Which didn’t matter; I wouldn’t be missed.
Finding the alcove empty, I settled into one of the comfy chairs. The food on my plate looked yummy, but admittedly at this stage of my long day, I would have found cardboard a feast. I was in the process of removing juicy bits of meat and vegetable from a skewer when an altercation between two men outside the alcove interrupted.
One of the pair I immediately recognized: our host, Tommy Bufford. The other was tall, slender, with wavy dark hair and an angular face; he wore a yellow polo shirt and tan slacks, a preppie alternative to train-wreck Tommy.
“You signed an exclusivity clause, remember?” the wavy-haired guy said angrily, poking Tommy in the chest with a hard forefinger. “You weren’t supposed to operate a competing convention for five years, and I’m gonna sue your stinky ass.”
“So sue me,” Tommy said, and shrugged. “But you’ll be wasting your time and money, Gino. I’m just a hired hand here.”
The wavy-haired guy snorted. “That won’t wash. You’re running things—your name is being used.”
Another shrug. “Just because we cofounded the Manhattan comic convention doesn’t mean you have any claim to my name. Or do I need to sue you over that?”
Now Tommy poked the other man’s chest.
“And that goes double for the Buff Awards,” he added. “Buff is short for Bufford, you know. If you wanted to keep presenting those at the old con, then you should’ve included that in the contract.”
As Tommy walked away, the guy yelled, “Sometimes I could just kill you, you bleeper!” Fill in the bleep yourself.
Then he was gone, too.
I had meant to tell Mother about the scrap, but when we returned to our suite—Mother having made countless new friends, me having gone through three plates at the salad bar—I was so full and so tired, I just flopped on the couch, not bothering to unfold the bed, still in my dress and cardi.
I don’t know how long I’d been asleep, when something woke me. The room was dark, as was Mother’s bedroom, though I could hear her snoring behind the closed door, like a sea storm roaring behind a shut porthole. That was probably the noise I’d heard, I thought, and rolled over.
I felt around for Sushi, but she wasn’t with me, having deemed a soft bed with Mother more appealing than a cramped couch with her mistress.
As I lay curled up with my head on one of the small davenport pillows, my eyes accustomed to the dark, it seemed to me as if something or someone was coming through the wall directly across the room!
I froze as a figure moved stealthily toward the bedroom.
The intruder had not seen me, apparently not expecting anyone to be camped out on the couch . . . which gave me an advantage.
I grabbed my rape whistle off the coffee table, stuck it in my mouth, and blew.
The shrill, eardrum-splitting sound startled our uninvited guest, who stumbled into the dinette set, toppling a chair.
Suddenly the door to the bedroom flew open and Mother, in red flannel pj’s, came rushing out, crying, “Rape! Rape!” at the top of her voice. And Sushi was not far behind, yapping for all she was worth.
The intruder fled back through the wall, which I realized held a connecting door to the next room. And there was a little “click” as it was being locked from the other side.
How had our side gotten unlocked?
“Quick, dear,” she said. “We can catch him.”
I shook my head. “No! I’m in no mood for a struggle. Anyway, he’s gone by now. And I think you’ll find that the room next door is empty.”
“You’re no fun,” she said poutily. “But surely those whistles, our yelling, will result in help arriving unbidden!”
“You’re in Manhattan,” I reminded her, and a siren underscored my point. “Anyway, this is what you get by letting everyone under the sun know we’ve got that Superman drawing in our room. The first thing tomorrow, we’re putting that thing in the hotel’s safe!”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mother replied sheepishly. “But we should call security.”
“In the morning. Go back to sleep. He won’t be back. If it makes you feel better, I’ll leave the lights on out here.”
“Very well,” Mother said disappointedly. “But I still think, with a little effort, we might well have caught him.”
“Good night, Mother,” I said with finality.
She shuffled into the bedroom, making a decidedly untheatrical exit. For her.
And I went back to the couch—after making doubly sure our side of the door was locked and had a chair propped under the knob.
But I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
Because there was something I hadn’t told Mother about our intruder—and the reason I didn’t want us running after him.
When she had opened the door coming to my rescue, the light from the bathroom caught the glint of metal in his hand.
In the shape of what seemed to be a knife.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Comics conventions are not just about selling or buying funny books. You’ll find at these fun functions a wide array of pop-culture memorabilia and collectibles: cartoon figurines, autographed photos, original comic artwork, and even clothing. I’m looking for a set of Shmoo salt and pepper shakers, because I think they’re so darn cute! The Shmoo was a famous critter in the Li’l Abner comic strip. But Mother finds them repellent, insisting they are “phallic symbols with eyes, dear.”
Chapter Three
Con Seat
The following morning, a cool, overcast Thursday, judging by the view from our suite, Mother and I left Sushi behind and headed to the security office to report last night’s break-in.
Mother was once again handcuffed to the briefcase—the Superman drawing safely within—but this time I did not make light of her precautionary measure. I didn’t even suggest that she leave the drawing behind in our little room safe, which wasn’t all that safe—according to the Internet (where things are sort of true), most hotel-room safes can be forced open with a screwdriver. Those not bolted down can even be carried out the door.
