8 Antiques Con Read online

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  He smiled sideways at me, shyly. “Huh . . . that’s okay, miss.”

  Miss. So much better than “lady.”

  Tommy had been replaced at the podium. “Who’s that?” I asked the Hulk.

  “That’s the Fan Guest. These cons almost always showcase some fan who’s made a name for himself. That’s Brad Webster.”

  This particular honored guest was rail thin, in superhero t-shirt, jeans, and sandals, with uncombed brown hair, and a case of acne I could see from my back-row seat.

  I asked, “How does a fan make a name for himself?”

  “Well . . . be somebody special, I guess. Webster runs a really popular website devoted to comics fandom—Webbie on the Web.”

  Actually, I had heard of it, from my geek pal Joe Lange. Webster was going on, but you couldn’t understand him, a mix of talking too softly and eating the microphone. Something about taking fandom back for the fans seemed to be the gist, though from whom they were taking it, I couldn’t tell you.

  “He’s about done,” Hulk said after a while.

  “Good—’cause you may have noticed, I need some serious naptime.”

  But it was another ten minutes before Webbie on the Web would relinquish his moment in the spotlight. The applause he got was a little halfhearted.

  As the crowd dispersed, I stayed put, waiting for Mother to find me. When she did, I asked, “Do you think that was wise? Spouting off like that?”

  Mother looked surprised. “Dear, what better way to get the word around?”

  “Well, passing out leaflets wouldn’t have been quite so embarrassing. Posting notices on bulletin boards and on the walls, maybe.”

  “Perhaps you would rather have me shout it from the observation deck of the Empire State Building.”

  “Good idea. That’ll be me, standing right behind you. Giving you support.”

  “Dear, that smirk will become a permanent fixture on your face—just look at what it did to Bruce Willis.”

  “Made him a kazillionaire?” I sighed, “I’m sorry, Mother, if I seem hard to get along with. But I just have to catch a nap. I hardly slept at all, after our incident last night.”

  Mother cocked her head like Sushi trying to understand me talking on the phone to somebody. “You do look a trifle white around the gills, dear. But, I’m afraid, with everyone heading to the elevators, it will be a while before we get to our room—unless you want to use the stairs.”

  I did not. Not fifteen floors of them, anyway. “Let’s look for a service elevator,” I said.

  “Good thinking, dear. Perhaps behind that curtain. . . .”

  Behind the curtain was a storage room of tables and chairs and linens. A door marked EXIT led to a back hallway, down which was, indeed, a service elevator.

  Mother, punching the UP button, said, “You know, dear, we’re going to need costumes for the masquerade ball.” She put a finger on a cheek. “I wonder if that nice Vikki would loan us some costumes from Wicked.”

  “Oh, no. Anything but that. Promise me you won’t call her. You can’t think that we could borrow costumes from a Broadway—”

  The elevator door slid open, and we both gasped.

  On the elevator floor lay Tommy Bufford, pioneer comic con organizer, on his back. He had been presented one final award: a gold pen, stuck in his chest.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Wear comfortable shoes when attending a comics convention. Besides standing in long lines, you’ll be walking all day. Mother thought her moose slippers might be just the thing, but I talked her out of it. Maybe that was a mistake, as she just might have won the costume contest.

  Chapter Four

  Con Found

  While Mother stood guard over Tommy’s body in the service elevator, I hurried back along the vacant hallway, then through the Gold Ballroom, on my way down to the security office to alert Robert Sipcowski of the murder.

  I knew full well Mother would be making her own preliminary investigation. Why? Because she’d said, “Take your time, dear. The poor man can’t be helped now.”

  “Don’t touch anything, Mother,” I’d said.

  “Of course not, Brandy. This isn’t my first time at the rodeo.”

  “Well, it’s your first time at a rodeo in Madison Square Garden, so cool it. At least . . . don’t leave any fingerprints.”

  “I can do all the necessary touching with my eyes.”

