8 Antiques Con (14 page)

“No jury would convict me.”

“
Any
jury would convict you.” I shook my head. “And no one saw you carting it off?”

“Employees were very busy. Lunch rush. Everyone else assumed I knew what I was doing.”

Making an ass of you and me.

I asked, “Security camera?”

“Not aimed my way. Besides, I walked with purpose, as if I were the designated chalkboard removal engineer.”

I sighed, then looked at the board. “There was a French toast special? You know I love French toast. Maybe I could send down for some. . . .”

Mother, having produced an eraser and chalk from somewhere, began wiping down the slate.

“Sit down, dear,” she said. “Sit.”

I sat. Sushi could have learned from me.

And Mother, schoolmarm, chalk in hand, began to write, while I, her pupil, watched.

I questioned the addition of Eric, but Mother explained that if Violet were the murderer, Eric, as her paramour, could know that, and hence be an accessory after the fact.

Thinking that Mother was about the only person left on the planet who used the word “paramour,” and possibly “hence,” I asked, “Was there any mention in the recording of Eric being seen at the opening ceremony?”

“None,” Mother admitted. Her eyes went to the end table. “What is that, dear? I noticed it this morning.”

“Oh . . . I forgot to mention that I’d found that file in Tommy’s mini-fridge.”

I gave her a quick account of my encounter with Detective Sal Cassato.

“Dear, you might have mentioned this earlier. We can’t afford such oversights if we want to solve Tommy’s murder. And it’s extremely important that we do.”

“Why?”

Her expression suggested evasiveness. “What do you mean,
why
?”

“I mean, why is it important that we solve this murder? Other than we’re just caught up in the momentum of it.”

She gave me a condescending smile. “Has anything else happened to us lately that would make another book?”

“No.”

“Then move on. And try not to leave out key matters like that folder.”

“I
was
tired,” I shot back. “Besides, I don’t know that it’s a ‘key’ anything—just some extra ballots.”

She picked up the file, withdrew the papers, and spread them out on the table, pushing my mini-breakfast aside.

“Not
complete
ballots,” Mother said. “They all seem to be the same page—there’s a number two at the bottom.”

“How many pages does one of these ballots consist of?”

“No idea, dear. If I could get my hands on a complete ballot, I might make sense of this clue.”

“
Is
it a clue?”

“What else could it be?” She returned the papers to the folder. “In the meantime, why don’t we spend the afternoon in the dealers’ room—keeping our eyes and ears open.”

I agreed, not having had a chance to spend time there as yet. We’d been run out of the place yesterday by that pack of press. So I refreshed Sushi’s water and pee station, then snuggled her on a blanket on the couch—this was that “dog’s life” you hear so much about. Badges pinned on, Mother grabbed her purse and I strapped on my fanny pack and we headed out.

But the next few hours passed uneventfully, at least as pertained to the mystery. At a booth selling vintage Hollywood photos, Mother found a signed Forrest Tucker eight by ten for fifty dollars that put her over the moon. So childish. Then I found a BARBIE FASHION #1 comic from 1991 for only twenty bucks, and could not
believe
my good luck!

On a perhaps more mature and productive note, I did manage (after asking a dozen or more vendors) to find an entire Buff Awards ballot—a comic book–shop owner who had forgotten to mail his back by the deadline had brought it along, hoping to get it in before the tabulation. But that hadn’t happened, and he was happy to hand it over to me.

This may have been the only transaction not involving the exchange of money for goods that the dealers’ room saw that weekend.

Around five, after taking Sushi for a walk (plastic bags handy!), Mother and I had an early dinner at the Statler Grill. The restaurant was located at the back of the hotel, off Thirty-third Street, and we both ordered the specialty, New York prime steak—mine, medium rare; hers, burnt to a crisp. The chef was probably burning, too, at such a desecration.

Then we returned to our suite to freshen up for the awards ceremony, including showers and a change of clothes—Mother into one of her Breckenridge slacks outfits (winter white), and me into black leggings and a zebra-print tunic by Juicy Couture. Eat your heart out, Fashion Barbie!

