MarvelousCon & Tax Cons

by Rachel Ford

“You want it?”

  “Want it?” Her eyes lit up, but she hesitated. “Of course, babe. But, don’t you?”

  He scoffed, affecting an injured tone. “Do you know me at all, Nance?”

  She grinned. “What I mean is, you could probably sell it for a few hundred. Especially now, when they’re not available yet.”

  He rolled his eyes, moving to pass the box over. “I’d rather give it to you.” Then, though, he stopped, and his eyes sparkled. “Actually, you make a good point. It is valuable. So how about an exchange?”

  She laughed, and her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “What kind of exchange?”

  “This incredible, limited edition collectible – only available for pre-order right now – in exchange for getting my birthday present early.”

  She considered, then nodded. “That’s extremely unsporting of you, Mr. Favero. But, deal. Of course.”

  He grinned and handed her the model. She kissed him in turn.

  From the stage, Brett called, “There we go, Spock: now that’s how you do it.”

  The crowd laughed again, but this time, Alfred didn’t mind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They went back to their room to deposit Nancy’s dubious treasure – the model was far too large to lug around. “And we need to touch up our makeup before the contest.”

  “And,” he reminded her, “I need my present.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she grinned. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  She fished through her suitcase. They’d returned to their rooms before the MDC program to drop off their purchases. Nancy had been slowly accumulating things throughout the afternoon, and even Alfred had found a handful of items to buy.

  “Alright,” she said, withdrawing the parcel. “Here you go.”

  He took it, grinning, and one-by-one pulled off the extra plastic bags. He stared with mixed feelings at what was revealed. It was a chess set that seemed to be of excellent craftsmanship. That, of course, he appreciated. But the pieces were Star Trek figurines, with ships and characters representing the more traditional playing pieces.

  “Well?” she said. “What do you think?”

  “Thanks, babe. But…why Star Trek?”

  She grinned. “Well, you say you have trouble finding chess partners. I figure, if we’re playing on a Trek board, you’ve always got one at least.”

  He considered that for a moment. He had chess sets, but this was more than another nice, if quirky, set. It was a promise to play. And that was something he valued far more. He smiled, and then kissed her. “Thanks, babe.”

  She smiled too. “You’re welcome, Alfred. Alright, let’s touch up those ears. There’s some splotchiness going on. And my neck spots are starting to smear.”

  “You think it matters? You think we have a chance of winning?” he asked dubiously.

  “Oh, no. Of course not. There’s way better cosplay than ours here.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because it will be fun.”

  “Oh.”

  Nancy’s idea of fun definitely differed from the taxman’s. They were in the pre-made portion of the costume contest, which was reserved for “highest quality replicas not produced by the wearer,” and precluded “tacky and Halloween costume quality items.”

  They were a few costumes from the end. “We’re lucky we got a spot at all,” she said. “We were on the waiting list until Monday.”

  Alfred resisted the urge to contradict her use of “lucky.” She was too excited for his ill humors. So he pulled out his phone. “What the…” He saw that he had dozens of new notifications waiting.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a million notices.” Glancing through the list, he saw that most were due to Nance: she’d tagged him in a post, and her hordes of friends had descended to comment.

  He brought up her post. It was a picture of the model space station. She’d written, “Check it out. A gift from Alfred Favero. Thank you, baby.” She added a hashtag that read “lucky girl”.

  The taxman smiled and liked the post. Then he went to comment, but first got pulled into the responses others had left. There were dozens and dozens of them. Most were positive. He preened to read, “Wow. He’s a keeper,” from a Monica Abbot.

  “Whose Monica again?”

  “One of my cousins.”

  “Ah.” He liked that cousin, he decided.

  He kept reading. There were quite a few variations of compliments for the gift. It was the rolling eyes emoji from Dave Abbot that really caught his eye, though.

  Dave Abbot was Nancy’s dad. They hadn’t met in person yet, but they’d communicated briefly over social media before. He’d never been struck by the other man’s friendliness, but this was something he hadn’t seen before either. “I, uh, guess your dad’s not a fan of video games?”

