8 Antiques Con (18 page)

“I’ll do all the talking, dear,” Mother whispered.

En route, she had told me her plan.

“You bet you will. By the way, this is your dumbest stroke of genius yet.”

An eyebrow arched in the green face. “If you have a better idea, I am open to suggestions.”

“Not my job. I’m just a flying monkey. You’re the head witch.”

She nodded, apparently taking that as a compliment, and breezed into the waiting area with me in her embarrassed wake. Things seemed relatively calm, by Manhattan standards, anyway; only a few citizens were seated, waiting to be served and protected: worried parents, battered women, male indigents in from the cold. And now a green-faced witch and a disgruntled-looking winged monkey.

The dispatch area, however, was bustling—behind a bulletproof window, several women and men in navy NYPD attire were busy handling incoming calls, weaving in and out of offices, handing off information sheets to one another. This was the kind of cool but intense professionalism you might see in an air-traffic control room during a violent thunderstorm.

We stood at the window a full minute before a Hispanic female dispatcher could get to us.

“Yes?” She wore glasses, her short brown hair dark, her expression all business. She could not have been less fazed facing a green-pussed Wicked Witch of the West and her flying monkey. (You know, if I was going to be an accomplice, the least I might have is a name.)

Mother, leaning toward the window-embedded microphone, said, “We’ve just come from the Hotel Pennsylvania, the costume party held by the comic book convention there.”

“Is that so?”

“It is indeed so, and I mention that only by way of prelude to a tragedy.”

I take that back. I was fine being a nameless accomplice.

Mother was saying, “My son, Bradley Webster, was also in attendance at the costume party, before he was brought here and presumably booked, sometime within the last two hours.”

“I can’t give out that information, ma’am, unless you have—”

“I
must
see my son. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“That’s not possible, ma’am,” the woman—who in her time had presumably heard all kinds of routine matters described as life-and-death ones—said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Mother whipped up some tears. She does have certain acting skills. “When I say life and death, young lady, it is not a figure of speech. If I don’t see him, and immediately, he may
die
.”

“What do you mean?” For some reason, the dispatcher appeared skeptical.

Mother’s eyes and nostrils flared. With flair. “I mean
die
as in Bradley will cease to be, go to meet his maker, kick the bucket, be pushing up daises.”

Oh, my God, was she going to go through the entire Monty Python “Dead Parrot” routine? I could have just died. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Rung down the curtain . . .

Now Mother, indignant yet still tearful (green makeup running some), was holding up the small bottle of insulin. She wasn’t sticking it up right against the glass, because then the dispatcher might notice that it was veterinarian prescribed.

Mother said, “If Bradley doesn’t get his medication
right now
, young lady, you will be responsible. Responsible not just for Bradley’s demise, but for the New York Police Department and the city of New York facing a wrongful death lawsuit that will turn this building into a parking lot!”

“Just a moment,” the dispatcher said. Eyes widened a trifle, she swivelled to a phone, spoke, her words muffled, then swivelled back. “Wait over by that door.”

We stepped aside, moving to where she had pointed, and stood without speaking, Mother not wanting to break character, and me not having much to say, too busy thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad getting booked here. They’d probably trade me a nice orange jumpsuit for this terrible monkey costume.

Then the door to the inner workings of the precinct opened and a uniformed African-American officer stepped out, his name tag reading
WILLIAMS
.

Middle-aged with short gray hair and wire-framed glasses, he wore the wary, weary expression of a public servant who had all too often been assigned to deal with the precinct’s crackpots.

We would not disappoint.

“What’s this about?” Williams asked matter-of-factly.

Again, Mother explained that “her son Bradley” needed his insulin shot. Reading her audience, she seemed to be going for a less melodramatic approach.

He said, “You can leave the medication with me and I’ll give it to the precinct doctor when he comes in.”

Mother whipped up some more tears, adding to the tracks on her green face. “But my son must have it
now
!” she said frantically. “Otherwise, the poor boy may go into
shock.
Do you know what that means, officer?”

“I believe I do.”

But there was no stopping her. She took a deep breath and went on: “His heartbeat will speed up . . .”

Her hand clutched the dark dress over her heart.

“. . . his vision blur . . .”

She swung her head in a dizzying circle.

“. . . feet and hands go numb . . .”

She shook each foot and hand, possibly creating a new dance.

“. . . after which he will faint . . .”

She briefly mimed fainting.

“. . . and go into a diabetic coma . . .”

She closed her eyes and her head hit her shoulder, sticking her tongue out just a trifle.

Then her eyes popped open.

“. . . followed by cardiac arrest and
death
!”

