Mother and I remained seated, watching as Eric handed the blonde his award, gold pen in marble holder, gave her a “wait here” gesture, then hurried after Violet, his jilted “paramour.”
I whispered to Mother, “Wish I was a mouse following him.”
“So you could listen to a rat,” she whispered back.
I nodded. “Not as nice a boy as I thought, our Eric. Be right back. . . .”
I got up, eased through the row, and approached the pretty young blonde.
“Hej—hvordan har du det?” I greeted her.
Her blue-gray eyes, which had turned troubled since Eric ran off, lit up. “Fint, tak. Taler du dansk?”
I laughed. “Sorry! You’ve just heard about the extent of my Danish.” I stuck out my hand. “Brandy Borne.”
“Helena Nielsen.” She had a lovely accent. “Borne—you’re Danish, too?”
“Third generation,” I replied. “But my mother speaks it pretty well.” I gestured with my head. “She’s over there next to the boy in the wheelchair.”
But Helena kept her eyes on the backstage door, obviously hopeful for Eric’s imminent return.
I asked, “Did you just arrive? Haven’t seen you around the convention.”
She looked back at me. “I flew in this morning. Eric didn’t want me to come earlier—he said I’d be bored.”
Or maybe in the way.
“He works out of home?” I asked. “In Denmark?”
“Yes. We live in Copenhagen.”
“Does he write in English?”
“For this market, yes. He has American friends who help him make his work more”—she reached for the phrase—“sounding like American.”
Friends like Violet. Maybe he had a lot of friends like Violet. . . .
I gestured toward the award, its gold pen inscribed with Eric’s name. “Well, that’s a wonderful honor.”
She nodded. “It means much to us. The comics business in Denmark is very limited. America is the place.”
Not “him”—us.
She went on: “This will make a difference. Eric will be taken serious now.”
“Eric’s your boyfriend?”
“Husband. I keep my own name—I have a modeling career in Copenhagen.” Then, “I have seen that woman before. Violet something?”
“Oh?”
“She came to Copenhagen to talk to people about doing a convention there. Like this one.”
“Yes, I heard the Bufford Conventions were hoping to break into Europe.”
“Eric says she has been helpful in getting him that award.”
“I think that’s true.”
Her mouth made a thin line. “But maybe . . . too helpful?”
The sleuth in me wanted to keep prying. But the decent human being (she’s still in there somewhere) thought it better to give this woman her privacy. I said it was nice meeting her, she said the same about me, and I went back to Mother, taking my seat.
Quickly, I told her about my conversation with Eric’s blond bride, concluding with, “His name is on his award. On that gold pen.”
“Why wouldn’t it be, dear?”
“They sure must have gotten a replacement quickly, because you and I saw it sticking out of Tommy’s chest.”
“Good point! No pun intended. . . .”
I rose. “You’ll have to represent us at the Superman thingie. I’m going stir-crazy in here. Gotta get some fresh air. Only so much comic-con smell a girl can take.”
“You do that. I’ll be fine, dear.”
I left the ballroom and took an elevator down to the lobby. On my way to the Seventh Avenue exit, I passed by the hotel’s coffee shop, where a mildly distressed female waitress was talking to one of Sipcowski’s staff in the doorway.
“I didn’t see anyone take it,” she said, gesturing with two upward palms. “Who would want a menu sign?”
“They’ll steal anything in this town,” the security guy said.
Suddenly a drink seemed more called for than fresh air, so I turned on my heels and headed back to the Statler Grill.
At the bar, I ordered a white zinfandel. While waiting for it, I noticed a morose Harlan Thompson at the end of the long counter, hunkered over a tumbler of hard stuff. His out-of-date tweed jacket had elbow patches and his tie looked frayed. Whether this was an attempt to look writerly or a result of limited funds, I couldn’t say.
I hung out at the bar, biding my time, until a stool next to him opened up, and I grabbed it.
For a while, I didn’t say anything to him, just sipped my wine. But when it was time either for a refill or to vacate the seat, I swivelled toward him.
