by Nancy Warren
He repeated the process with the other two at the registration desk and struck out twice more.
“So, none of you registered her.”
“No,” said the young guy, “but registration didn’t start ‘til today. There’s always a few who come early to check out the city or hook up with friends.” He shrugged. “Maybe she arrived early.”
The second woman said, “There are other conferences here, Detective, as I’m sure you’re aware. Perhaps she’s with Lady Bianca.”
Funny how every conference wanted to shunt the murder victim to somebody else’s agenda. “In fact, she did have a Lady Bianca makeover yesterday. She put her name on the customer card as Violet Hunter. What do you make of that?”
“The Adventure of the Copper Beeches,” the first woman said with a fond smile. “Not Conan Doyle’s greatest work, perhaps, but always a favorite of mine.”
“The fact that she chose a name out of a Holmes story makes this conference a likely bet. When do you expect everyone to have registered?”
“Not until tomorrow sometime.”
“Any way of finding out who came in early?”
“Yes. Everyone who registered used a special code to get the conference rate with the hotel. The front desk should have that information.”
“Thanks. Mind if I look around?”
“Of course not, Detective. And if you care to purchase any of the books, in most cases the authors are here at the convention and would be happy to sign them for you.”
He nodded and turned to check out the readers milling around the book-laden tables. What kind of people came to a conference like this? He’d always loved mysteries but he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to hang out with other people who read them. He’d never considered reading a group activity.
He’d assumed a book club was a commercial enterprise that sold novels at a discount -- until a former girlfriend had set him straight. Thursday nights once a month were sacred; her book club night. And he soon learned that the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday leading up to the Thursday night were sacrosanct too, since she was always behind and had to read the book in a hurry ready to discuss it.
It seemed the book club had gone a step further. Now there were entire conventions devoted to mystery reading. He wondered how many books these poor suckers had to cram before they got here.
“Is that disdainful smile directed at me, young man?”
Something about the voice made him straighten and wipe the smirk right off his mouth. “No, ma’am,” he said, and found himself confronting an elderly woman who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Her ample bosom stuck out from her chest like a shelf, and he imagined her resting her novel there while she was reading.
She had a thick head of red curly hair that had to be a wig, and wore clip-on earrings of cascading fruits that reminded him of Carmen Miranda’s head dresses. Her lipstick was bright red, but a different red than the hair, and under turquoise eyelids that looked as though they’d been painted on by a toddler with a crayon a pair of sharp gray eyes snapped with humor. “You here for the conference? You don’t seem the type.”
“No. I’m not. Are you?”
She cackled with laughter. Big teeth stained with nicotine and coffee. “Yes, I am, and I’m exactly the type: an old spinster without enough to do.” She had the raspy tones of a smoker. He bet her doctor had been nagging her for years to quit.
She’d been eyeing his badge and sidearm but he still told her he was a cop and pulled out his wallet ID before she could demand to see it. Somehow he knew she would. She studied it carefully before asking what he wanted.
He showed her the photograph and once more was disappointed after she studied it carefully, pulling on the reading glasses hanging around her neck to do so, and then shaking her head..
“What kind of people do come to the conference?” he asked her.
“Folks like me. Teachers or retired teachers. Writers, of course, and people from every walk of life who love the genre and want to know more about it. We get some young people, but most of us are middle aged or older. We’re the ones with the most time to read and the most money to spend indulging our whims.”
“Were you here last night?”
“No. I flew in this morning from Boston. Just got here an hour ago and came down to register – and browse the books.”
Her gaze strayed behind him to a stack of shiny new hard covers. He turned to follow her gaze. “Perfect Murder,” he read aloud. “A novel?”
“No. Non-fiction. Joe’s a true-crime writer. I understand he spent several years researching this book.”
“Great. Exactly what cops need. A textbook on how to murder people and get away with it.” He picked up the book and skimmed the back jacket.
“You can tell the author exactly what you think of him and his book,” the gravelly voice informed him with relish. “He just walked in.”
Luke’s first thought was that the guy heading their way did not fit the profile as described to him by his new friend. Joseph Mandeville, author of Perfect Murder, sported a manly, chiseled chin, wavy black hair that was exactly the length to scream ‘artiste’ and big, greedy lips. He had a large body, as though he’d played a lot of sports in his younger days, but his time behind the computer had softened him. He wore jeans, cowboy boots that had never seen the range, a black corduroy jacket, and a gray patterned scarf draped nonchalantly around his neck.
After pausing inside the doorway, he glanced around and when his gaze lighted on his own books, he headed toward them without the pretense of being interested in any other book in the room but the one he’d penned.
“Joe,” said the old woman beside him stepping forward, “I’m Helen Barnes. We met last year in Knoxville. I moderated the panel discussion on strangling methods.”
“Of course, Helen, how are you?” Joseph Mandeville reached forward and kissed both of her withered cheeks with European aplomb.
“I’m fine, thank you. This is Detective Marciano. He’s interested in your book.”