  That would have been a disturbing image even if she hadn’t been widening her baby blues behind those thick-lensed glasses.

  I had no desire to hang around the corpse of our host. While Mother could remain calm and even clinical at the sight of a dead body, I couldn’t—not even on Prozac. And when I arrived at the security office, I was out of breath and probably as wild eyed as a charging boar.

  Robert looked up from his desk, eyes alert, his response clipped: “What’s happened?”

  “Service elevator behind the Gold Ballroom.” I swallowed, still catching my breath. “Looks like murder.”

  He frowned. “Hell, you say! Who?”

  “Tommy Bufford. My mother’s there.”

  He was on his feet. “What makes it look like murder?”

  “The gold thing stuck in his chest. It’s a pen, some kind of award from the convention.”

  “Lord. Anyone else know?”

  I shook my head. “Mother and I found him. We were avoiding the main elevators because of the mob.”

  He frowned, taken aback. “The mob?”

  “Not the Mafia Mob. The comic book–fan mob.”

  “I’m not sure which is more frightening,” Sipcowski said, before disappearing into the control room.

  In moments he reappeared, two men in security uniforms on his heels. They hurried by me and through the office door. I followed, but couldn’t keep up, my knees feeling weak, arms growing numb. I had tears in my eyes.

  Why did that thoughtless Tommy Bufford have to go and get himself killed before I had my nap!

  And before very long, I had lost them in the crowded lobby.

  My mind rushed past my own childish need for a nappy-poo in the face of a terrible and unexpected tragedy. What would happen to the convention once the word got out? Would it be cancelled? How would that affect the fans, and the vendors, and the already planned events, from the costume party to the awards show? And what about the auction, where Mother and I counted on selling our drawing?

  If the convention was cancelled, we’d be out money we couldn’t afford to lose. Our cross-country trip had been financed on the promise of a nice payday from our disposal locker find of that vintage Superman drawing.

  But what if the convention went on? I could only imagine the kind of pall that would drape itself over the rest of the proceedings. Would this be the first and last Bufford Con, now that Tommy was gone?

  As I moved by the hotel’s open-walled bar, I saw that it was crammed with fans of drinking age, loud, boisterous, and blithely unaware that a murderer was among them, perhaps in their midst right now.

  Her cherry-festooned white dress exchanged for a more businesslike dark pants suit, Violet was seated at one of the little tables; with her was a woman in jeans and a gold t-shirt boldly labelled in black: STAFF. Tommy’s assistant, a tablet computer before her on the table, appeared to be giving the staff member instructions.

  I paused in the bar’s entry area, biting my lip. Surely Violet, as Tommy’s right-hand “man,” should be informed about his death. But was it my place to do it? As I pondered that, the staffer got up, said something with a tight smile, and quickly left, with the purposeful gait of an underling dispatched to duty.

  I shrugged to myself and approached Violet.

  The tall goth girl with the Bettie Page hair and pink lips looked up blankly. I might have been a waitress whose presence hadn’t been requested.

  Just a little cross, she said, “Yes?” Then recognition spread across her face, and the cr
ossness left, though nothing particularly friendly replaced it.

  I said, “We met yesterday. I’m—”

  “Brandy. Brandy Borne. One of our honored guests.” She smiled mechanically. Then her features softened. “If you’re here to apologize for your mother’s outbursts at the opening ceremony, don’t bother. Actually, I’ve had very good feedback about that. Eccentricity is valued in these circles.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear, but this isn’t about that. It’s—”

  She raised a red-nailed hand. “Mr. Sipcowski told me that someone entered your room last night, and the convention is very sorry about that. But these things happen in the city.”

  “It’s not that, either,” I said. “There’s something that you should—”

  Her violet eyes flashed with alarm. “You have put the drawing in the hotel’s safe?”

  “Yes.” I sat down. She was making it hard, with all her efficiency, for me not to just blurt out the terrible news about her friend.