“I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Thompson,” I said. Actually, I’d only read him once, when Joe Lange insisted I try an issue of Batman he’d written. I found it dark and unpleasant. Holy depressing!
“Thank you,” he said with a rumpled smile.
“Like just about everybody else in that room upstairs, I thought you should have won. I thought you would win!”
He tossed back the last of the liquid in his tumbler. “That makes two of us.” He caught the bartender’s eye. “Again!”
“The winner,” I said, “that Danish kid? He didn’t get much love from the audience.”
He looked at me with rheumy eyes. “What does that tell you, young lady?”
“I give up. What does it tell me?”
“That the fix was in.”
The folder with those ballot pages came to mind.
He leaned toward me, a little too close. “Know why I know that?”
“No. Why?” I tried not to back away, but his breath made my eyes water.
“’cause Tommy Bufford himself told me I was gonna win.”
“He did?”
Thompson shrugged. “As much as. After I was nominated, I called him. Explained it was a lot of money to come from California, and I really couldn’t afford the trip, much as I might like to support him. Would he forgive an old man for asking for a pass on this one?”
“And?”
“And he said I needed not to miss this con. He said it would be a rewarding experience for me.”
“Kind of a breach for Tommy to tell you that.”
“Not as big a one as somebody else rigging it for that Danish dolt to win. Writer! He can barely speak English!”
“Are you saying you think somebody changed the results after Tommy’s death?”
“Has to be . . . unless the late Mr. Bufford was playing me for a fool, just to get me to his stupid convention.”
“Well . . . what do you think is the case?”
“What do I think? That it’s a crock. Bartender! Again!”
I wondered if I was sitting next to the real winner of the best writer Buff Award.
And just about the only person I’d talked to lately who wasn’t a worthy addition to Mother’s suspect list.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Never let your purchases out of your sight—it only takes a few seconds for someone to steal your hard-found treasures. Totes and carry bags should have zippers to make pilfering harder. Warning: Once as a deterrent, Mother placed a mousetrap in her bag, but it quickly slipped her mind and she got her own fingers snapped.
Chapter Ten
Con Fur
The following day, Saturday, Mother had an errand for me to run.
Apparently, she had somehow gotten in touch with Vikki, our Hudson Parkway Samaritan, and my mission (whether I chose to accept it or not) was to be at the Gershwin Theater on West Fifty-first Street at noon. Why? Well, to pick up two spare costumes from Wicked, naturally, which Vikki was loaning us for this evening’s masquerade ball.
You may wonder why our Good Samaritan wardrobe mistress agreed to Mother’s presumptuous request. To me, it sounded risky on Vikki’s part, the kind of good deed that can easily turn bad—like lose-your-wardrobe-mistress-gig bad. Well, she only consented to Vivian Borne’s request on three conditions: first, that I pick up the clot
hes (not Mother); second, that the costumes be returned intact on Tuesday; and third, that she would never, ever hear from us again. This included Christmas and a free pass off Mother’s Yuletide mailing list, an accomplishment that usually took death.
So risking her job was a small price to pay.
I left the hotel at eleven, on foot, with Sushi on her leash, providing a little fresh air and exercise for both of us. The temperature had climbed to the upper forties and the sun had come out, warming the cold cement canyon of the city.
Our hike to the theater should have taken no more than half an hour, up Seventh Avenue, veering onto Broadway at Times Square, then turning left one block at West Fifty-first Street—approximately a mile. Piece of cake. (Make that cheesecake.)
Sushi was at first energetic, and thrilled with the sounds and smells that enlivened her sightless little world. But the dear only made it to Forty-second Street before stopping in her tracks, tuckered out. So I picked her up and stuck her inside the front of my coat, her furry head peeking out like that scary scene in Alien, minus the goop.
