8 Antiques Con Read online

  I sat forward, excited. “What, Mother?”

  “It was a Montblanc!”

  Smirking, I leaned back and sipped my ginger ale.

  The whites of her eyes showed in the green of her face. “Oh, and I surprised him with another question, too.”

  “What, did you know the color of ink?”

  “No. I asked him if I was right in thinking that Tommy didn’t have his room keycard on him. And he confirmed that as well.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Elementary, my dear flying monkey. Violet must have taken it off his body after she killed him. That’s how she got into his room to search it, reclaiming Eric’s pen.”

  I was smiling, excitement spiking through me. “Mother, I think you have her. I think you have enough for Detective Cassato to arrest Violet.”

  She was clearly proud of herself. “Well, at least enough to convince him that Violet’s the prime suspect.”

  So we sat in the semidark, smugly sipping our sodas for a while, as I sent my eyes around the room, looking for Violet. Finally, I spotted her at a large, well-populated table at the edge of the dance floor, and gave Mother a poke.

  Our prime suspect was dressed as a sexy Little Red Riding Hood, red cape removed and draped over the back of her chair. Holding court with a group of zombie-clad friends, she seemed overly animated, as if trying a little too hard to be having fun, possibly for the benefit of Eric and Helena. The couple, entwined in each other’s arms, were dancing slowly nearby to “Love Hurts.”

  Neither husband nor wife was in costume: Eric wore a bright green sports coat over a black shirt with black slacks; Helena, a short yellow knit dress and blue kitten heels.

  I couldn’t help feeling a wee bit sorry for the jilted woman, who was trying hard to pretend she wasn’t watching them. On the other hand, Violet was almost certainly a murderess, so maybe she had it coming.

  Before the music stopped, Eric and his wife moved off the dance floor holding hands, then wended their way through the crowd and out the main doors.

  Finally, after a midtempo tune that got few dancers out there, the DJ started another song, an upbeat bombastic one, and Violet’s zombie friends got up, one by one, and headed out to the crowded floor. But Violet remained behind, even as other dancers moved past either side of her table, on their way to the floor.

  “Now’s our chance, dear,” Mother said. “Let’s go show Little Miss Red Riding Hood what big teeth I have!”

  “No, Mother. Maybe we should wait until—”

  I was going to say until the DJ took a break, but the Wicked Witch was up and moving. I caught up, making no effort whatsoever to walk like a monkey, and together we approached Violet.

  “Dear,” Mother said loudly above the music. “We simply must speak with you! There are questions only you can answer. . . .”

  Violet was staring rather blankly at her glass of red wine.

  Mother touched Violet’s shoulder, and the woman fell forward, sprawled across the table, her white complexion contrasting with the various shades of red around her, including spilled wine.

  In her back was a pearl-handled dagger I had seen before.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  To get the most out of the convention, plan each day in advance by using the program booklet to determine what panels and events you wish to attend. Seasoned attendees allow for the unexpected, such as long lines, last-minute changes, and surprise guests—and, in our case, the occasional unscheduled murder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Con Fine

  A sprawled costume partygoer with a knife in her back caused an interesting reaction among those nearby. Smiles blossomed at first, as in, “What a cool costume!” or “Isn’t that an outrageous stunt!” Then those smiles turned downward into horror, and couples clutched each other, hands going to mouths, eyes wide, not sure what to believe.

  But the loud dance music, and the crowded room itself, meant a relatively small number of attendees had noticed Violet’s condition, and no general panic had broken out; at least, not yet.

  While Mother stood watch over Violet’s body, I hurried off to find Robert Sipcowski, pushing my way through the boisterous crowd, most of the happy revelers unaware of the murder, much less the murderer in their midst (unless he or she had already fled). I considered opening my wings, as that might cause people to make way for me, but in this group, it took more than just being a winged monkey to get their attention.

  The head of security was leaning against the wall by the main doors. I waved at him.

  “Trouble!” I yelled.

