“Sounds like the TV show’s more authentic than the movie treatments.”
He nodded.
“What would Ichabod Dilley think, if he were here?” I asked.
Nate didn’t answer at first. Just when I was about to repeat the question, he spoke up.
“He wouldn’t recognize it,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “Maybe when he realized it was supposed to be based on his stories, he’d have a big laugh at what life does to you when you’re not looking. But then, Dilley’s dead, and what the hell do I know. I’ve got a panel,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I’ll see you.”
A little early to be heading out for a panel, I thought, but maybe he’s still allowing plenty of time for getting lost in the hotel.
“Still asking questions?”
I glanced over to see that Francis had come in.
“Yeah, still trying to make sense of what happened,” I said.
“The murder happened yesterday,” Francis said. “Every time I see you, you’re asking a lot of questions about things that happened twenty or thirty years ago. Do you really think all that has anything to do with the murder?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But it’s rather intriguing, finding out about everyone’s wild escapades in the seventies.”
“Wild escapades?” Francis said. “What kind of wild escapades?”
He sounded alarmed. Why, I had no idea. It wasn’t as if any of the aging boomers’ youthful misdeeds could spill over and taint his current clients, who had been in grade school at the time.
“Apparently Nate inhaled,” I said. “And Tammy Jones didn’t play hard to get.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “Those were the times, weren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I wasn’t there. Is that what things were like, back then?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, either,” Francis said. “I’m afraid if you want to hear exciting tales of rebellion and protest, I’m the wrong person to ask. I led a rather quiet life then.”
And it hadn’t gotten appreciably noisier since, I thought, with a sudden flash of sympathy. I wasn’t sure I remembered ever hearing anything about his private life.
Then again, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. If I were a better person, perhaps, I would think of some tactful, sympathetic way to draw Francis out on the subject of his quiet youth.
Later. When I had more time, I promised myself. I would sit down with Francis and have a long, friendly talk. Draw him out of his shell and get to know him better. Maybe while Maggie and Nate and the QB were off in Hollywood, Francis was still in college studying philosophy or poetry. I’d find out later. Right now, I needed to see what I could do about Walker’s problem.
Finding one fan out of the thousand attending the convention wasn’t easy, but I finally caught up with Concubine Aimee in the hallway.
Of course, she was ensconced in a nest of friends. Not the right environment for the kind of interrogation I had in mind. And she might be a little suspicious if I tried to lure her away.
Just then I felt a hand curl around my waist.
“Even the monkeys like you,” Chris said.
“So this isn’t a serious pass, just a case of monkey see; monkey do,” I said, disentangling myself.
“I’m serious,” Chris said, pointing up. “Look at them.”
I glanced up. The perpetually solemn faces of half a dozen monkeys gazed down at me.
“Of course there are monkeys up there,” I said. “There are monkeys everywhere.”
“Yeah, but these are following you up and down the hallway,” Chris said.
“It is possible, you know,” said another voice.
I turned to see Brad, Salome’s keeper, carrying two McDonald’s bags.
“They often form attachments to individual humans,” Brad went on. “Especially ones they perceive as dominant within their social group.”
With that, he turned and strolled down the hall toward the entrance to Salome’s lair, nearly invisible under its covering of vines.
“Very perceptive, these monkeys,” Chris said, suppressing a grin, “and delightfully uninhibited.”
He pointed to a pair of monkeys who appeared to be mating, oblivious to the chaos around them.
“You would notice that,” I said. “I always thought that if you put an infinite number of monkeys in a room, they were supposed to rewrite Shakespeare. These monkeys are not performing up to expectations.”
“Someone forgot the infinite number of typewriters,” Chris said.
“Look, do me a favor, will you?” I asked.
“Will I earn your eternal gratitude?” he asked.