“Of course. My pleasure.” And the author reached into his pocket and pulled out a fountain pen. “Whom do I make it out to?”
“Don’t need it signed, thanks. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions though.”
The author held up his hands and raised his voice in mock alarm. “I never give away my sources or my secrets.”
Pretentious prick. “I’m investigating a murder, here at the hotel. When did you arrive?”
The man blinked. “A murder? Here? Really? I was in my room writing. I never looked at the news. Who’s the victim?”
“We’re trying to find that out, sir. When did you arrive?”
“Day before yesterday. I had a couple of book signings and a speaking engagement before the conference started.”
“And you’re staying in the hotel?”
“Yes.” He glanced at Helen Barnes and licked his greedy lips. “Can’t believe no one told me there’d been a murder right under my nose. I’ll have to call my agent. Maybe write an article for one of the big magazines.” As though a violent death were a big treat he’d missed, and an employment opportunity.
Once more Luke drew out the photograph of the dead woman. “Do you recognize her?”
The artiste façade slipped for a second and Luke watched Mandeville’s eyes widen in genuine shock. He reached out for the picture, then stopped. “Oh my God. I know her. Her name is Amy Neuman. But –”
“Are you sure?”
His gaze stayed riveted on the photograph and his upper lip looked suddenly clammy. “Of course I’m sure. I had dinner with her Sunday night.”
Chapter Ten
No woman makes herself up for a man. She does it for herself. But if a man notices, that’s always nice. —Lady Bianca
“I can’t believe Amy’s dead,” Joseph Mandeville said, shoving a hand through his hair so it fell in romantic disarray. Marciano wondered how he’d look with a prison regulation buzz cut.
&nbs
p; “Murdered, in fact. Something you are quite an expert on.” He and Henderson were in Mandeville’s suite sharing the space with the man’s laptop, his two cell phones, his cloying cologne and his oversized ego. He’d called Henderson and asked him to come along as he interviewed the author.
“I didn’t kill her. Why on earth would I?”
Marciano opened the hard cover Mandeville was here to promote and read the opening words of the book. “The perfect murder needs no reason. That’s why it’s perfect.”
“Come on. I get paid to create an impression. Doesn’t mean I believe that crap.”
Marciano glanced over at Henderson who smoothly took over. “How did you meet Ms. Neuman?”
“She emailed me through my website, originally.”
“Where did she live?”
Mandeville opened his big lips and then pursed them as though thinking. “Seattle, I believe.”
They already had the woman’s registration information from the front desk and knew she was from Seattle.
“And you live in New York.”
“Right. That’s the beauty of the web. It’s made the planet the size of an Internet café.”
“When did Ms. Neuman contact you?”
“About a year ago. It was right after Killer Teens came out. That’s a true crime about teen-aged murderers. She wanted to use a section of the book as a teaching exercise for her sophomore English class, and wrote to ask my permission.”
“Did you give it?”
“Sure. If a few of those kids bought one of my books it would be worth it. I looked on it as free publicity.”
“When I was a sophomore we studied Macbeth,” Marciano said.
Mandeville smiled dutifully. “My books are as gory, but more contemporary. And there are plenty of tragedies in high school. Anyway, she said she was a fan of my work and we began corresponding by email. When it turned out we were both coming to this conference, we decided to meet for dinner.”
“Whose idea was the dinner?”
“Mine, I think.”
“And was it your idea that she come in before the conference started? Before there was anybody around?”
Mandeville’s eyes flashed with annoyance but he kept his tone calm. “She’d already decided to come in early. She’d never been to Texas and wanted to do some sightseeing while she was here.”
The weight of two police officers staring at him seemed to unnerve him. “Oh, for God’s sake. If I wanted to murder a woman I barely know, I’d hardly have done it in the hotel where we’re both staying, after we spent the evening together. I’m not a fool.”
“Where did you go for dinner?”
“A gourmet steak house.” He shrugged. “When in Rome. I wanted to show her some real Texas fun.”
“Had you ever met before?”
He glanced toward the window where a plane arrowed slowly across the hazy sky. “Maybe we passed each other at a conference in the past. Who knows?”
“What did you talk about over dinner?”
He opened his hands the way lecturers do when making a point. “Books, of course. Writing. Teaching. Her life, my life.” He stretched out his legs in front of him but Marciano thought he was trying too hard to convey the idea that he was relaxed.
“She seemed upset about something. Her cell phone rang a few times during dinner. She checked the number once and then put the thing on vibrate, but I could tell she was edgy. You know? She was sitting with her back to the window, but a couple of times she turned around to check outside. It didn’t seem like she was people-watching.”
Henderson made a careful note. “You think someone was following her? Harassing her?”
“I don’t know. I asked her if everything was okay and she said it was.”
“What time did you leave the restaurant?”
“Around ten, I think.”
“Did that Texas fun continue when you got back to the hotel?” Marciano asked.
Mandeville jerked to his feet and stalked to the window, standing there with his back to them. “No. She was going through a difficult time. She’s – she was in the process of getting a divorce. She wasn’t ready to move on.”