  I wasn’t sure he could hear me over the music, but however relaxed he might look, Robert was a trained pro. His slack body straightened, bored eyes going alert, and he quickly came over and followed me back to Violet’s table.

  He took one look at the protruding knife in her back, and the blood that had seeped around the wound, and knew at once that this was no comic-con special effect.

  Finding no pulse in Violet’s neck, he barked tersely into his walkie-talkie: “Code thirty!”

  Which I knew meant “homicide,” because Mother had a police scanner back home, along with a list of codes. I knew those codes by heart, not because I’d memorized them, but thanks to Mother blurting out each number’s meaning as it came out of the scanner.

  Around us, the crowd of costumed spectators had grown; we were surrounded, though no one encroached upon our space, perhaps out of fear or uneasiness. Possibly, it was out of respect for the late Violet—the second-in-command at Bufford Con, who had just joined its founder in death.

  Robert and his team backed the attendees off farther, as the ballroom went into immediate lockdown—doors slamming shut, chandelier lights blazing on, the pounding music abruptly stopped midtune.

  For a few seconds dancers on the crowded floor boogied on, before halting midstep, squinting from the bright lights like bar patrons at closing time. Gasps and cries spread through the room like ripples in water, alerting others that something bad had happened, the music replaced by the milling sound of disturbed partygoers. Some of the latter remained standing, but most made their way back to their tables. Here and there attendees were crying, mostly females, a sobbing Wonder Woman weeping nearby.

  Robert shouted, “Find somewhere to sit! If you can’t, stand at the rear.” He pointed. “No one is leaving!”

  The half-dozen tables nearest Violet’s body were cleared by the security chief’s crew, keeping civilians away from the immediate crime scene.

  When Mother and I started to follow Robert’s orders, heading back to our little table, he said, “Hold up there! Not you two.”

  We put on the brakes, still near the table where Violet slumped like a child napping at a school desk, with only the knife in her back to say she was doing more than slumbering.

  Robert frowned at us, apparently not hostile, just enmeshed in the seriousness of what had gone down. “What can you tell me about this before the cops arrive?”

  He had addressed both of us, but I wasn’t sure we should say anything until the police got here—with his Mob ties, Robert was a suspect. Where exactly had he been when Violet was stabbed? He could have been in that crowd that swarmed past her table, done the deed, and repositioned himself along the wall.

  So I gave Mother a narrow-eyed gaze and shook my head as if I were straightening my hair, but trying to convey don’t answer to her.

  Mother, however, has never been one to shy away from a question, although her response might be suspect.

  She said, “We saw Violet seated all by her lonesome, and came over to keep the dear girl company. We were eager to tell her what a fine job she’s been doing with the convention. Such a terrible thing to happen.”

  “And this is how you found her?”

  “Well, she was sitting up and I touched her shoulder and then she sort of . . . flopped forward. So, yes and no.”

  Robert looked at me. “What about you? Did you see anything?
Do you know anything about this?”

  “Well . . .”

  His frown deepened. “Well what?”

  I nodded toward Violet. “That dagger belongs to the con’s Fan Guest of Honor. Brad Webster.”

  I was about to add that the dagger being the murder weapon didn’t necessarily make Brad the murderer when a beefy security guy hauled over a sullen Brad, arms pinned, the acned young man looking more than a little ridiculous in his cape and all those buckled belts.

  “This kid tried to sneak out,” the guard told his boss.

  “That your knife, son?” Sipcowski asked.

  “I’m not saying anything without a lawyer,” Brad answered defiantly.

  Robert nodded toward me. “She says it’s your knife.”

  “Dagger,” I said.

  Then Brad glared at me. “Thanks a lot, Brandy.”

  Robert turned to me again. “You know this guy?”

  “I’ve spoken to him exactly twice. Most recently, he let me cut in line at the bar. I guess he thought that bought him my silence in a murder investigation.”

  Brad gave me a dirty look. Not as dirty as when I’d confused sorcerers and wizards, but dirty enough.

  And they hauled him out to wait for the police.

