8 Antiques Con (4 page)

I nodded. “But it wouldn’t hurt for word to get around that we don’t have the drawing with us anymore.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. Then, “Robert was nice, don’t you think?” Apparently, his reprimand of our behavior had been forgotten.

“Yeah,” I said, steering Mother through the lobby traffic. “Nice man.” Considering what we’d thrown at him, anyway. . . .

“Of course, you noticed that he was flirting just
shamelessly
with me.”

“No. Afraid I missed that.”

“Oh, toward the end of the interview, it became quite obvious he was attracted to me. A girl can tell such things.”

See what I mean about women over forty liking that term “girl”? Way over forty, in this case.

I grunted. “Then I guess it’s a lucky thing you have your rape whistle handy.”

Mother halted and frowned at me. “Dear, it’s not nice to joke about such things.”

No, it wasn’t. I’d had a close call myself once, back in the Windy City, which I’d foiled by way of a small can of mace. But Mother didn’t need to know about that.

“Brandy, dear?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t take offense, but . . .”

No sentence in the history of man that began in that fashion went anywhere good.

“. . . you desperately need a shower. I’m afraid you have that pungent quality so common to some of these comic book aficionados.”

“Then I’ll fit right in, won’t I? Anyway, I don’t care.”

“Have you no pride, dear? No shame?”

“Not when I’m starving, I don’t. I need food, but not just
any
food. I want
New York
food.”

“Well, all food served in New York is by definition New York food, isn’t it?”

“No. I want
real
New York food. I want lox and bagels for breakfast!”

I was raised a Methodist, but my stomach was born Jewish.

“All right, dear, calm down, calm down.” She cocked her head. “You
have
been taking your Prozac, haven’t you, sweets? We have a pact, you know . . . I stay on
my
medicine if
you
stay on yours—even though I obviously don’t need mine.”

Mother is bipolar, and she definitely needs hers, while I was merely stressed out (and definitely needed mine).

She was saying, “Here’s a suggestion for your approval, as Rod Serling used to say on
Twilight Zone
. Since I
have to
go back to the room to get these cuffs off, you may as well have a nice hot shower.
Then
we’ll find a deli, I promise.”

I frowned like the child she could so easily turn me into. “I’m holding you to that, lady.”

We made our way through the crowded lobby to the even more crowded elevators, finally squeezing into one, standing between two Star Wars troopers, as if being taken prisoner. Also on board was a rather lumpy-looking Batman, and a white-faced, green-haired Joker whose garish lipstick smile reminded me just a little too much of Mother.

In the suite, Sushi greeted us, then trotted back to Mother’s unmade bed, while I headed off to the shower.

Half an hour later, refreshed, hair blown dry, makeup applied, I emerged in a hotel white robe, smelling better than anybody you might encounter on an elevator during a comic book convention. Mother, I saw, was free of her handcuffs and the briefcase that had been at her side like a clunky purse for so very long.

I put on a pair of dark denim DKNY jeans, and a purple cashmere sweater (well worth the money, unless you have moths in your closet), and slipped into a pair of black sparkly UGGs (gotta have
some
glitter in this life).

We shared the elevator down with some cute Japanese girls (of an age when that word was neither an insult nor a compliment) who were dressed as anime characters in short skirts, with kitten ears and shaggy tails.

Once again we battled our way through the lobby (where was a lightsaber when you needed one?) and, as we approached the Eighth Avenue doors, I could see the beckoning sign of the Stage Door Deli across the street. That was when someone took my arm from behind.

I turned, startled, as New Yorkers are known for a lot of things, but touchy-feely isn’t one of them. Not in a good way, that is.

“Excuse me,” the young blond man said in a second tenor caressed by a charming Scandinavian accent. “That was rude, but I did not want to lose you.”

I didn’t know why he wanted to find us in the first place, but whether he’d been rude or not, or just simply impulsive, I wasn’t sure I minded.

In his midtwenties, he had light blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses, a straight nose, and sensual mouth. He wore a colorful sweater in a zigzag pattern, dark jeans, and sneakers.