I, too, was pooped, not at all used to traversing these long city blocks; but a taxi seemed like an extravagance, and I didn’t feel confident using the subway, with its possible perils—a native New Yorker can sniff out a tourist like Sushi could a prior pee deposit (no shortage of those in Manhattan, though not always canine). I would just have to press on—after all, we were more than halfway there.
And there was plenty to take my mind off some minor fatigue. Even in daytime, my route along Broadway, Times Square especially, was a dazzling display of vertical glamour, the kinetic energy of the crowds dizzying, all accompanied by a sound symphony of honking horns, police whistles, accelerating motors, and pedestrian chatter. To look around and realize that there were more people in view—way more—than lived in all of Serenity, well . . . it was staggering, exhilarating, even humbling. If I could make it here, I could make it anywhere.
And where I wanted to make it was over to the Gershwin Theater. Only a handful of such venues were located on Broadway per se, like the Marquis at Forty-sixth (playing Evita) and the Palace at Forty-seventh (a revival of Annie). Such big steady draws as The Lion King, Phantom of the Opera, and Spiderman were playing theaters on the cross streets.
At Forty-eighth, I ran out of steam and ducked into the big Hershey’s Store, emerging five minutes later with a sack of candy Kisses. Sushi didn’t bother whining while I fumbled the foil off one after another; she could smell the chocolate and knew I wouldn’t give her any. Chocolate is not good for dogs, although quite honestly I don’t know that I would have shared with her even if it were.
I rode my sugar boost over to Fifty-first and the Winter Garden (Mamma Mia!) (the musical, I mean, not the expression), where I went left, walking half a block. This took me by the Gershwin’s multidoor entrance, arrayed with large posters and placards boasting wondrous shots of the elaborate costumes in the show, in particular, the two witches who were central to the story. Mother’s instructions had been to go to the stage door, located just past the driveway of the theater’s parking garage.
I approached black double doors, under a bold
242
GERSHWIN
STAGEDOOR
sign, found them locked, located an intercom, and rang the buzzer.
“Yeah?” a male voice barked.
Everybody you talked to in this town sounded like you were interrupting something more important than whatever it was you wanted. Which possibly was the case.
“Brandy Borne to see Vikki . . .” I halted, not recalling her last name. With all the confidence I could muster, I added, “Wardrobe.”
“Hold on.”
Excitement bubbled in me like carbonation. I was looking forward to going inside and seeing the inner workings of a big theatrical show—that would be incredible! It would also provide a place for me to sit down and rest my aching dogs (feet, not Sushi).
I shifted my stance—I was getting a blister on my right foot—noticing the silver metal barricades leaning against the black wall; these would be hauled to the sidewalk after the two o’clock matinee, adoring fans lining up for glimpses of stars and possibly snagging autographs.
Suddenly, the stage door opened. Our highway rescuer Vikki—in black flats, black leotards, and a purple formfitting tunic, her blond hair pulled back—tossed a large navy gym bag at my feet. I smiled up at her, ready to thank her for her generosity. But I never got a word out.
“Rip those and you’re dead,” she said.
The door slammed in my face.
Mother and I make friends everywhere we go.
I picked up the bulging bag, walked back to Broadway, and hailed a cab. I was from out of town, and that’s what out-of-towners do in the big city. But somehow it seemed wrong, when I realized Sushi and I had made better time on foot.
We returned to our suite to find Mother seated at the round table, munching on a room-service salad, a fork in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other. She glanced our way, her eyes glomming onto the gym bag. She pushed her plate aside.
“Put it right here, dear,” she said excitedly, tapping the center of the table.
I did, letting her unzip the bag while I removed my coat, then settled Sushi on the couch. I hadn’t peeked, afraid that the overstuffed contents would pop out and I’d have trouble cramming them back in. But I was pretty stoked—actual costumes from Wicked! I knew just who I wanted to be . . . and what role Mother would be perfect for.
Out of the bag, Mother pulled a black pointed witch’s hat (typecasting?), then a full-length black lace dress with high neck and long sleeves, which I recognized from the posters at the theater as the signature costume worn by the Wicked Witch of the West. Mother held the exquisite gown up to herself—it looked like it would fit just fine—and we ooohed and ahhhed.