  She sighed. “Good . . . because it would be awful if anything happened to it—it’s the centerpiece of the auction.”

  For a moment there, I actually thought she might be concerned about Mother and me.

  I said, “This isn’t about my mother or the drawing. It’s about your friend—Tommy.”

  Her heavy eyebrows rose. “What about Tommy?” She put the tablet aside, and pushed back her chair. “Make it quick, would you? You can’t imagine how busy I am.”

  “I’m afraid you’re about to get a whole lot busier.”

  Violet’s eyes narrowed, as she sensed the disaster in my voice. “God, what is it?”

  The time for blurting had come: “Tommy’s dead.”

  She smiled briefly in disbelief, but then could see I wasn’t kidding, her expression darkening. “That’s impossible. I just saw him. You just saw him.”

  She was already punching the speed dial of her cell phone. Listening, she frowned. “Tommy never lets it go to voice mail. . . .”

  “He is dead, Violet. My mother and I found him.”

  The dark eyes flashed. “Where?”

  “Service elevator behind the Gold Ballroom. I’m on my way back there. I just alerted Mr. Sipcowski. You should probably come with me.”

  Her eyes got moist and a quaver entered her voice. “How . . . how did he . . . ?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know on the way.”

  I did so.

  As Violet and I stepped off the elevator on level C, we were approached by one of the uniformed hotel guards.

  “Mr. Sipcowski says you can go into the ballroom, but no farther.”

  I asked, “Where’s my mother?”

  “Is your mother the, uh . . . talkative older woman?”

  “That’s her, all right.”

  He gestured with his head and, as a tribute to his professionalism, did not roll his eyes. “She’s in there now.”

  The guard opened a ballroom door, and Violet and I entered, while he maintained his post.

  The huge room seemed somber now—all the former fun and joy sucked out of it. Mother, in a middle front-row seat, craned her neck at the sound of the door clicking closed again.

  “That ungrateful so-and-so Robert threw me out, dear,” her unhappy voice echoed back. “But not before Vivian Borne had herself a good, long look at the crime scene. Why, hello, Violet . . . sorry we had to be the bearer of such bad tidings.”

  I sat next to Mother, while Violet, cheeks mascara-streaked now, took the chair next to me. Then we were just sitting there, staring at the small stage, where only a short time earlier an ebullient Tommy had given his opening address to an adoring audience, basking in their praise for his pioneering status in their four-color world.

  Mother dug in her fanny pack and produced a tissue, and, reaching over me, handed it to a sniffling Violet.

  Violet, wiping her eyes, said, “I don’t understand it . . . I don’t understand it. . . .”

  Leaning forward, Mother asked, “What don’t you understand, dear?”

  She blew her nose, a surprisingly unfeminine honk coming from the attractive young woman. “Who would want to kill a sweet soul like Tommy?”

  “Well, obviously someone,” Mother said matter-of-factly, causing me to give her a sharp look, her seeming callousness prompting Violet to sob.

  Mother was not actually unkind, but had long since developed a pragmatic acceptance of the second half of the life-and-death dynamic.

  The gold curtain parted as Robert Sipcowski came through, like an actor taking the stage for a one-man show. Maybe he was about to present one.

  He looked at Violet, then the brown eyes in the weathered face turned disapprovingly on me. “Is there anyone else you’ve told?”

  I squirmed in the chair, a kid called to the principal’s office. “No, sir. I just thought Violet should know. After all, she’s Tommy’s assistant, and—”

  “I’m more than that,” Violet snapped through a sniffle. She looked toward the security chief. “I manage our office. A convention is a business, you know.”

  “I understand,” Sipcowski said, his voice softening. “But this event has to be contained until the police arrive.”

  Is that what Tommy’s murder was? An event?

  Robert’s walkie-talkie squawked on his belt and he retrieved it. “Yes?”

  “The police are here.”

  “Good. Escort them by the stairs—I don’t want the guests alarmed. Who’s in charge?”

