We'll Always Have Parrots(54)

“God, is there anyone not happy that she’s dead?” I said. “It doesn’t have to be someone who was actually fond of her, you understand. Just someone more hurt than helped by her death.”

Typhani was frowning. Good grief, she was taking me literally.

“I can’t think of anyone offhand,” she said. “But I can ask around if you really need to talk to someone like that. Only I don’t understand what you want them for.”

“She’s gotten you used to trying to do six impossible things before breakfast, hasn’t she?” I said. “No, that was just a rhetorical question.”

“That means she was just blowing off steam,” Steele translated. “She doesn’t really want an answer.”

“Okay,” Typhani said, and from the look on her face, I could tell I’d just been filed in the category of people to be avoided because they asked boring questions, like what were you going to do with the rest of your life.

“I’ll go find Nate,” she said, and hurried off.

“Sorry,” I said. “She gets on my nerves.”

“Look on the bright side,” he said. “I bet she got on her late employer’s nerves, too.”

Even in my temporary, feeling-sorry-for-the-QB mood, I had to smile at that.

But I also remembered how, when I’d found her crying in the bathroom, Typhani had said the QB was too mean to live. I agreed. Hardly enough to make her a suspect though.

A little later, I spotted a suit jacket approaching through the fur, feathers, and chain mail.

“Morning, Ichabod,” I said.

“Good morning,” he said. He grabbed the edge of our booth table like a swimmer reaching a life raft. He looked awful. Not hung over, like Chris. And not dazed and shell-shocked as he’d been yesterday. More like profoundly despondent.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I learned some very strange and disturbing things last night,” he said. “I’m not sure how I can possibly face the fans at my panel today.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Those con parties always get pretty wild. Chances are, most people won’t remember whatever it is you think you did, and even if they do, it’s a very tolerant group.”

In fact, if he’d gotten a little wild and crazy, it might improve his image.

“It’s nothing I did,” he said, looking horrified. “It’s something I learned about my uncle.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

He frowned, and stared at me for a few moments, as if unsure whether to trust me. Then the need to unburden himself won out.

“Remember what I told you yesterday?” he said. “About my parents paying off my uncle’s debts?”

I nodded.

“It’s worse than I thought,” he said. “After he died, some very unsavory people came to see my parents and claimed my uncle had borrowed a lot of money from them. Thousands and thousands of dollars.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Drugs, obviously,” he said. “What else could it be?”

“A lot of things,” I said. “Maybe he gambled. Maybe he had some kind of medical expenses. Who knows? I have an aunt who practically went bankrupt buying stuff on eBay.”

“They didn’t have eBay in the seventies,” Dilley said.

“No, but buying stuff you don’t need and can’t afford has been around for centuries,” I said.

“Would anyone other than drug dealers send thugs to collect their money?” he asked.

“You’ve obviously never met any loan sharks,” I said. “Don’t automatically assume the worst about your uncle.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But even so—what am I going to say to his fans?”

“The truth,” I said. “Just not the whole truth. And put a positive spin on it.”

“How?” he asked.

“Your uncle died impoverished and unknown, thanks to a world that failed to appreciate his genius,” I improvised. “And only the love of a few far-seeing and dedicated fans like those attending this convention kept his work alive until the television show could bring it to a wider audience.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I can work with that. Died impoverished and unknown. Yes.”

He wandered off, muttering to himself. He looked much more cheerful. Perhaps I could count cheering him up as my good deed for the day.

And perhaps he’d solved the mystery of why his uncle had sold the rights to his work to the QB for such a low price. He’d been desperate for money.

But did that get me any closer to finding out who killed the QB? Not that I could tell.