“May I speak to you both, please? You are the Bornes?”

“We’re the Bornes who were just leaving for breakfast,” I said, in halfhearted protest. “Can this wait until after we’ve eaten?”

But Mother chimed in, “Unless, young man, you’d like to join us. You look like you, too, are a stranger in a strange land.”

He smiled at that, but I wouldn’t bet two cents that he understood what she meant.

I was less eager, no matter how cute our new Nordic friend might be. I can be as sociable as the next gal, but the sight of me scarfing down deli food was nothing I wanted to subject myself or a friendly stranger to.

“I would love to join you for coffee,” he said, and revealed a wealth of perfect white teeth as blinding as sun reflecting off icy blue waters. (I was going to add
of a fjord
, but that seemed a little much.)

The Stage Door Deli, on the corner of Thirty-third and Eighth, catered to the business and tourist crowd around Madison Square Garden. Some delis, like Canter’s in LA, haven’t changed since the dawn of time, or anyway since
I Love Lucy
’s first season. Here the decor was modern and upscale, with cream-colored walls, soft lighting, and cherrywood tables and chairs. But the food—piles of meat and cheese and fish and desserts displayed behind long glassed-in counters for takeout—looked just as tempting as the funkiest deli on either coast.

The restaurant was bustling, but we managed to find a table for four in a far corner, and settled in.

“I am Eric Johansson,” our guest announced. “And you are the Bornes. I am a fan. I have read you.”

Immediately, Mother asked, “Is your first name spelled with a
c
or a
k
?”

Was she starting
that
again?

“A
c
.”

“And your last . . . two
s
’s or one?”

I kicked her under the table. Did she have any idea how expensive mailing her thick Christmas letter overseas would be?

Mother frowned in my direction. “Dear, I realize you’re peckish, but let’s not be beastly.”

Good lord, was the British accent coming?

“Two
s
’s, Mrs. Borne,” Eric answered with an amused smile.

“Where are you from?” I asked, trying not to be beastly.

“Denmark,” Eric replied.

Mother chirped, “Why, what a wonderful coincidence!
We’re
Danish, too—well, Danish extraction, second and third generation. Brandy and I are big fans of TV shows from your country and its Nordic neighbors. We just
love
your TV series
The Killing
.”

“Ah, yes,” Eric nodded. “In my country, it is called
For-brydelsen
.”

Mother seemed about to try repeating that, then thought better of it.

A waiter appeared, efficient and a New York mix of friendly and surly, and Mother and I both ordered lox and bagels. Eric had black coffee.

When the waiter left, Mother asked, “Eric, what was it you want to talk to us about? Our last book? Our
next
book?”

Eric removed a monogrammed white-and-blue-striped handkerchief from his pocket. “When I saw you in the lobby,” he said, cleaning his lenses, “I had just come from the security office. I spoke to this man Sipcowski there. You see, I have the room next to yours.”

“Ah!” Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

Eric returned the handkerchief to his pocket, and replaced his glasses. “I went to report that my room keycard had been stolen—or, at least, I could not find it this morning.”

“This morning?” I asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you miss it last night?”

Before
our break-in.

“That is a logical question . . . you see—this is a bit awkward—I did not spend last night in my own room.” He shifted in his chair. “Anyway, the security manager, Sipcowski, told me someone had broken into your room, entering through mine. Most alarming! And I wanted you to know that it was
not
me.”

“Because,” Mother said, “you spent the night with Violet.”

Eric’s mouth dropped open. Mine, too. It was like Sherlock Holmes looking at your shoes and deducing where you went to college.

His forehead frowned but his mouth smiled, those wonderful teeth again on display. “How . . . how did you know?”

Mother smiled slyly. “I saw the way you two were looking at each other last evening, during the reception.”

Eric’s cheeks reddened, and he said quietly, “We do not want anyone to know. I would appreciate your discretion. You both.”

“Why a need for discretion?” I asked.

He leaned forward, said quietly, “Because Violet is in charge of the awards. And I am a nominee for best writer.”

