We'll Always Have Parrots(45)

“Great!” he said. “Where is he?”

I glanced at the clock and then pulled my program out of my purse.

“He’ll be in the Ruritanian Room at eleven,” I said. “If you hurry over there, you can probably catch him.”

With half an hour to spare, but I didn’t want Dad hanging around talking about rigor mortis and alarming the customers.

“Wonderful!” he said, turning to leave.

“And Dad,” I said, “please don’t go around telling people that I’m sleuthing.”

“Oh, right,” Dad said. “Keep it discreet. Check.”

He nodded repeatedly, looked around to see who might be listening, put his finger to his lips, winked, and slipped away in a conspicuously furtive manner.

“Good grief,” I muttered.

“You’re some kind of detective?” Steele asked.

“Dad wishes,” I said. “He’s a big mystery buff. I wish I was the brilliant amateur sleuth he imagines me.”

“So you could get the glory of solving Porfiria’s murder,” he said.

“The hell with the glory,” I said. “I just want the cops to solve this as soon as possible. If I could help them, I would. All this notoriety isn’t good for Michael’s career.”

“I should think an actor would welcome the publicity. Especially when he’s cleared of any suspicion, as I assume he will be,” Steele added, with a half bow.

“I’m not sure even an actor benefits from the publicity of being a suspect in a famous homicide,” I said. “But I didn’t mean the acting; I mean his career at the college. In the real world, Michael’s an assistant professor of drama at Caerphilly College. The administration’s already a little dubious about offering tenure to someone who runs around on TV every week in a pointy hat and a black velvet bathrobe. A star turn on Court TV might finish his academic career.”

If this weekend’s notoriety hadn’t already, I thought, feeling a queasy sensation in my stomach. Or maybe I was just hungry.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. “I could raid the buffet in the green room.”

“I had breakfast just now, thanks,” he said. “But you go ahead. And if you need to lie down or something, feel free; you had a long night. It’s not like we’re swamped or anything.”

No, and it wasn’t because there were any particularly exciting panels, either. I poked my head in the main ballroom where a woman was presenting a slide show on Porfirian costumes to a sparse and apathetic crowd.

I checked my program. Yes, she was one of the twelve unlucky invited guests.

Then I realized that this wasn’t my program—I’d given that to Detective Foley. It was Eric’s.

He’d gotten signatures from seven out of the twelve invited guests—including the QB’s, which no one would be able to get from now on. I could use the program as an excuse to talk to the remaining five, several of whom I didn’t actually know. Not that I needed an excuse but this would put them off their guard. And I knew I could find a chance to talk to the rest, no problem. And then—

Of course, before I started interrogating people, I would need some idea what to ask.

I shook my head, and continued toward the green room.

At least I’d solved the mystery of where all the fans had gone. Most of them were milling about in the hallway and the lobby, trading misinformation about the murder and gaping at the news crews that had appeared, overnight, to besiege the hotel. Salome’s keeper loitered with the rest—the lure of staring at the media must be irresistible if he’d leave her so he could do it.

A blond reporter for one of the local network affiliates was talking earnestly at a camera in front of the main entrance and, out in the parking lot, a petite Asian woman was interviewing several costumed fans. The three red-clad musicians were singing a parody of “Car 54, Where Are You?” in the overly cheerful manner performers use when pretending not to mind the lack of an audience. Near the front desk, where the “Welcome to Amblyopia!” sign marked the entrance to the convention itself, another blond reporter was arguing with three Amazon security guards, while her cameraman stood nearby, holding his equipment at the ready. And, of course, several monkeys hovered overhead, watching intently. They seemed intrigued by any conflict or argument.

“This is a public place!” the reporter was saying.

“Not this weekend,” the senior Amazon said. “If you don’t have a ticket for the convention, you can’t come in.”

“Then I’ll buy a ticket!” the reporter said.

“Sorry,” the Amazon said, crossing her arms. “We’re sold out.”