  “Oh no. What’d he say?” Nancy pulled out her own phone, and in a minute laughed. “Oh dad…” She shook her head. “No, not much of a fan.”

  “Oh.” Alfred kept scrolling through the comments.

  “Hey,” Nance interjected in a minute, “did you see Justin’s last post?”

  “No, what’d say?”

  She grinned and showed the taxman her phone. Onscreen was a post from Justin Lyon, reading:

  Real love doesn’t come with a price tag. It doesn’t need bribes. It doesn’t need to be showered in gifts; it grows in the fertile ground of real affection. #BackToBasics #BeRealOrBeGone

  Alfred frowned. “What’s that about?”

  “I don’t know,” Nancy grinned, “but he posted it about fifteen minutes after I put my post up.”

  “You think it’s a swipe at you?”

  Nancy laughed now. “Oh yeah. Look: I checked his page. This is what he’s got up since I posted that.”

  There was a post decrying that “this new generation of materialists is killing romance.” It was the final meme that made Alfred’s jaw really drop, though. It read, “A girlfriend who expects you to buy her affection isn’t a girlfriend. There’s another word for that.”

  “That prick,” he said, too angry to pass the word through his usual filter.

  “Turd sandwich,” Nancy reminded him with a grin.

  “No,” he shook his head. “Prick. He’s definitely a prick.”

  “Well, you won’t get argument from me on that.”

  “That’s the last straw,” the taxman fumed. “He’s really gone too far now.”

  “Don’t worry about it, babe. He’s just – well, a prick.”

  “But you see what he called you, Nance. He can’t get away with that.”

  “He’s hoping to piss us off, Alfred. Because – whatever he says – he knows we’re happy. And that bothers him more than anything we could say or do in response.”

  “I don’t know,” the taxman mused, “I don’t think he’d be too happy with a broken nose.”

  Nancy laughed and leaned over to kiss him. “No,” she agreed. “But he’s not worth it, babe.”

  Alfred wasn’t convinced, but he let it drop. Out loud, anyway; internally, he vowed his revenge. No one got away with talking about his Nance like that.

  Finally, it was their turn on the stage. They were announced by name and character name, and received with applause. They walked to the center of the stage, struck a pose, and, not a moment too soon, left.

  Alfred was congratulating himself that he’d managed to get across the stage without tripping over his own feet – because, knowing what he knew of himself, it would be in front of an enormous crowd that he’d manage a feat like that. It had been exhilarating, in a terrifying fashion, but being safely out of the spotlight was a relief too.

  As soon as they were ushered through, to a round of “good job, guys” from their fellow contestants and the stage staff, Nancy took him aside. “What’s up?” he started to ask. But she grabbed him and wrapped him in a kiss. “Wow. What was that for?”

  “Doing that with me. I had a lot of fun. Thank you, babe.”
<
br />   He grinned. “I did too, Nance.” And the fact was, he meant it. He had had fun. Despite it being wildly out of his comfort zone, he was still having fun. “Thanks for talking me into it.”

  “Careful, you’ll only encourage me.”

  “Hey,” he said suddenly, “I want to take a picture. You know, a selfie.”

  She laughed at his odd articulation of the word. “Alright, old man. Let’s take a self-ie.”

  They did – in fact, he took several. Then he scrolled through until he found one that he really liked. He wouldn’t say he cared for his own representation in any of the pictures. Then again, he never liked his own pictures. But there was an easiness to his manner now that had been missing from his earlier, stiff poses. What particularly caught his eye, though, was the twinkle in Nancy’s eyes and the dimples in her cheeks as she smiled.

  “There,” he said, “this one’s perfect.”

  Nancy glanced over his shoulder and groaned. “I look like a dork.”

  “You look gorgeous,” he corrected.

  “Look at that goofy smile.”