“So you didn’t put the moves on her?”
“Of course I did.” He spun around and snapped, “I’m a red-blooded unattached male staying in a deluxe hotel room with a king-sized bed. I suggested we come back to my place for a nightcap.”
He actually said nightcap.
“And she refused?”
Under Henderson’s steady, unmoving gaze, Mandeville’s shifted until he was staring at the tasteful floral print on the wall. “Yes.”
“How did her rejection make you feel?” Henderson asked in his emotionless way.
“I didn’t feel like killing her because she turned me down,” he snapped. “I’m not that desperate for sex.”
“So, if you have nothing to hide, you won’t mind if we look around?”
Mandeville started at him and Luke figured the guy’d done enough research that he must know they didn’t have enough articulable facts to justify a warrant. But, if he was as innocent as he claimed, the easiest way to prove it was to let them paw through his sock drawer.
Mandeville blinked first. “Fine. Just don’t make a mess.”
Henderson held out one of the preprinted consent forms and asked Mandeville to sign it, which he did with an angry flourish of his fountain pen.
“What do you figure?” Marciano asked Henderson when they left Mandeville’s suite.
“Would have been nice to find a blood-stained knife.”
“Yeah. You know, I agree with him. He’s too smart to kill a woman he ate dinner with and do it right in the hotel where they’re both staying.”
“He’s arrogant. I think he’d do about anything for publicity.” Marciano punched the down button on the elevator. “He’s got his next book already. The Night my Penpal was Murdered.”
“You think he killed her to sell a few books?”
Luke shrugged.
“Seemed like he wanted to be helpful.”
“Too helpful. You buy the mysterious cell phone calls and her checking over her shoulder?”
“Now we know who she is, we can get hold of her cell phone records. I’ll get onto that.”
Marciano nodded. “Better let Seattle PD know. They’ll have to inform next of kin. I’ll check the restaurant. Double-check her last movements. Try and follow some kind of trail.”
Henderson’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open and had a short conversation.
“They were able to squeeze the autopsy in today at three.”
“Great. Meet you back here at 2:30.”
Marciano headed out of the hotel, pulling his sunglasses on as he went.
Not far past the revolving door to the main entrance, a couple of enterprising teens were selling two-inch campaign-style buttons in purple printed with the words NO, I Don’t want a Lady Bianca makeover. From the brisk sales, he had to think everyone in the area had been approached by more than one eager sales rep.
He’d barely stepped off the hotel property when he saw several groups of Lady Bianca types heading his way. Already, he could spot them, all those skirts and pumps. The third group he passed contained the most Lady Bianca of all the reps: Toni Diamond, her sunglasses sparkling in the light. He’d have nodded and kept going, but she stopped him.
“Detective,” she said, detaching herself from her group and walking over to him. “I’m so happy to see you.” She gestured to the group behind her, all looking at her like fledgling chicks watching Mother Hen. “We were practicing some friendly fishing.”
He gestured to the button sellers. “Doesn’t look like you’re catching much.”
The sun glinted off her diamond-studded glasses when she shook her head. “You’d be surprised. It’s fun to encourage new customers to try our products. And a little bit of resistance is good for training purposes.”
“Well, I’ve got some fishing of my own to do, if y
ou’ll excuse me.”
“Of course. I know you’ve got police business to attend to, but I’ve got something for you.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a tube, offering it to him.
He didn’t take it immediately. “It’s purple.”
“Don’t be a chauvinist. It’s lilac and it’s the hand moisturizer and cuticle cream I was telling you about.”
She lifted his hand and placed the tube on his palm, giving both a little pat. “I talked to one of our reps whose husband is a mechanic. He swears by the stuff. She said you should rub this all over your hands and under your nails before you work on greasy engines. It prevents the dirt from sticking. Then, after you clean up, rub the cream in well.” She mimed the process on her own fingers. “Especially around the sides where the skin gets dry and cracked.”
“I don’t –”
“No need to thank me.” She twinkled at him. “Maybe you’ll love the cream so much you’ll recommend it to your sister. Bye now,” she said in her eternally sunny way, and was gone.
He probably would, he thought. He’d started out investigating a murder and he’d end up pimping makeup to his relatives, God help him.
As he walked away he heard a burst of feminine laughter and some excited chatter. He had to stifle a grin as he stuffed the lilac tube in his pocket. Damn it, that woman had friendly fished him, hook line and sinker.
The walk to the steak house Mandeville directed him to took him less than ten minutes when he deliberately held his pace to a stroll.
The restaurant was a mid-priced steak house. Lots of dark wood and blue gingham café curtains across big windows. The lunch crowd was thinning out, but the hostess offered him a practiced smile and a quick glance behind him before asking, “Lunch for one?”
He slipped her his card. “I’m investigating a crime. I’d like to ask a few questions about a couple who had dinner here Sunday night.”
“I wasn’t working Sunday. Any idea who their server was?”
“No. But they sat by the window.”
