Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  * * * *

  Not a minute later, with a whoosh of fabric and a clatter of heels, a blonde in a black hat barreled through the blue curtains and out of the Costigan booth. She shouldered Ms. S and Not-Ned aside, shoving the elegant woman against a metal stanchion. Head down and arms clutched across her chest, the Nancy plowed through the battalion of similarly dressed women crowded in the corridor and disappeared into the throng, swallowed up in a sea of bobbing blond heads. She’d been carrying . . . a book-sized box. And my heart—and head—knew it held Book 61.

  Why had they left her alone with it?

  In the fraction of a second I used to take it all in, Not-Ned began helping Ms. S to her feet, Ned ran after the woman, and I stepped toward the back of the Costigan booth. As the curtains closed behind me, I knew my assumption had been wrong. Running Nancy hadn’t been alone. Another Nancy Drew—this one wearing no name tag—was dead on the floor with a knife in her twin-setted chest.

  I pivoted, ready for pursuit. We had to find the escaping Nancy, who not only was a thief but a murderer. Plan of action: get the convention put on lockdown, keeping every single Nancy inside until we could do a lineup for identification. I paused for an infinitesimal second, picturing the array of suspects. We had quite the ID job ahead of us.

  The blue curtains were yanked open, letting in the lively hubbub of the convention. Ms. S, eyes blazing, pointed toward the body on the floor as the curtains closed behind her.

  “Yes. That’s her!”

  “Who?” I asked, stepping toward her and gesturing to the victim. “You know her? Who is this person? Someone just stabbed her! And it’s the same one who ran—”

  “Get back. Get away from me! What have you done with our manuscript? It’s worth millions.” Ms. S was stage-whispering now, voice straining, jabbing a finger at me, backing up, her pearls askew, name tag flapped backward and one earring gone. She turned, pulled someone else into the cubicle. Ned.

  And she pointed again. At me.

  “That’s her.” Her stress-twisted voice rose a full octave on the second word. “She’s been casing our booth. You saw her, you talked to her. She’s in on it. Millions! You have to—”

  “No, no,” I said. Wow, did she have it wrong. “Call 911! Someone has to make sure no one leaves the—”

  Ned was also now pointing at me. With a big black gun.

  “I am 911,” he said. “And you’re under arrest for the murder of...” He paused. Glanced at the dead woman. “Nancy Drew.”

  “What are you talking about?” I couldn’t believe this. “Nancy Drew is a fictional character.” More important, they should be focused on the other Nancy, the one who got away. The real murderer. I jabbed my finger toward the corridor, then looked at the CEO and at Ned. And at the gun. “You saw her, the woman who ran out of here just seconds ago. Didn’t you run after her? She pushed you, ma’am, and then—”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Ned was saying.

  * * * *

  Somewhere in the convention center, readers were discussing how Nancy managed to cram a flashlight, magnifying glass, gun, notepad, compact, and lipstick in that little handbag. Somewhere else, Nancy Nuts were scarfing up T-shirts and lapel pins and scouting for the precious blue-jacketed, yellow-lettered volume that would complete their book collection. I, however, was a participant in the as-yet-unwritten Case of the Dueling Security Guards.

  Sitting in the back room of the Costigan booth, parked on a metal folding chair and ordered not to move, I might as well have been in lockup. Turned out, Ned—Edward Elkens, he’d revealed—was, like me, a hired-gun security guard, called in by Ms. S to make sure nothing went wrong. Ned, snarking a bit, said the CEO’s assistant had apparently been “trying to help” but “clearly blew it.” Anyway, bottom line, they’d each, separately, hired a person to do the same thing. At least I now knew there was a new Nancy manuscript. Question was, where.

  “You can’t arrest me,” I told Ned, eyeing that gun. “You’re not a cop. And anyway, I wasn’t casing. I’m here to do the same thing you are. I was watching. Just like you were. At which we have both failed because we’re both sitting here, and the Nancy with the manuscript is probably halfway to China by now.”

  “So you say.” He wasn’t as cute as I’d first thought he was. “Why’d you let her get away? I figure you two gotta be in it together. You were the lookout.”

  “You kidding me?” Now he also wasn’t as smart as I’d assumed he was. “You’re letting her get away.”