While neither of us were much interested in knowing who won what, we
were
interested in snagging good seats for what followed: a tribute to the history of Superman, which included a personal appearance by Henry Cavill, the latest actor to reprise the Man of Steel on the silver screen, Tommy Bufford’s only concession to Hollywood.

Not only would the tribute be fun, but Mother and I felt our presence might enhance the sale of our drawing at the auction on Sunday. We had to finance Forrest Tucker and BARBIE FASHION somehow, didn’t we?

The Buff Awards presentation was held on the eighteenth floor, in the Skytop Ballroom, the largest in the hotel. Even so, by the time Mother and I arrived, the room was jam-packed, chairs already at a premium, and a little too high-class an event for Mother to enforce the con’s no-seat-saving rule.

As we stood in back, contemplating our dilemma—I certainly didn’t want to be on my feet for a long presentation, and Mother (with her bunions) couldn’t be—Brad Webster threaded his way toward us through the crowd of hopeful chair-wanna-haves.

“There’s a row up front reserved for special needs,” he told us, adding, “I think Vivian qualifies.”

Especially if that included the mentally challenged.

Mother grabbed my arm. “I’ll need Brandy to steady me.”

Brad shrugged. “Why not? There are plenty of seats left.”

And he headed toward the front and we followed, albeit at a snail’s pace.

Now, understand that Mother has severe problems with her feet. If she’s on the move, she’s fine. But standing can become excruciating. Just not as excruciating as what came next: Mother taking little wobbling baby steps up the center aisle, while clinging to me, in hopes of justifying that privileged seating up front.

“If you don’t pick up the pace,” I whispered, “there won’t be any special seating left.”

“I have to make it look good.”

“Less is more, Mother. Less is more.”

The special seating row was in the very front, the next three rows behind reserved for awards nominees and their spouses or families. We found two chairs together next to a boy of perhaps twelve in a wheelchair. I made Mother sit beside him so she would feel at least a little guilty, but I don’t think she did. Between bunions and ingrown toenails, she had more of a right to sit here than I did. But with eight chairs still empty, I admit I didn’t feel particularly guilty, and would have vacated if someone more deserving came along.

Settling in, I craned around to take in the room. Here, like in the Gold Ballroom, the fourteen-carat color continued, but with touches of red instead of royal blue. The carpet had a pattern like a continuous maze, chairs were cushioned and comfortable, ceiling chandeliers grand and sparkling. But there weren’t many windows—just a few tall ones, draped with red velvet, which made the ballroom seem claustrophobic despite its size . . . or maybe that was just due to all the people crammed within.

Speaking of which, the ballroom didn’t smell wonderful, which was not the hotel’s fault; half the audience were still in their casual clothes and sometimes elaborate, warm costumes after a long day.

While Mother chatted up the boy next to her, I had a look at the Buff Awards program booklet—not good news. I counted
twenty-four
categories, from best single issue to best continuing comic book series, from best writer/artist team to best new series, and on and on. The most prestigious awards—best artist, and best writer—would not come till the bitter end. Assuming each winner got to say a few words, the event could go on for hours.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mother asked me. “You were whimpering.”

“I wish I’d brought a book to read.” Something longer than BARBIE FASHION #1.

Then the audience began applauding as Violet, in a low-cut red dress the color of the curtains, took the podium on the stage.

“Welcome to the
first
Bufford Con Buff Awards!” she said, eliciting further applause, if a little less fervent. Just the utterance of the name “Bufford” cast something of a pall, and I couldn’t be the only one wondering if this might be the first and last Bufford Con.

To save you, the reader, from the tedium I endured, I will skip ahead to the end of the ceremony. This is less a service to you and more an admission that all those other awards, for things and to people that were not even vaguely on my radar, became an immediate blur. Couldn’t recall that stuff if I tried.

When time finally came for the presentation of the writer’s award, I sat up, paying rapt attention.