So I was wrong about her abandoning the melodrama. But it
was
an impressive performance. She’d accomplished it all on that one breath. Now that she’d run out of air, she grabbed a fresh gulp. “Do you wish to be responsible for that, Officer Williams?”

“Look, madam, the doctor isn’t here right now.”

“
We
can administer it,” Mother offered generously.

Williams frowned. “Can’t the boy give himself the injection?”

My mother’s unnamed accomplice said, “He faints at the sight of a needle—that’s why
we’ve
always done it for him.”

“Both of you?”

Mother said, “I need Brandy along to check the dosage before I administer the shot—my eyesight is bad.” She opened her eyes wide; the whites of her eyes against the green makeup was startling. “Glaucoma.”

The officer seemed hesitant, but said, “All right. I’ll need some I.D. first.”

“My dear man!” Mother huffed. Her hat was sitting crooked now, after all that emoting. “Do you see any purses with us? Do you see how we are dressed? We have just come straight from that horrific ordeal at the Hotel Pennsylvania with only our coats, and just happened to have the insulin with us.”

“You’re guests there?”

“Yes,” I said. “Vivian and Brandy . . . Webster.”

Please don’t call over there. Please don’t call over there.

Mother waved a frantic hand. “Sir . . . we’re wasting precious time!”

She was wearing him down. Forces of nature can do that to you.

“All right,” Williams acquiesced, “you can see your son just long enough to give the medication—but that’s all.”

“It’s all we ask,” Mother said. “His attorney will be here tomorrow.”

“Fine. You can come back, too.”

The officer took us down a hallway and through another locked door, on which a sign said
MALE HOLDING CELLS
.

We stepped through into a brightly lit square area, off of which were half a dozen small rooms—each about four feet by six, some with doors shut (occupied), others yawning open (awaiting new guests). Our next suite?

“Now isn’t this
lovely
!” Mother gushed, as if being shown charming accommodations at an exclusive resort. “
Your
holding cells have Plexiglas doors instead of bars. Much nicer than ours back home.”

Williams asked, “How is it you know that, Mrs. Webster? Has your son been incarcerated before?”

“Uh, no, I am simply very active in local affairs. Helped raise money for the new jail. We could have used the kind of forward thinking I see on display here.”

Dryly, the officer said, “Well, I’m tickled pink you approve, lady—now, could we get on with this? I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Yes, of course,” Mother said apologetically. “Time
is
of the essence—which cell is Bradley’s?”

I had already spotted him through a Plexiglas door, seated on a padded bench. He was wearing one of those orange jumpsuits, which struck me as an improvement over his sorcerer costume of many belts. I raised a shush finger to my lips, much as he had to me when we’d discussed his real dagger.

Officer Williams unlocked the cell door, then stood aside for us to enter.

The cell was as sparse as it was tiny. Apart from the bench used for sitting and sleeping, the only other fixture was an aluminum combination sink and toilet, tucked in a corner.

Mother said loudly, “Bradley, darling, it’s Mother and your sister, Brandy.”

Just in case he didn’t know the names of his mother and sister.

“
We’re here to help you
,” Mother whispered.

Brad smirked in my direction. “Right. Like turning me over to the police.”

Despite his bravado, there was fear in the young man’s eyes.

I whispered, “
You shouldn’t have tried to run.
”

Outside the door, Williams said, “Stop talking and get on with it.”

I whispered, “
Brad, we’re looking into Violet’s murder. We think you’re innocent.
”

Well, we thought he
might
be innocent, but . . .

As if in an operating room, Mother said loudly, “Brandy . . . prepare the insulin, please!” And under her breath, she added, “
Buy me some time, dear.
”

Turning toward the door to hold the officer’s attention, I retrieved from my organ-grinder’s pocket the sealed syringe and slowly began to unwrap it. Then I took the insulin bottle and, holding it at an angle upside down, stuck the sharp needle into its soft rubber end. Carefully I drew out the liquid.

All the while, Mother whispered rapid-fire questions to Brad. “
When did you miss your dagger?
”

“Not until the lights went up.”

“
Anyone bump into you?
”

“Not that I noticed. But it
was
crowded.”

“
What was your argument about with Violet in the restaurant?
”

“I thought she should’ve cancelled the convention out of respect to Tommy’s memory . . . but I would never have killed her over it.”

“
Did you know that Violet killed Tommy?
”

His eyes popped. “Violet killed Tommy?”

“
Yes. Were you in love with him?
”

“What . . . what does that have to do with anything?”