Mother, in her lavender Breckenridge slacks and sweater outfit, looked rested and lovely—no dark circles under her eyes. I was a different story—my bags had bags. While I had stayed awake in case our intruder returned, Mother had snored contentedly away in the next room, as if a hotel break-in were just some typical big city fun arranged to show a couple of tourists a good time.
Even Sushi had abandoned me for the comfort of Mother’s comforter, albeit burrowing her head in the latter to cut down on the sounds of sawing lumber.
Today, I was wearing the same clothes I’d had on for the past twenty-four hours, lacking the will and the energy to change; next to me, Tommy Bufford would look natty.
And now, in the light of day, as our elevator reached the lobby floor, I wondered if the whole nightmarish episode hadn’t been a simple misunderstanding; someone occupying the room next door, possibly a little tipsy after a festive night out, may have mistaken our connecting door for their bathroom.
I was even starting to question whether I’d really seen a knife in the intruder’s hand. The room had been dark, and that glint could have been any number of things—a silver pen or cigarette lighter (or rape whistle).
The security office, according to a sign with pointing arrow, was located down a short hallway beyond the registration desk. I hesitated, wondering if we should first speak with a hotel employee, the concierge perhaps, before barging into the security office. But the two check-in clerks were busy checking out guests, and the concierge desk was vacant. Besides, Mother had already barreled forward.
“Now, let me do the talking, dear,” she instructed, hand gripping the doorknob of the security office. “I have much more experience with this kind of thing.”
“Having your hotel room broken into?”
“Dealing with New Yorkers. I lived here for a time, you know.”
“I lived in Chicago.”
There was another option?
I dutifully nodded, and we entered.
The room was as richly appointed as an office furniture showroom—ornate, mahogany desk with padded burgundy leather chair, two Deco-print visitors’ chairs angled in front, the mandatory standing fern plant in one corner, poised as if to take notes.
On the wall behind the desk was a display of gold-framed photos, featuring the hotel’s interior and exterior at various times over its long history. On an adjacent wall, pictures of modern-day police officers—one grouping before a sign reading MIDTOWN PRECINCT SOUTH—hinted as to the manager’s previous occupation.
Yes, over the course of these investigations, I have become a trained sleuth.
We approached the desk, where a nameplate resting on its edge read ROBERT SIPCOWSKI, SECURITY MANAGER. The swivel chair was empty.
“Not here,” Mother observed.
Also a trained sleuth.
“I suppose we might have phoned ahead,” she said a little irritably. Mother feels that everyone should be at her beck and call at all times.
“We could leave a note,” I suggested, gesturing toward a pad and pen by the phone on the otherwise uncluttered desk.
A door to our right suddenly opened, startling us both, and a man strode in.
For a brief moment, before the door shut again, we got a peek into the adjoining room: the nerve center of the hotel’s security operation, where several dark-suited employees were monitoring a wall of security screens.
“I’m Robert Sipcowski, head of security,” the man said, businesslike but friendly, offering a hand first to Mother, then to me. He seemed not at all offended that we’d invaded his space. “You’re guests at the hotel?”
We nodded.
He smiled—again, businesslike. Though his eyes never seemed to leave our faces, he somehow seemed aware of that briefcase dangling from Mother’s wrist like bizarre goth bling. “How may I help you, ladies?”
At my tender age, I wasn’t crazy about being called a “lady,” but he meant well. A man can’t call a woman of thirty “a girl” without getting in trouble. On the other hand, a man can call a woman over forty a girl and get a smile for it. As these pointless thoughts threaded through my brain, I was noting Sipcowski’s presence in the various police photos on the wall.
The ex-officer was of average height, in his mid- to late fifties, his stark white hair conservatively cut, as was his navy suit, the white shirt and striped shades of blue tie almost a uniform. Years on the NYPD had given his oval face a well-grooved, weathered look but his brown eyes remained alert.
Mother, taking an immediate shine to the middle-aged man, said coquettishly, “We had a teensy-weensy little problem last night.”
At least she wasn’t speaking in her fake Brit accent.
“Oh?” His eyebrows went up, but the alert eyes became half hooded. “What kind of problem?” He gestured toward the visitors’ chairs. “Please, please, ladies, sit.”
And he moved behind his desk and into his chair, leaning forward, fingers tented, ready to calm any guest’s concern or irksome ire, his manner conveying that he took seriously whatever that concern or ire might be.
And at a hotel like this one, he could encounter a lot of screwballs with wacky concerns and ires. For example, right now he was about to deal with Vivian Borne.
Mother placed the briefcase on the floor beside her, handcuffed arm dangling down as if wounded.
“Mr. Sipcowski,” Mother began, “you may have noticed my briefcase.”
“Please, call me Robert. And, yes, I did.”
Mother nodded. “Very well, Robert. And please take the liberty of calling me Vivian.”
I closed my eyes. I tried to keep my groan interior.