  Who soon arrived, with a forensics team, but with no sign of Detective Cassato or any other plainclothes cop. A uniformed officer interviewed us briefly, taking notes. Around midnight, the partygoers were finally released, after giving the officers their names and addresses; out-of-towners like Mother and me were told not to leave the city without informing the NYPD, and to expect to be asked to make more formal statements tomorrow.

  I was relieved Sal Cassato hadn’t been among the first responders, as Mother and I might have been kept deep into the night, answering his questions. I felt pretty wrung out, and looked forward to getting back to our suite and getting out of this monkey suit, and I don’t mean tuxedo.

  But in the otherwise empty elevator, Mother seemed energized by the tragedy.

  “Why so morose, dear?” she chirped, a smile on her green face, her pointed hat a little crooked. “The police have their man. Violet killed Tommy, and Brad killed her over it. Case closed.”

  “I’m not so sure. Brad’s a little odd, but he’s a fantasy role player, not the type for a real-life killer.”

  “There’s no murderer ‘type,’ dear. You should know that by now.”

  The elevator ding signaled our floor, and we stepped off.

  “But there is,” Mother said solemnly as we walked to our room, “one thing about Violet’s murder that bothers me.”

  She wanted me to ask, so I did: “And that is?”

  “That we didn’t get the credit for solving Tommy’s murder.”

  I came to a halt in the hallway. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Quite serious, dear. We weren’t able to confront Violet about her crime, and the police will consider our explanation of how she killed Tommy irrelevant after her murder, except as it provides a motive for her own killing.”

  We started walking again.

  “I blame your friend Brad,” she said.

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “Well, he’s certainly not mine! Not after he and his dagger stole our glory.”

  “Who cares about glory?”

  She frowned and gave her green face a probably witchy cast. “Well, I do. It’s a matter of principle—you know I always say, give credit where credit is due.”

  “Well, I don’t want any. Not credit, not glory, not nuttin’. Anyway, I have a feeling Brad is a patsy in this thing.”

  Her eyes gleamed. She loved it when I talked noir.

  Stopping in the hall again, she said, “But it was Brad’s knife, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, or at least his dagger. There’s a difference.”

  “That’s right, dear, a dagger has two sharp sides.”

  It was always disturbing to learn that Mother knows such things.

  We started walking again as I went on: “Brad made no secret of carrying a real weapon on him—he took a sense of pride in it.”

  The green face frowned. “You’re certain of that?”

  I shrugged. “I barely know him, and he told me.”

  She was thinking, wheels turning—I could all but hear the grinding and clanking. “And that was a crowded room . . .”

  “Right.”

  “. . . and someone could have easily taken the opportunity to lift that knife without Brad realizing it.”

  “Someone who knew Brad and Tommy were close, and that Brad and Violet had argued in front of witnesses about Tommy’s death.”

  She was nodding, the black pointed hat bobbing. “Someone who figured Brad Webster was all but guaranteed to be charged for Violet’s murder.”

  I opened the door to our suite and let Mother in first.

  Sushi ran to greet us and I picked her up. Mother strode over to her commandeered menu board with its suspect list, regarding it as if in an art gallery.

  “We have two different murderers now,” I said, scratching the little dog’s head as I went over to join her.

  Mother turned to me. “Yes, a murderer with his or her own motive—perhaps most likely someone who, like us, figured out Violet had killed Tommy, and avenged him.”

  “Not necessarily. It could be an accomplice in the first crime, cleaning up in panic mode.”

  She shook her head. “No, Violet had no accomplice. Tommy’s murder in that elevator was clearly impromptu . . . but for now, let’s concentrate on Violet’s killing. Who had the opportunity?”

  At her side, I studied the names she’d written on the board, taking them in order. “Gino Moretti—didn’t see him there, did you?”

  She shook her head. “But it was a costume party, keep in mind. Almost anyone could have attended incognito. Isn’t that a wonderful word, incognito?”