“
Is there anything else you know that we should?
”

“I heard Violet say she was going to make Eric sorry he dumped her. She thought he was through with that wife of his, but then Mrs. Eric shows up, all lovey-dovey. Listen, what do you mean, Violet killed Tommy?”

Finished with my floor show, I handed the syringe to Mother, who stood with her back to Williams, blocking his view of Brad.

The Fan Guest of Honor’s eyes went wide. “Hey . . . !”

“Roll up your sleeve, dear,” Mother said, with a wink-wink. “How afraid of needles he is!”

And she faked the injection.

Outside the cell, Mother said to Williams, “Thank you, dear man, you have
saved
my poor boy’s life.”

“He didn’t look sick to me.”

“Ah, one can never tell about a diabetic. One moment that person seems fine, and then—
poof
! Pearly gates. Do you have any orange juice?”

I wasn’t sure if Mother wanted some for herself, or if this was part of the ruse.

Williams blinked at the apparent non sequitur. “Uh, yeah. In the break room. Why?”

“A little orange juice after an injection is best. Could you see that Bradley gets some?”

“Okay.”

Williams escorted us back to the waiting room, and Mother and I proceeded through to the outside. I wondered idly exactly what laws we’d just broken. I had a feeling Mother and I might meet a harder, hardier breed of felons behind bars in New York.

Just as we were going through the double glass doors, Detective Cassato was coming in. Whether his shift was starting or he’d been called about the ballroom murder, I couldn’t hazard a guess.

“Why, good morning, Detective,” Mother said pleasantly, then to me, “Let us not tarry, dear.”

I don’t know if Tony’s brother would have recognized us had Mother’s distinctive voice not emanated from that green face.

And by the time he did make us, we were scurrying along Thirty-fifth toward Ninth.

“
Hey
, you two!” he yelled after us. “
Stop!
”

“Run, dear,” Mother ordered, picking up her long skirt, holding on to her pointy hat.

And run I did, wings flapping as I shouted, “Taxi! Taxi!”

I wondered if the monkeys in
Wicked
got any dialogue.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Food at the convention is usually expensive, so it pays to bring along your own snacks and liquids. I buy one bottled water, then keep refilling it from a fountain. And Mother, in the bar, helps herself to popcorn, which is free, after all, although I doubt many patrons bring plastic bags to stuff it in.

D
earest ones, this is Vivian back for the first half of this chapter, which should delight many of our readers. For those few naysayers among you (you know who you are), I pledge to refrain from using this platform to air my grievances (however numerous and justified they might be). After all, bringing a killer—or killers—to swift justice transcends any need to address (I should say
redress
) unfair affronts to my character and/or my writing style, such as the baseless charge that I go off on discursive tangents when there is a story at hand to tell.

When Brandy and I returned to the hotel from the precinct house, it was nearly three in the morning. I had expected some amount of activity in the lobby—the departure of a few nervous guests after two murders in three days, perhaps, even at this ungodly hour. But who could have anticipated this?

The queue to reception seemed endless and winding, the lone checkout clerk overwhelmed by this unexpected exodus. There was a Fellini-esque air to the proceeding, many people still in their masquerade costumes, bags hurriedly packed, fleeing for home or other hotels.

Added to the macabre carnival atmosphere was the appearance of members of the “Fourth Estate,” having gotten wind of another “suspicious death,” TV news representatives thrusting their microphones and cameras in the faces of distraught fans held captive in the slow-moving line.

Brandy, seemingly oblivious to all this, was saying, “You know, Detective Cassato will come looking for us. He might be right behind us.”

We were standing on the periphery of the commotion. “That’s why we must make haste, dear,” I informed her.

(I believe writers today are lazy by not using enough variations of “said.” There are so many more interesting alternatives, such as “claimed,” “commanded,” “inquired,” “rambled,” and “remarked.” But I would suggest, for you writing students out there who hang on my every carefully crafted line, that one might draw the line at “hooted.”)

“Make haste to do what?” Brandy asked incredulously. “Climb in bed? What other options are there at this hour?”

“Dear, are you feeling all right? Are you well?”

“I’m just peachy keen, thanks for asking.”

“Maybe so, but you
look
terrible.” Even had she acquiesced to my suggestion of adding Sushi facial fuzz, it wouldn’t have helped hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. She was one wilted little monkey.

Make that an indignant wilted little monkey.

“That’s because I haven’t
slept
for twenty hours!” the girl retorted.

(There’s another good one—“retorted”!)

Her Grumpy Gussie attitude did not surprise me. She had become a game participant in my investigations of late, but when time wore on, as in long days such as these, little Brandy got frayed around the edges.

The child always did require more rest than I. (And off my medication, I hardly ever need sleep. A regular Superwoman!) (Who would have fit right in at this comics con.)