  “Gorgeous smile, you mean.” He brought up his social media app, and tapped through to upload it. “Just competed in the cosplay couples costume contest with Nancy Abbot,” he wrote, tagging her profile. “Most beautiful woman on or off the stage.”

  Nancy cringed when she saw the alert that she’d been tagged pop up on her screen. “Oh no. You didn’t upload that, did you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  She groaned, unlocking her phone to bring up the post. Then, though, she blushed. “Oh God,” she said. “All my friends are going to see that.”

  He grinned. “Yes. Yes, they are. Just like mine are seeing me in Vulcan ears. And at least I’m telling the truth.”

  She shook her head, but wrapped an arm around him affectionately. “You’re either blind or crazy, Alfred Favero.”

  “Crazy about you.” He held her gaze, and for a moment they stood unmoving. He could feel the rush of blood in his ears, hear the thunder of his pulse in his temples. The truth was, he was crazy about her. He’d never felt about anyone the way he felt about Nancy Abbot. And as he stared into her eyes, the rest of the room seemed to disappear. He tried to find his voice, but it was gone too.

  She smiled softly and said, “I’m crazy about you too, Alfred.” And then, drawn by the sounds of another couple coming backstage, she glanced away. The spell was broken; the rest of the room came back into view.

  And he felt, despite the warmth of her arms around him, that he’d missed an opportunity, a moment that he shouldn’t have let slip by. He hugged her to him, and tried to process the reeling of his thoughts.

  He didn’t make much headway, though. His mind was in too much of a daze. Soon enough, the winners were announced. Three couples would go onto the finals, where all the subcategories would compete for the grand prize. He and Nancy weren’t among them.

  She smiled. “I’m not surprised. There were great costumes here. Much better than ours.”

  “If I was one of the judges,” he declared obstinately. “I would have voted for you.”

  “Then I’m glad you’re not one of the judges,” she teased. “You want to stick around for the rest of the contest? We may be able to find seats. Or you want to head to the party?”

  This, of course, brought the case to the forefront of the taxman’s mind. He remembered the Nancy who had visited him from the future, and her warning. He remembered his promise not to attend the masquerade. “Actually, Nance,” he said, “I’m a little peopled out. I’d much rather take it easy tonight.”

  “We could go for a little while,” she suggested. “Half an hour?”

  “I’d really rather not, babe.”

  She nodded. “Alright.” She was disappointed, he could see clearly. But she smiled. “Fair enough. You’ve been a good sport all day. I’ll let you off the hook on this one.”

  “We could try that new chess set.”

  Nancy laughed. “You want to skip a party to play chess?”

  He nodded. “Any day of any week.”

  She laughed again. “Alright, Mr. Favero. We’ll play chess.” Then, she grinned suggestively and nudged him. “But only if we can play some Hnefatafl afterwards.”

  He felt his cheeks flush. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “What do you say? Deal?”

  He grinned. “Deal. Of course.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Josh had texted Alfred several times, but the taxman didn’t check his phone until after Nancy was asleep. The first text read, “Are you sure this guy’s our perp?” Then, “Favero, dammit, answer me. You sure this guy’s the suspect?”

  Alfred yawned. “Pretty sure,” he wrote. “Why?”

  “Because he hasn’t even gone near the party. Future Nance said that’s where you got knifed, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then how can Barret be our perp?”

  “What’s he been doing?”

  “Mostly? Making out with this guy.” Josh sent a picture of Barret and another man. The data developer seemed to be seated at a table, staring with besotted eyes at a man across from him in a red, white and blue superhero costume.

  “Who is that?”

  “A David somebody. I’ve heard him call him Dave, but haven’t heard the last name yet.”

  “Maybe he’s an accomplice.”

  “Unless he’s boning the help, I don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “Did you miss the part where I said they’ve been making out all night?”

  Alfred sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for Josh’s sarcasm. “How does that preclude them being in cahoots?”

  “Two reasons. The first, I could no more see this guy as an assassin than I could you. Second, he’s shown no interest in anything other than Captain Patriot there.”