  “Wonderful, maybe. Helpful, no. The suspects who we know were there for sure are, well, obviously, Brad Webster. So he’s a yes.”

  Mother put a check by his name, and every “yes” that followed. Gino had earned a “maybe.”

  I went on: “Robert Sipcowski, yes. Eric Johansson, yes.”

  “Yes and no,” Mother said, raising a finger. Standing at the chalkboard, she was the epitome of every kid’s image of the teacher as a wicked witch. “Eric was at the costume ball, yes, but left with his wife, Helena, before Violet was murdered.”

  “So he’s a no. . . . Harlan Thompson, yes.”

  Mother added the new suspect to the list, making a check mark in the “yes” column, then stared at the chalkboard for an eternity, or, anyway, ten seconds.

  Finally, she turned her green mug toward me. “Dear, we simply must speak with that boy Bradley Webster.”

  I frowned. “He’s in NYPD custody—how exactly do a couple of tourists from Serenity, Iowa, manage that?”

  Her smile was every bit as wicked as Margaret Hamilton’s (that’s what Google is for, youngsters). “I have a plan. A cunning plan.”

  I groaned. Whenever she made that particular Blackadder reference, I knew I was in trouble. “Can it keep until the morning? I’m bushed.”

  “This is the morning, dear, and there is no time like the present. Right now, that poor innocent boy is probably in a holding cell—tomorrow he may be in an even more inconvenient location.”

  “So now you think he’s innocent?”

  “It’s a strong possibility.”

  “Fine,” I sighed wearily. “Can I at least get out of this monkey suit first? Maybe you could not go green?”

  “No time, dear. We must move quickly.”

  Mine was not to reason why. Mine was but to do and sigh. “Shall I get our coats?”

  “Yes. And Sushi’s medication.”

  “She’s had her medication today.”

  “I don’t want you to give it to her. I want her insulin bottle.”

  “What for?”

  “Just get it, dear. And a syringe packet,
too, if you please. I’ll fill you in on our way.”

  This evasiveness meant she didn’t want to argue with me over whatever “cunning” plan she had just cooked up. I really should have put my foot down. I should have stripped out of the borrowed organ-grinder getup and left my mother to her own devices. Just grabbed my warm little dog and crawled under the covers.

  So that’s exactly what I did.

  Not. Instead we left the room and caught the elevator down to the lobby.

  Mother asked the hotel doorman where the closest police station was, and he told her, before hailing us a cab. Taking off her witch’s hat, Mother climbed in first, saying to the driver, “Fourteenth precinct and make it snappy.” I crawled in after, as Mother added, “Don’t let the green face alarm you.”

  The seen-it-all cabbie said, “As long as your money’s green, lady.”

  “It’s really rather multicolored these days, isn’t it? But I take your point.”

  We were already moving, with me sitting forward to accommodate my umbrella wings. Up Eighth Avenue we went, taking a left on West Thirty-fifth Street. The cab dropped us in front of a squat three-story, brown brick and glass building, a seasoned structure that still had window air conditioners. A lettering style screaming sixties read MIDTOWN PRECINCT SOUTH above a smaller CITY OF NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT over the double glass doors.

  Police cars were parked diagonally on both sides of the narrow street, front wheels up on the sidewalk to make the most of limited space, and we squeezed between two of the blue-and-white vehicles, then went up three squat wide cement steps and stopped at the doors.

  “I’ll do all the talking, dear,” Mother whispered.

  En route, she had told me her plan.

  “You bet you will. By the way, this is your dumbest stroke of genius yet.”

  An eyebrow arched in the green face. “If you have a better idea, I am open to suggestions.”

  “Not my job. I’m just a flying monkey. You’re the head witch.”

  She nodded, apparently taking that as a compliment, and breezed into the waiting area with me in her embarrassed wake. Things seemed relatively calm, by Manhattan standards, anyway; only a few citizens were seated, waiting to be served and protected: worried parents, battered women, male indigents in from the cold. And now a green-faced witch and a disgruntled-looking winged monkey.