We'll Always Have Parrots(77)

“Someone who cared about Ichabod Dilley, and only found out what really happened to him recently—maybe even this weekend.”

“Found out how?”

“The other Ichabod Dilley,” I said. “If she’d killed the original, she’d have known her Dilley wasn’t coming to the convention. And yet, with no picture in the program…maybe she thought it was some kind of trick, designed to expose her.”

“A tall, gaunt scarecrow in bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed shroud, rising up out of the audience, like a boomer version of Banquo’s ghost, pointing the accusing finger at her?”

“Not quite,” I said. “Although you may want to suggest that to Nate if he does a script based on this weekend. But the idea that someone who had always suspected the QB of murder might make a deliberate effort to surprise and disconcert her and watch her reaction—very possible.”

“Might be worth finding out whether the convention organizing committee thought of hunting down Ichabod Dilley all by themselves or whether they had help,” Michael suggested.

“Good point. And even if no one deliberately engineered Ichabod Dilley’s apparent return from the dead—even if it really was only a comedy of errors—it could have rattled her. Enough, perhaps, that she’d say or do something that gave her away as the murderer. And inspired someone to murder her.”

“So if you like the scenario that someone killed the QB because he or she knew she killed Dilley—” Michael began.

“Or set him up to be killed,” I said. “I like it a lot.”

“That whittles the suspect field down enormously. Mainly Nate, Maggie, and Francis.”

“Or some less-well-known person who knew Dilley,” I suggested. “Or for that matter, Ichabod junior. We only have his word that he first learned of his uncle’s existence here at the convention. What if his family has been obsessed for years with tracking down the person who murdered his uncle?”

“They could even have suspected the QB,” Michael said, “but not had a way to prove it—until the convention invitation fell into young Ichabod’s lap.”

“Or until he engineered his invitation,” I said. “I definitely need to talk to someone on the organizing committee. Find out just how the idea of hunting for Dilley came about.”

“And I definitely need to get back downstairs,” Michael said, looking at his watch. “I have a panel that should be starting almost immediately, assuming things are still running more or less on time, which I doubt.”

“And I should make at least a token appearance at the booth,” I said.





Chapter 37




“Sorry,” I said to Steele, as I slipped behind the table. “Please tell me you’ve been getting along just fine without me.”

“I was until he showed up,” Steele said, jerking his thumb toward where Walker was standing at my end of the booth, fiddling with things and trying to pretend not to have noticed my arrival. “And I could continue getting along fine if you’d take him somewhere and patch him up.”

“Patch him up?” I echoed. “What happened?”

“Hey, Meg, how’s it going?” Walker said, waving one hand at me in a casual greeting that would have looked a lot more natural if he hadn’t had a wad of bloody paper napkins wrapped around his fingers.

“Playing with the merchandise,” Steele said, rather contemptuously. “Actors.”

“You keep some of this stuff sharpened,” Walker said, his tone more hurt than accusing.

“Yeah, some of the customers want it that way,” I said. “Come on; I think I know where to find a first aid kit. Alaric, see if someone can find my father in case Walker needs more patching up than I know how to do. I’ll be in the convention office; it’s off the green room.”

“Right,” Steele said and began scanning the ceiling. Apparently he’d noticed Dad’s parrot project.

“Meg,” Walker said, as he followed me through the room. “Did you get her to—”

“Not here,” I muttered, and he got the message and shut up until we reached the convention organizers’ room.

They did, indeed, have a first aid kit. I’d have let the two volunteers do the honors of patching him up, but Walker’s presence seemed to reduce one to paralysis and the other to silly giggles, so I took charge of the bandaging. He’d sliced open three fingers on his left hand and gouged the base of his right thumb rather badly.

“Ow,” he said, as I took the napkins off. “Not so rough.”

“The thumb looks pretty ghastly,” I said. “It might be a good idea to go to the emergency room in case it needs stitches.”