Excitedly, I dug in the now somewhat deflated bag for my costume. I assumed this would be the off-the-shoulder baby-blue sparkly bubble dress worn by the Good Witch of the North . . .
. . . only that’s not what I found.
Instead, I pulled out a rainbow-painted leotard, a red military jacket with epaulets, a long curly tail, and two closed black umbrellas.
“I’m a monkey?” The tail was the tip-off, and the umbrella wings sealed it.
“Not just any monkey, dear,” Mother said brightly. “A flying monkey.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’ll have the ballroom rigged for flying effects. Why didn’t you get me the Good Witch’s dress?”
“It wasn’t available, dear. Beggars can’t be choosers!”
“You call that woman back up! She was very rude to me—slammed the door in my face.”
“And what would you have me tell her, dear?”
“That if the Good Witch isn’t available, I want to be Dorothy!” I pointed to Sushi, snoozing on the couch. “I mean, we already have Toto, right?”
Mother put a finger to her lips. “That would be a nice touch, a real dog and all.” She shrugged. “But, really, Dorothy and Toto are barely in the musical—only referred to, because of copyright concerns. Anyway, being a monkey is much more colorful!”
“I suppose it’s too late,” I grumbled, “to find a costume shop.”
“Brandy, darling . . . let’s not be ungrateful.”
“Yeah, yeah, beggars, choosers, I get it. But next time, let me do the negotiating. I could’ve gotten myself a better costume in return for that woman never having to see us again.”
“Oh, but you’ll look adorable,” Mother soothed. “Besides, we shouldn’t take Sushi with us tonight, anyway.”
“Why not? She could be a baby monkey.”
“Not without a baby monkey costume. And Toto without Dorothy is like Robin without Batman!”
“Doesn’t that make me Batman without Robin?”
“Batman often goes solo, dear. Lots of fans prefer it that way. Dark Knight Trilogy—hello! Didn’t you do any research before going to a comic co
n? Anyway, we don’t need any doggie distractions. After all, we’re unmasking the murderer at the ball tonight.”
This news she delivered as casually as saying, “You have spinach in your teeth, dear.”
I goggled at her. “You know who killed Tommy? Did you find something out while I was on my ‘mission’?”
“More or less,” Mother said. “To both your questions.”
“Well? Spill!”
“Sit with me at the table, dear. And calm yourself.”
I did. Well, I sat, anyway.
She retrieved the manila envelope containing the partial ballots, plus the complete one I’d obtained, then spread them out on the table. The complete ballot was three eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheets stapled together.
Taking the chair next to me, Mother said, “I’ve been comparing these, dear . . . and what we have here is a clear case of ballot tampering.”
I had suspected as much, but let her go on.
She indicated the sheets I’d found in Tommy’s room. “These pages were removed from the center of the mailed-in ballots, then presumably replaced with forged copies.”
I nodded. “So a particular nominee would win.”
“Yes. And all of these ballots are in one particular category.”
I sighed, nodded. “Best writer.”
“Every ballot here is a vote for Harlan Thompson. I think it’s fair to assume, without risking making an ass of anyone except perhaps a murderer, that Harlan Thompson was indeed the real winner.”
I glanced through the ballots. Under the best writer category, all the boxes next to Harlan’s name had been checked. Not Eric Johansson.
“Quite clever, really,” Mother, an admirer of creative skulduggery, was saying. “And because the first and third pages of the three-page ballot would be retained—with the comic store–owner’s signature at the bottom of page three—the ballots would seem authentic.”
I said, “But somehow Tommy tipped to it.”
Mother nodded. “Perhaps he saw the ballots before and after tampering. Or possibly something about the replacement pages—the paper used, or a flaw in the printing, maybe mismatching folds, or a variation between the color of ink used to fill out ballots. Perhaps the restapling was inexact. Any number of things could have told him.”
8 Antiques Con Page 15