Mother was gesturing toward me with her free hand. “And this is my daughter, Brandy—oh! I guess I should say, technically, she’s my granddaughter. Peggy Sue—that’s my real daughter, that is, I mean to say, my natural daughter, not that little Brandy is unnatural in any way. . . .” And here she giggled girlishly. “. . . Well, Peggy Sue had Brandy on the other side of the blanket, as folks were wont to say back in the day, but of course Brandy didn’t know about that until last year.”
Robert’s smile had frozen, the alert eyes glazing over. This happened fairly often to people meeting Mother for the first time.
I said, “We had an intruder in our room last night.”
Mother frowned in my direction, as if I’d spoken in a most inappropriate manner. “I thought we agreed that I was to do the explaining, dear.”
“Well, you explained quite a bit, and now I’ll just fill in what you left out.”
“I was getting around to it, dear.”
“I’m sure, but, uh, Mr. Sipcowski might be interested in how the story of our lives pertains to his hotel. So I cut to the chase.”
“Dear, there was no chase. The intruder simply scurried out when you blew that rape whistle.”
This perked Robert up. “Well, that’s a start—you’ve cleared up the source of the shrill whistle that awoke several guests on the fifteenth floor last night.”
I said, “We’re in fifteen thirty-seven. Although we may be registered in fourteen-twenty-one.”
Robert cleared his throat. “Ladies . . . perhaps we could back up and start at the beginning.”
Vivian, whose chin was up defensively, said, “I thought that’s what I was doing.”
I said, “Not that far back, Mother.”
The security chief said, “Could we get to the pertinent information? Vivian, would you like to try again?”
Back in the game, Mother batted her long eyelashes, a feminine “perk” of her glaucoma medication. “Certainly, Robert.”
And she hauled the briefcase up, slapping it on the desk, like a fisherman landing a mackerel on a boat deck.
“Someone,” she said with melodrama that might have been better saved for the Serenity Community Playhouse, “was after this.”
Robert seemed less impressed than Mother might have liked. “What is it?”
Mother smiled slyly. “I’ll show you—as soon as I rid myself of these handcuffs.” She gave me a look usually reserved for magicians’ assistants. “Brandy? The key please.”
I sighed. “I don’t have it, Mother.”
Mother’s smile continued on, fairly regal now. “No, dear, I’m sure I gave the key to you.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Déjà vu. And gesundheit.
Mother sighed. She gave Robert a smile of girlish embarrassment. “Well, it’s of no great import. I’ll just open the case.”
With her free hand, she began fiddling with the little four-tumbler lock. “Let’s see, I just changed the combination this morning. . . .”
“Zero, zero, zero, zero,” I suggested.
“That was yesterday.”
“One, two, three, four.”
“The day before.”
“Try the year you claim you were born.”
She shot me a nasty look, and I admit that had been a low blow. “You’re not helping, dear.” Then, “I remember! It’s our room number.” She turned to me. “What’s our room number again?”
But Robert beat me to it: “Fifteen thirty-seven.”
Mother raised a forefinger. “I’ll try that.”
She did, and the briefcase snapped open. Mother twirled it around on the desk, and Robert leaned forward for a look.
“A drawing of Superman,” he said flatly, sounding a little surprised but mostly disappointed, perhaps having envisioned diamonds or cash.
Mother, unfazed by his lackluster reaction, gushed, “Not just any Superman drawing, my dear man.”
“Really.”
She nodded vigorously, and for a moment I thought something in her head rattled, but it was only the handcuffs.
“It’s extremely rare,” Mother explained. “Drawn by the creators
of Superman, who are dead.” The latter was delivered as if very good news. “That simple drawing is worth a small fortune.”
Robert frowned. “How small? Or should I say, how big?”
“That’s part of why we’re attending the comic book convention here. It’s going to be auctioned off, and this drawing is a real draw.” She smiled at her delightful play on words.
Robert was still frowning at her. “And you’ve been carrying it around with you?”
Mother shrugged. “Well . . . yes. But it was in this locked case.”
Robert again sat forward. “Ma’am,” he said sternly, almost crossly, using a term ladies of all ages hate to hear, “you’ve been very foolish, not putting that valuable drawing in the hotel’s safe. And it was reckless that you didn’t call us immediately after the break-in.”
Mother, looking crestfallen by the reprimand, was at a rare loss for words.
I said, “We apologize for our inaction—I guess we forgot we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Mother’s magnified eyes blinked at me. “Don’t you mean we’re not in Iowa, dear? You’ll have to forgive her, Robert, she’s most flummoxed this morning, after our close call last night.”
“Wizard of Oz reference, Mother? Hello?” I asked Robert, “Could we please leave the drawing with you? You’ll see that it’s put into the hotel’s safe?”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. “I’ll get the necessary papers for you to sign. But first, let’s take things back a few steps, okay? Not all the way to the wrong side of the blanket, if you don’t mind.”
I smiled. Maybe I blushed.
“Dear,” Mother said, “I think Robert would like you to stop going down these side roads, and tell him about the break-in.”
I did, with Mother pitching in when necessary, and pretty much behaving as she did so.
“Was it a knife?” Robert asked, very concerned.
“Honestly, I don’t know now,” I said. “It could have been almost anything reflective. I’m afraid it may just have been my imagination.”
8 Antiques Con Page 3