“Rooting for Eric, dear?” Mother whispered.

“Yes. I know that prize means a lot to him.”

“Well, he’s got a fifty/fifty shot, doesn’t he?”

She was right. The pen stuck in Tommy’s chest had the winner’s name on it, which meant either Eric Johansson or Harlan Thompson had won. The other three nominees did not share that final syllable.

And when Violet announced the nominees, the winner
was
Eric, and I got to my feet, clapping. In the first row, I was slow to realize that I was one of only a handful standing. The applause around the room seemed more polite than enthusiastic.

That Eric had not been the “audience’s favorite” was confirmed by the grumbling around me.

I looked back to see one person who seemed particularly unhappy: Harlan Thompson, who had turned out
not
to be a shoo-in for the award. At sixty, his gray hair thinning, his narrow face well grooved, this revered comics veteran clearly expected his name to have been called. Many seemed to agree with him, several leaving their seats to lean in and express their condolences, as if the poor man’s career had just died.

Meanwhile, an ebullient Eric rushed to the podium, where a smiling Violet handed him the award. Hearing a mild commotion, I looked back and saw what was perhaps not the most gracious move I ever witnessed, as Harlan Thompson rose, clearly disgusted. He stalked down the center aisle, the tall, thin man’s face stony, as fans in aisle seats stretched out hands to pat his arm supportively as he went by.

In addition to myself and Violet—and possibly Mother, also pleased with Eric’s triumph—yet another woman seemed happy, even overjoyed, at Eric’s victory. After a brief thank-you speech, he left the podium with his trophy gold pen and holder. Just down off the stage, he almost ran into an attractive twentysomething blonde in a white silk blouse and a short black skirt with knee-high black boots. She had rushed to him, and threw her arms round his neck.

“
Jeg elsker dig!
” she squealed. That was a slice of Danish, meaning “I love you,” that I knew well, Mother having often said as much to little Brandy.

While Eric and his Danish strudel kissed passionately, I exchanged wide-eyed looks with Mother. Then our eyes went to Violet, frozen at the podium, staring, even glaring, at Eric and the girl, as surprised as we were.

“And, uh, this concludes the awards ceremony,” Violet said into the microphone, recovering. “Thank you for coming. There will be a fifteen-minute intermission before the Superman tribute.”

And she abruptly left the podium, disappearing behind the platform, the slam of a backstage door audible over the crowd’s chatter. Many audience members were making a dash for the bathroom.

Mother and I remained seated, watching as Eric handed the blonde his award, gold pen in marble holder, gave her a “wait here” gesture, then hurried after Violet, his jilted “paramour.”

I whispered to Mother, “Wish I was a mouse following him.”

“So you could listen to a
rat
,” she whispered back.

I nodded. “Not as nice a boy as I thought, our Eric. Be right back. . . .”

I got up, eased through the row, and approached the pretty young blonde.

“
Hej—hvordan har du det?
” I greeted her.

Her blue-gray eyes, which had turned troubled since Eric ran off, lit up. “
Fint, tak. Taler du dansk?
”

I laughed. “Sorry! You’ve just heard about the extent of my Danish.” I stuck out my hand. “Brandy Borne.”

“Helena Nielsen.” She had a lovely accent. “Borne—you’re Danish, too?”

“Third generation,” I replied. “But my mother speaks it pretty well.” I gestured with my head. “She’s over there next to the boy in the wheelchair.”

But Helena kept her eyes on the backstage door, obviously hopeful for Eric’s imminent return.

I asked, “Did you just arrive? Haven’t seen you around the convention.”

She looked back at me. “I flew in this morning. Eric didn’t want me to come earlier—he said I’d be bored.”

Or maybe in the way.

“He works out of home?” I asked. “In Denmark?”

“Yes. We live in Copenhagen.”

“Does he write in English?”

“For this market, yes. He has American friends who help him make his work more”—she reached for the phrase—“sounding like American.”

Friends like Violet. Maybe he had a
lot
of friends like Violet. . . .