  The taxman frowned at the first comment, but asked only, “Captain Patriot?”

  “Dave Whoever. That’s his costume.”

  “Oh.”

  “They disappeared into their room like two hours ago. And I’m telling you, this guy definitely didn’t have murder on his mind.”

  Alfred frowned. “Well, I changed the timeline when I decided not to go to the party. He must have changed his plans.”

  Ellipses points indicating that Josh was typing appeared for several moments. But, when the message came, it said only, “Fine. I hope you’re right, Alfred.”

  The taxman rolled his eyes, though, and set his phone aside. Of course he was right. Barret fit all the particulars. He was a shoo-in for their suspect, and being amorously engaged for the evening had exactly zero bearing on that assessment.

  Thus satisfied on the point, Alfred closed his eyes, wrapped an arm around Nance, and went to sleep.

  Nancy’s alarm sounded bright and early, and Alfred stumbled for the coffee maker in their room. The coffee the hotel left out wasn’t great, but it was coffee, and in the moment that was the primary concern.

  He grabbed his phone absently as the brewer sputtered away, and saw that he had twenty-seven notifications. They were mostly from the picture he’d uploaded the night before. He had over eighty reactions on it, which for half a second surprised him – that was more reactions than he had friends and connections on the account. Then he realized that they were mostly Nancy’s friends, who had been drawn because he’d tagged her in the post.

  Still, the comments were all variations of “nice picture” and “you guys look great,” and they put a smile on his face. Even Director Caspersen had commented, saying, “Great picture!”

  Nancy, meanwhile, yawned and stretched. “I think I’m going to take my shower,” she decided. “Then we can get some breakfast and do our makeup. We just have to make sure we’re downstairs by nine.”

  “What’s at nine again?” he wondered. It was too early for him to try to call up any mental archive of their schedule.

 
; “That’s the drawing, for autograph tickets.”

  “Oh. That’s right.”

  Nancy shuffled for the bathroom, and Alfred focused on the brewer. It was starting to trickle out the first droplets of caffeinated goodness when a knock at the door sounded. “I’ll get it,” she said, tossing on a bathrobe.

  “Okay,” he agreed absently.

  Nancy’s tone, however, changed sharply as she reached the door. “Josh?”

  The taxman glanced up, adrenaline doing the job usually reserved for caffeine. “What?”

  She was opening the door. “Josh?” she repeated. “What are you doing here? How’d you even know we were here?”

  The marine pushed through the open door, shutting and locking it after him. Then, he turned around and took Nancy by the shoulders. “Nance, you okay?”

  She blinked, stunned. “What?”

  Alfred felt his heart race. How, he wondered, was he possibly going to explain Josh’s presence? And what the hell is that dumbass jarhead doing here anyway?

  “Nance, you gotta listen to me. You gotta call Josh, get him over here.”

  Her expression morphed from surprise to concern. She placed a hand on his forehead. “Josh, are you alright?”

  He took her hand, though, and said, “I’m not crazy, Nance. I’m from the future. Half an hour in the future.”

  “What?” If her expression was anything to go by, this proclamation didn’t help his case.

  Alfred, meanwhile, grabbed a seatback to retain his balance. “What do you mean, half an hour in the future?”

  The marine glanced over at him now. “I was watching Barret, like you told me. It’s not Barret, taxman. He and Dave didn’t leave their room. Whoever your killer is, it’s not him.”

  “Wait,” Nancy said, “what the hell’s going on here? Alfred, what’s he talking about?”

  He gulped. “Uh…”

  “Tell her the truth. You need to level with her, now. Otherwise, you both end up dead, Alfred. Knifed in the elevator, on your way down. Both of you.” He glanced back at Nancy now. “I…I took the device. To warn you, before it was too late.”

  “Sugar cookies.”

  “Call Josh,” the marine said. “Forget about Barret. He needs to watch-” He cut off suddenly, disappearing without a trace.