I patted her arm. “Why don’t you get a little shut-eye? I’ll join you later.”

“But where are you
going
at this hour? What are you up to, Mother?”

I gestured toward the security office sign. “There are a few remaining points I need to clear up with our friend Robert.”

Brandy sighed. “Okay. But if he’s still here, that means he’s busy, dealing with the aftermath of Violet’s murder.”

“Oh, I doubt he’ll be too busy for Vivian Borne.” That girl needed to be more optimistic when we were out solving violent crimes.

“Well, please don’t be too long,” she pleaded. (Another good one!) “I don’t want to face Tony’s brother by myself, should he turn up at our door. And he probably will.”

“Never fear. I’ll be back in a flash. Like the Flash!”

“Huh?”

“Comic book superhero, dear—the Flash? You really
must
do your research before setting out on an adventure.”

“I don’t want any more adventures tonight. I mean, this morning. I want forty winks. Settle for twenty.”

We parted, Brandy heading toward the elevators as I continued across the lobby, avoiding the newscasters and their microphones and cameras (as much as it pained me to do so).

The door to the security office was unlocked and, after straightening my witch’s hat, I stepped into the office. As when Brandy and I first entered here, at the very start of this caper, Robert was not at his desk. He
did
get around. So I took the opportunity to hurry over and begin sifting through his papers on the desktop.

I was just getting started when the security chief entered from the command center, his suit rumpled, his five o’clock shadow nearly lapping itself, another five o’clock mere hours away.

“You
do
realize I could see you,” he growled, pointing to a tiny camera-eye high in a corner. (“Growled”—
very
nice one!)

“But of course,” I retorted. Another good one (all right, I’ve made my point) (let’s not belabor it). “Just my little joke. Merely wanted to get your attention, my dear fellow.”

Actually, I hadn’t spotted the darn thing—my eyesight really isn’t anything to brag about.

“What do you want?” he asked brusquely.

And I responded, “
Information
.” Just like in the opening sequence of
The Prisoner
, that wonderful 1960s British spy series starring the late, great Patrick McGoohan. (I just couldn’t help myself. And, anyway, I seemed to have shifted into my classy U.K. mode of speech, which always impresses.)

“Well, you’re not going to get it.” Had Robert unintentionally given me McGoohan’s standard response? And if so, if the security chief actually knew his pop-cult stuff, did that mean he was flirting with me again?

“Well, that’s a shame,” I replied. “Then I take it you’re not interested in the conversation I had with Brad Webster at the Fourteenth Precinct a mere half an hour ago.”

And I turned to go (not really, I was just hoping to get a rise out of him) (no double entendre intended).

He sputtered, “Wait . . . what? You actually got to
see
him?”

(Now I know I promised to back off, but isn’t “sputtered” just a lovely way to express it? Would it really have been better writing had I used
He said, spitting
?)

“Indeed I did see the young man,” I said, Britishly crisp. “And what he had to say was
most
interesting. One might say . . . illuminating?”

“How so?”

I raised an eyebrow. “How’s your Latin, Robert?”

“My what?”

“Your Latin—as in quid pro quo.”

His mouth formed a thin line. “That much Latin I know just fine. Go on, Vivian.”

“First, a question. I must determine your role in all this.”

“My role? What the hell—”

“What were you doing Thursday afternoon?”

He sighed irritably. “You’re going to have to be more specific, lady.”

I liked it better when he used “Vivian.”

I said, “Brandy saw you coming out of Tommy Bufford’s room. Your manner was suspicious, such as wearing latex gloves before skedaddling down the hall. My daughter had a keycard, as that room used to be ours, and went in and discovered the room had been searched.”

Robert snorted. “You think
I
did that?”

“I think
nothing
.” That didn’t come out quite right. “
Did
you search that room?”

He reddened, rather like Yosemite Sam in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons, right before his (Sam’s) head turned into a radish. “
Of course
not! I
found
it that way!”

I put one finger to my lips. “Well, it couldn’t have been Sal Cassato who ‘tossed the place’—he arrived after Brandy.”

I didn’t go into the fact that the detective had discovered her hiding in the closet. Or, for that matter, that Brandy had found those switched ballot pages in the fridge.

My eyes went to the police photo on the wall. “It must have been dispiriting,” I said, not without sympathy, “to have been asked to leave the force. Under a cloud.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Like Sal Cassato?”

“You were a police detective once, Mr. Sipcowski. Would you ever have divulged your sources? I think not.” I gave him my most girlish smile, and it’s quite girlish, if I do say so myself. “
Unless . . .
it’s in exchange for something I
really
desire.”