  “Ah . . . that detective from the Fourteenth—Cassato.”

  I looked sharply at Mother, our eyes asking the same question. Could Tony be out of witness protection, and back on the force?

  And if so, why hadn’t he told me?

  Mother whispered, “A lot of Cassatos in a city this size, dear.”

  “Cop Cassatos?”

  “Why, certainly. It’s a name as common as Johnson or Smith.”

  “More like as common as Sipcowski.”

  Who, not having heard any of that, told us, “You three will need to stay here until the police interview you—I’ll keep you posted as to when. They’ll want to see the body first.”

  And the security chief left us alone again.

  Violet turned to me. “You said Tommy was murdered. That he was stabbed. With a . . . knife?”

  “No. He was stabbed in the chest. With a pen.”

  Her eyes grew large. “A pen?”

  “Yes, dear,” Mother responded, leaning forward to see past me. “A gold pen. Rather expensive looking, and probably fountain style, as that sharp tip would be helpful in performing the act. It’s one of your awards, isn’t it?”

  Violet’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said through splayed fingers.

  Mother’s lack of tact had been a tactic. Everybody was a suspect now, except Mother and me. And Tommy.

  Mother asked Violet, “You were missing one of the awards, weren’t you, dear?”

  The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, one was stolen. The writer’s award. And it is a pen. Tommy was looking into the theft.”

  Mother shrugged. “It would appear he found it.”

  “Mother!”

  Violet stood, took a step toward Mother, and, eyes flashing, looked down at her. “How dare you treat Tommy’s murder so . . . so lightly!”

  I reached out and took the young woman’s forearm. “Violet . . . my mother doesn’t mean any offense, really. It’s just her way of dealing with death. Tommy’s death.”

  Mother said gently, “I am sorry, my dear. I was very fond of Tommy. We had many a lively conversation on Skype. And you needn’t worry—I’m going to do everything within my power to bring his killer to justice!”

  Violet, returning to the chair, said archly, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t kid about murder. I may not go into hysterics when I encounter a dead body, child . . . but about murder , I do not kid.”

  “Isn’t investigating this . . . this crime the job of the pol
ice?”

  “It has been my experience,” Mother returned, “that the boys in blue are extremely efficient when it comes to parking tickets, speed traps, and school presentations on the dangers of drugs. Murder investigation requires a more expert touch.”

  “Mother,” I said quietly, “this is not Serenity. And the NYPD isn’t the Serenity police department, either. We should leave this to the professionals.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement, dear.”

  “Advisement? Whose?”

  “Why, my own, of course.”

  Once again, Robert came through the curtain, told us that the forensics team had arrived, and that Detective Cassato would be with us shortly. That name again. And he went back out.

  I whispered to Mother, “Could it be Tony? Could it?”

  Mother whispered back, “Courage, dear.”

  How that was supposed to help, I had no idea.

  It had been two months since I’d heard from Tony—he’d been calling from a pay phone (talk about antiques!) at some undisclosed location, maybe left over from when Dick Cheney was vice president.

  I sat on the edge of my chair, eyes fixed on the gold curtain, anxiously awaiting . . . would Tony appear?

  And when he did, when it was him, I sprang to my feet, my heart jumping to my throat and pounding like a triphammer.

  Then I froze.

  Frowned.

  Squinted.

  The man looked like Tony, but different—younger, not as barrel-chested, his hair more pepper than salt. He was neither in uniform nor the business suit of a plainclothes officer, rather in a navy NYPD jacket, unzipped to reveal a blue shirt and navy tie. Black slacks and black shoes completed his ensemble.

  But he spoke in the same clipped New York accent as Tony, in a voice that might have been Tony’s.

  “I’m Detective Cassato,” he said, looking the three of us over.

  I was still standing there taking in this almost-Tony when Mother asked, “By any chance, Detective, are you related to one Anthony Cassato, a.k.a. Tony?”

  Detective Cassato’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”