, Miss Wynncliffe-Jones bought all the rights to the Porfiria comic books for a sum now widely considered larcenously low? That shortly afterward, Ichabod Dilley, the creator of the comics, died under suspicious circumstances? And that the piece of paper found in her hand appeared to be a portion of one of those comics? A piece of paper, of course, that I haven’t told anybody about, apart from Michael.”

“We appreciate your discretion,” Foley said. “And we’d appreciate if you’d continue keeping quiet about the scrap of paper, although I don’t think it’s that strong a link to 1972. From what I hear, even the original comic books wouldn’t be all that valuable if not for the TV fans.”

He sounded—well, not exactly patient. More like he’d had plenty of practice in not sounding impatient.

“What about the fact that Francis used to be her agent back then?”

He looked a little less deliberately patient at that.

“I imagine he’s had a lot of clients if he’s been in the business that long.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “And he’s probably seen a lot of them murdered, too; you know what a cutthroat place Hollywood is.”

Foley’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

“What about the rumor that the relationship between Nate Abrams and Miss Wynncliffe-Jones was more than professional?”

Okay, I was grasping at straws here. The more I thought about Karen the costumer’s hint that Nate was—how had she put it?—sweet on the QB, the more I dismissed it as her overly romantic interpretation of events. And did Foley’s remarkably blank expression mean that he found this interesting, or just that he was really tired of listening to me?

“I don’t suppose you know anything to substantiate this rumor?” he asked.

“No, but if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

I expected him to ask who I’d heard the rumor from, or warn me about not interfering in a police investigation, but he simply nodded and walked off.

Damn. I didn’t get the feeling he’d totally ignored me, but I knew I hadn’t convinced him. Not surprising; all I had was my gut feeling that whatever happened in 1972 had something to do with the murder. Not much to go on.

But it was all I had. And just in case Foley’s focus on present-day motives didn’t work out, maybe someone should look into the past. Or start looking, anyway. By Sunday afternoon, the suspects would scatter over the continent. How far could I get in a day and a half?

At least I knew where to start. With the comic books.

“No way,” Cordelia said, a few minutes later. “Do you know what those comics are worth?”

“I don’t want you to give them to me,” I said. “I just want to look at them. It’s important.”

“Why?”

Probably not a good idea to say I was trying to solve the QB’s murder.

“There were only twelve Porfiria comic books ever published, right?” I asked.

“Right.”

“So what would you say if I told you there might be another one?”

“You have a lead on the Lost Thirteenth Porfiria?” Cordelia said, in hushed tones.

Apparently I’d accidentally tapped into an existing rumor.

“Maybe,” I said. “I need to study the twelve again first.”

Again. As if I’d ever actually read any of them.

“If you get it, you’ll let me handle the sale? This could be the biggest thing since…well, I don’t remember anything like it. You will, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Definitely an existing rumor—and not just any rumor, but one of mythic proportions in the comic book world.

It took me fifteen more minutes of wheedling, and in the end, I had to bribe her, but I finally talked Cordelia into letting me borrow all twelve issues of the original Porfiria. Chris willingly agreed to take my place at the booth. I left him and Steele perched at the two ends of the booth like matching gargoyles and stole away to my room to read the comics.

And was surprised to find Michael there, lying on the bed with a wet washcloth draped over his face.

“In the movies, they usually find something a little larger to put over the body,” I said.

“Well, I’m not that far gone yet,” he said, with a weak laugh. “Head’s killing me, though. Congestion. Thank heaven I have a break.”

“What happened to lunch with the stars?” I said.

“Postponed until tomorrow,” he said, “assuming either the health department reopens the restaurant or they find an alternate site. Just as well. I’m exhausted.”

“I could leave,” I offered.

“No, stay,” he said. “Your company will hasten my recovery, as long as you can manage not to tell me all the medical events currently happening in my lungs and sinuses. I really don’t want to think about all that.”

“Ah, you’ve been talking to Dad, then,” I said. “I was wondering what he was up to.”

“I just thought I’d ask what decongestants he recommends,” Michael grumbled. “How was I supposed to know that he considers decongestants a dangerous interference with the drainage that is part of the body’s natural healing process?”

“Because it’s been at least a year since you had a cold,” I said. “He goes off on these natural healing kicks every few years. I happen to have brought some of the decongestants he recommends when he’s in his normal, better-living-through-chemicals mode. I suspected you might need them before the con was over.”

“You’re an angel,” Michael said. “And if you wouldn’t mind running some hot water over this compress…”

With his compress reheated and the promise of relief washed down by a cold Coke, Michael perked up sufficiently to notice what I was doing.

“I presume there’s a murder-related reason for you to be sitting here reading comic books instead of minding your booth?” he asked, in a voice slightly muffled by the washcloth.

“Was that a slam at comic books?” I asked. “Although actually, I think ‘graphic novels’ probably are better words after all.”

“Makes you feel less silly?”

“‘Comics’ seems to imply a cartoonish style, and there’s nothing cartoonish about Ichabod Dilley’s drawings. Elegant’s more like it. The man’s brilliant. Or was brilliant, more’s the pity.”

“I could work up a good fit of jealousy over that remark if the poor wretch weren’t dead,” Michael said.