  “Let’s see your bag,” he demanded. “And your cell phone. Hand ’em over.”

  “Kidding me?” I said again, trying to put every ounce of skepticism possible in my voice. I knew my stuff here. A warrantless search was illegal, and he knew it, too. Plus, no way he could get a warrant, because as he knew I knew, he wasn’t even a cop. In fact, now that I was able to think a bit more clearly about it, I could just walk away. Except for Ned’s—I couldn’t think of him any other way—gun. Pointed right at me.

  Why? They had to know I hadn’t done it. My ace in the hole was that hidden-camera video I had of the fleeing thief. Ned—Elkens—had to be in league with this scam, whatever it was, since I had not imagined the woman in the black hat (like mine, I realized) running from the booth. The video would prove I wasn’t the bad guy, but if I showed it, Ned might grab it and destroy it. I had to keep those images to myself until the real cops arrived. Sadly, the thief’s image and description would be profoundly unhelpful. She’d looked just like me, as did just about everyone else in the place.

  Including the corpse on the floor.

  “You gonna call an ambulance?” I asked. “At least?”

  “Who is she? Why’d you kill her?” Ned said. “And what did your pal do with the manuscript?”

  The blue curtain parted, and the convention buzzed in again as Ms. S stepped inside with Not-Ned. And, hallelujah, they were accompanied by a real police officer. Man in blue, badge, gun, everything.

  “Millions,” Ms. S said again. Apparently they’d been discussing the missing manuscript.

  “Oh, thank heaven,” I said. “Officer, tell him to put the gun down, okay? Ma’am, I’m working for you. You just don’t know it.” I pointed to Not-Ned, trying not to roll my eyes too much. “Ask him. And anyway, I saw the murderer. And I saw who took the manuscript.”

  “Awesome,” the cop said. “Got a description?”

  * * * *

  “I’m afraid it’s gone,” Ms. S said two hours later. The CEO’s icy elegance had softened and her shoulders had deflated as she sat, legs crossed and one patent toe tapping the floor, in one of the red leather chairs in the front of the Costigan booth. I stood next to her, quiet in the aftermath. The rear of the booth, with its now-stained green floor, had been sealed off with yellow crime-scene tape. Thankfully, at a convention like this, the tape was simply accepted as an appropriate and authentic decoration.

  With the convention in a subtle and unannounced lockdown (conventioneers only being told there’d been a robbery), and my identity (and innocence) finally accepted, all the Nancys had been escorted to the front half of the Costigan booth one by one, in the apparently plausible prospect of being auditioned for the cover of a new Nancy novel. I wouldn’t have bought that ploy for a second, and legally it was way beyond iffy, but hey, these supercompetitive Nancys believed the whole cover-girl proposition. And, unquestioningly, even happily, lined up to be scrutinized.

  But, sadly, Ms. S hadn’t recognized a one of them, nor had Not-Ned, and I was afraid I didn’t either. Elkens was no help at all, and the two cops just stood there. Even when we watched my hidden-camera video of the escape, it was so shaky and out of focus all you could see was a blur of plaid and someone’s black Mary Janes. Just like mine. So, not helpful to the cops at all. But since I was shooting the video, they knew it wasn’t me who’d gone on the run.

&nbs
p; It was clear whichever Nancy had taken the manuscript, she was—as I had predicted from moment one, thank you so much—long gone.

  The convention had been allowed to open up again after the organizers (and fast-moving EMTs) had scuttled the dead Nancy out through a side entrance, unnoticed, behind a barricade of blue curtains. I decided to ignore the irony that there’d been a murder at the Nancy Drew Convention and not one of the Nancy wannabes had a clue about it.

  Well, except for one. And she was, like I said, gone.

  And whoever she killed couldn’t reveal her murderer or even her own name. She had no identification, and her name tag said Guest. Just like mine. But guest of whom?

  “I apologize, Miss...” Ms. S reached up, touched my arm. “We’ll still pay you, of course. It all happened so fast and then—I suppose I just got it wrong. I feel so terrible, accusing you. And what makes it all the more tragic, and so silly of me, is that now the manuscript is gone.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Luckily it’s insured.” She waved toward the now-deserted convention floor. “William’s gone to call the insurance company. Of course, that’s not . . . the same.”