So he wrote comic books. I wondered if his characters all spoke with Scandinavian accents and avoided contractions.

“So?” Mother pooh-poohed. “Violet doesn’t pick the winners, does she? I didn’t think so. As I understand the process, that’s already been done by the comic book store owners, who were mailed ballots months ago.”

“That is true,” Eric said. “But you know how people talk.” He shrugged. “I do not know why I am so concerned—Harlan Thompson is almost certainly going to win best writer.”

Thompson, a veteran comic book writer who had toiled for years in near obscurity, recently had a property of his made into a movie. I was no expert on comics, but what Eric said made sense.

Eric was saying, “But it is an honor to be nominated, and to get my work in front of American audiences. And someday I
will
have that pen.”

“Pen?” I asked.

He nodded and flashed the smile again, a little embarrassed. “Forgive my ego. It is the award given for writers—a gold pen with your name inscribed upon it.”

“I wouldn’t mind winning that,” Mother mused, adding ridiculously, “I can always use another good pen.”

Our food arrived, and Mother and I dug in, Eric finishing his coffee, which had already been served.

“You know, I really should be going,” Eric said, checking his watch. “The opening ceremony will be starting soon. Will you two nice ladies be attending?”

Ladies
again. Rats!

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mother said, dabbing daintily at her mouth with a napkin. “But
you
go ahead, Eric—we’ll see you there.” And she reached for his check on the table. “And
I’ll
take care of this.”

I managed not to roll my eyes. All he’d had was coffee, after all.

Eric stood, giving her a dimple-cheeked smile. He was very cute, and it was a darn good thing I was in love with someone else already. But not so good that my guy was in the witness protection program, without me. . . .

“That is very kind of you, Mrs. Borne.” He nodded at me. “Brandy. And thank you both for keeping my . . . secret.”

“No problem,” I answered.

But it wasn’t much of a secret, now that Mother knew.

After Eric departed, Mother pronounced, “I tend to believe his story. What about you?”

“For now,” I said through a mouth full of bagel.

“Dear?”

“Yeah?”

“You have cream cheese on your face. It’s no wonder the boy bolted.”

Warned you I was a sloppy deli eater. Or maybe when a girl’s boyfriend is in witness protection, she lets things slide a little....

I paid both checks (
not
Mother), then we meandered back over to the hotel to catch the convention’s opening ceremony.

But our moseying, while good for the digestion, proved bad for us snagging any remaining seats in the Gold Ballroom, located on level C. The chamber, with its gold walls, blue-and-red kaleidoscope–patterned rug, and multi-chandeliered ceiling, was packed with fans, some in costume, most just casually attired and ready for a good time.

Not that Mother was easily dissuaded. She marched up the center aisle, eagle-eyeing each row of blue and gold chairs until spotting an aisle seat covered by a coat.

“Is that seat taken?” she asked a young woman dressed in a Catwoman black leather outfit that looked painted on. (Good thing she had the body for it.)

“I’m saving it for my boyfriend,” Catwoman said.

“Dear,” Mother said patronizingly sweetly, “if we fail to follow the convention’s rule of not saving seats, we shall descend into chaos, and anarchy will soon follow.”

And Mother picked up the coat, handed it over to Catwoman—who was thinking that speech over—and plopped herself down.

That seemed risky to me, considering Catwoman looked like a refugee from an S&M bar (not that we have any in Serenity), but Mother had her own claws and could take care of herself.

I was on my own. Toward the back, I discovered a chair devoid of person or garment, beside a heavyset man, the chair already half taken by his bulk. Maybe it was still available because nobody wanted to sit next to the Incredible Hulk, sort of a surprise in this crowd. And he didn’t smell any worse than I had earlier, so I squeezed in.

Violet was taking the podium on a little raised platform, having slipped out from behind the gold curtains. Dressed in another sexy, formfitting dress—white with red cherries, this time—she looked radiant. Perhaps spending the night with Eric had agreed with her. Anyway, I could sure see what he saw in her.

“Welcome to the first Bufford Con!” she said into the microphone.

The crowd clapped and cheered and hooted and whistled.