“That right?”

“Oh, yes. And then I can
sing
like a canary! Put all the stool pigeons to shame.”

Robert huffed a sigh. “Mrs. Borne . . . Vivian . . . there was never an investigation. I was never charged with anything.”

I tilted my head. “But weren’t you rather well . . .
connected
?”

He nodded. “But only in the sense that I had buddies from the old neighborhood who I knew before I joined the department.” He added sadly, “And you know how it is, Vivian. You can’t prove yourself innocent when the charge is guilt by association.”

That was very well put, I thought, and I could relate. On my rare stays at the psychopathic hospital, I made any number of friends whose stigma seemed to rub off on me!

“My dear Mr. Sipcowski,” I declared. “I believe I owe you an apology. It seems I have misinterpreted your actions completely.”

It takes a big woman to admit a mistake. I have done it before, though none of those instances spring swiftly to mind.

“Robert, I see now that you have been endeavoring to solve these murders yourself. Whether for your own self-esteem, or to repair your tarnished reputation, your motivation is both understandable and admirable.”

“Maybe you’re right, Vivian.” His eyes were unfathomably sad. “But that ship sailed. That kid Webster murdered Violet, and I’m fairly sure she killed Bufford.”

“That ship has
not
sailed!” I informed him. “And you are still in the running for its captain!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I assume the police have acquired the pertinent security camera footage.”

“They have.”

“But am I also right in assuming that you keep a digital backup?”

“We do.”

“Excellent! Now, I want to review what was captured by the security camera outside the Skytop Ballroom shortly before, and after, Violet was killed.”

He shrugged while shaking his head. “I can do that, but I assure you, Vivian—I’ve already gone over that footage several times.”

“Never discount the value of a second pair of eyes, dear.” Of course, the value of
my
eyes was clearly on markdown, but he didn’t need to know that.

He shrugged again, but rose to lead me into the command center. Here, other security personnel were at their posts in front of the wall of color monitors whose screens were rotating between various views of assorted security cams throughout the hotel.

Robert sat at one of the computers and I drew up a chair next to him. Soon his fingers were tapping on the keyboard, finding the recording I’d requested, at approximately the time I had seen Eric and his wife, Helena, leave the masquerade party.

We watched the couple exit the ballroom into the shallow lobby area with elevators, Eric in his green jacket, Helena in her yellow dress. Then Eric stopped, drew his wife close, looked into her face fondly, and kissed her passionately. Finally, they walked on, hand in hand, out of camera range.

“If you suspect them, you’re wasting my time,” Robert grumbled. (Good one!) (Sorry.) “Neither one goes back in the ballroom before Violet was killed.”

“Run it again,” I commanded.

He sighed, but complied.

Once more we watched.

Then I said, “That kiss. It’s staged.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s staged! As in perfectly blocked. See where he hits his mark for the kiss? Right in front of the camera. The whole performance looks
stilted
—and I should know, I’m an actress!”

Not that I’d ever given a stilted performance.

“By
both
of them?” Robert frowned, obviously a little confused.

“No—just
Eric
. Helena seems surprised by this sudden display of affection, even caught off balance.”

“So you’re saying that Eric
wanted
to be noticed.”

“Hence the bright green jacket—not exactly the kind of Nordic attire he’s been wearing. And no mask, either, so you can clearly see his face.”

Robert sat back from the computer. “Mrs. Borne, you can speculate all you like about stilted performances and unlikely attire, but Eric would have had to go back
through those doors
to kill Violet. All the others were locked from the outside. And he
didn’t
.”

“Well, he didn’t wearing a green jacket.”

Robert gaped at me.

I gestured toward the computer screen. “When you went over this footage, were you on fast-scan mode? Times two, maybe, or more? Not watching it in real time.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Just to be more efficient.”

“Speed does not necessarily mean increased efficiency. But I suppose you might still notice a green jacket.”

“Yes, and . . . I see what you’re getting at.”

“Let’s go on from here,” I said, “and
not
speed it up.”

We started where Eric and Helena had gone out of view, and watched intently, as if this were the final episode of our favorite television series.

Approximately ten minutes later, a costumed group of four showed on the monitor, their backs to the camera, moving in a tight cluster toward the ballroom doors.

“Stop!” I exclaimed.

Robert froze the footage.

I pointed to the screen. “There he
is
—without the jacket. All in black. Using that group of partygoers as cover. Can you zoom in?”

Robert’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he magnified, then enhanced the frozen image.

“By God, it
is
Eric Johansson!” Robert exclaimed. “The son of a bitch
did
return!”