  Not-Ned turned out to be William Something; I didn’t quite hear his last name. The cops had questioned us all and seemed to be satisfied, but I wasn’t. They’d decided someone could have gotten into the booth from the other side, which, okay, was possible. But I think I would have seen that. Still, Ms. S and her William insisted they didn’t know the victim. They did not have a drop of blood on them, and the pink-cup coffee guy had given them an alibi for the time of the murder, so that was—according to the cops—enough. No one had called a lawyer.

  “We’ll be in touch,” the police officer had said. And he left.

  “Sorry for the confusion,” Ned said. Mr. Understatement. And he left.

  I hadn’t had a bite of food in the last five million hours, so I knew I had low blood sugar, and that might account for my crankiness. But there was something big-time wrong here.

  “Why’d you leave the manuscript in the booth?” I had to ask.

  “We didn’t leave it,” William said. He rolled his eyes at me, like that was a dumb question. Which it was not.

  Ms. S, the picture of gloom and regret, slowly shook her head. “We just went to get coffee.”

  * * * *

  The next morning, I screened my hidden-camera video again. And again. The running Nancy and the dead Nancy both looked exactly like me, which wasn’t a surprise, but I mean, exactly like me. In fact, the dead Nancy had my exact same outfit. It crossed my mind they’d—whoever—killed her thinking they were killing me, which was scary, but didn’t make any sense. But what did?

  I needed to run through scenarios.

  One, the two Nancys could have been in the booth together, doing whatever, and someone else came in, killed one and left. Before I got there. The second Nancy, who must have been in on it, waited for the killer to get away, then took the manuscript and ran. Dumb plan.

  Okay. What if someone had killed the dead Nancy and run out, leaving her on the floor. Then the second Nancy came in, by chance, and found her. She grabbed the manuscript and was about to leave when she spotted Not-Ned and me outside, so she waited for the coast to clear. Eventually she realized we weren’t leaving, so she ran out. Just as Ms. S and William arrived. Possible. But risky. And dumb.

  So. What if the two Nancys were in the booth. Just the two of them. One killed the other, took the manuscript, and ran.

  I sighed. Yeah. That sounded right.

  And now whoever that was had a million-dollar manuscript. Still, what could she do with it? The minute it went on the market, the alarms would go out, she’d be caught, and the CEO would get her manuscript back. If that didn’t happen, and some Dr. No-ish collector was hoarding it, the CEO could take solace in all that insurance money. Minus what she’d paid me and the other “security” guy. Even though we’d both blown it. The Case of the Botched Security Job.

  I watched the video again, even though it wouldn’t make a whit of difference. Neither would the convention center’s in-house surveillance. All the comings and goings would be completely unremarkable.

  We all looked so very much alike.

  I fussed with the little label in my plaid skirt. The Dress-Up Center, it said. That’s where I’d rented my whole outfit.

  What would Nancy do?

  * * * *

  It took me fifteen minutes to get there. I didn’t even stop for coffee, which proves how much I thought this was a good idea.

  A slouching clerk slacked behind the counter, a skinny-faced kid in a Minecraft T-shirt. Probably his first job. As I opened the door, metal bells jangled my entrance. He looked up, looked right at me, looked down again. Naturally.

  I went right up to the counter, where he had to notice me.

  “Returning my Nancy Drew costume.” I handed it over. “It worked great,” I said, all perky and appreciative.

  “Cool,” the kid said.

  “Lot of people rent these from you?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Cool,” I said. “You get them all back?”

  “Huh? Yup, you’re the last.” He rolled my Nancy outfit into a ball and stuffed the clothing and hat into a black nylon bag.

  My shoulders sagged. “Really?” So much for my brilliant idea. “Can you check again?”

  “Lady. Like I said...” Way too much trouble, the kid clearly wanted to say. But he didn’t. “Hang on.” In passive-aggressive slo-mo, he dragged out a shoebox-sized file crammed with yellow slips of paper slotted between cardboard dividers. Fingered through the dividers. Pulled out a yellow slip. Squinted at it. “Huh. There’s one still out. She only had a one-day, so she’s gonna have to pay the overage if it’s not in by noon.”

  “Bummer,” I said. Ah. “Maybe you should call her? It’d be nice of you.”

  The door jangled, and a pack of T-shirted little boys, shepherded by a harried-looking mom, converged on the superhero suit display, grabbing colorful fabrics as they one-upped each other in volume and excitement.

  “Dudes!” The clerk whirled, turned his back on me, and headed for the Spiderman rack. “Don’t yank the latex!”

  What would Nancy do? I spun the box of yellow tickets toward me, snatched the still-sticking-out one he’d pulled from the file. It was the same costume as mine, exactly. I saw the name. Saw her phone number. Memorized it. Put it back.

  “Later!” I called out, though of course the clerk, now enswarmed by superhero wannabes, paid no attention. Like I said, I’m background.

  I’d started dialing before I even got to my car. Voice mail: “This is the Society of Professional Authenticators, the SPA. No one is here to take your call right now, but please leave...”

  Which was all I needed to hear.

  * * * *

  Yes, it was the same costume. So yes, it proved the victim was Aliana Kemper-Julian, a renowned local manuscript authenticator. And yes, when I arrived, the door of her tiny SPA office was locked and the minuscule front window was dark. And yes, it made sense this manuscript expert had been in the blue cubicle with the newfound Nancy novel. I’d left a voice-mail message for the cop on the case, mentally patting myself on the back for my prowess, knowing the police would be impressed with my detective methods.

  Proud of my discovery, I went straight to the Costigan offices to tell Ms. S about it. Trying to make good, to some extent at least, on my failed mission. Even so, the CEO didn’t invite me to sit down in her tastefully taupe office. Guess I was still in the doghouse.

  “Did you hire her?” I asked, standing before Ms. S’s desk. “To authenticate the manuscript?” Then I had another idea. “Oh. Was she the special speaker who was appearing at the convention? She was going to announce it with you, right? The new book?”

  “I appreciate you
r time, Miss...”

  She didn’t even try to hide that she was checking her e-mail. What could she be reading? Oh. Oh. Dumb me. Now I get it.

  “Have you heard from . . . whoever has it?” I asked. I’d kept wondering what could be the point of stealing this thing. And I’d just figured it out. What if someone was holding it for ransom? ‘Whoever,’ and I didn’t know who yet, could threaten the CEO, saying pay me to get it back, and never say a word about it, or I’ll burn it.

  That’s exactly what someone would do. And to prove it, that’s why Ms. S was ignoring me. I was on to it. Definitely. Maybe that’s even why she was focusing on her e-mail. Though no one would send a ransom note by e-mail.

  “Ma’am?” I said. Very careful here, didn’t want to spook her. “I understand what might have happened. I think you have an idea where the manuscript is.”

  She kept staring at her e-mail.

  “If you’re thinking of paying the . . . whatever you might call it. To get it back? Remember, I’m not the police.”

  The CEO tucked a strand of blonded gray hair behind one ear. “True,” she said.

  I waited. Her office door opened. A slim brunette in a leopard pencil skirt came partway in. “Your next appointment is here,” she said.

  “Thanks, Cora,” Ms. S replied. She pointed to the open door. Smiled at me. “We’ll be in touch,” she said.

  Dismissed.

  * * * *

  “One more time,” I said to Thomas as I curled up in the corner of our battered old office couch an hour later. “I’m looking at this video one more time.”

  “I’ll go get lunch,” he said. “You’re too cranky when you have low blood sugar.”

  As the door to Griffin and Co. clicked closed, I rewound my hidden-camera video yet again. Farther back this time, to when I walked into the convention. And this time I watched Ned, on camera, coming toward me on the green-carpeted corridor. I’d been looking at the map in the program then, and hadn’t noticed him. And, of course, he hadn’t noticed me. I hit pause, thinking. And then I pushed rewind again. And play.

  He’d come right out of the Costigan booth, clutching a Nancy tote bag to his chest. But in the video he was wearing a dark sweater. When we’d talked, he’d had a sweater tied around his shoulders, that’s what made him seem so preppy. So he must have taken the sweater off after he passed me, which was after he came out of the booth.