An Unconventional Murder (9 page)

"Sounds good," Cameron said. "Man, I'm starved!"

As they set their trays down on the table, Upton glanced out the window. "It's still
coming down as hard as ever."

"I can't even see my Explorer. I know it's parked down there somewhere. It'll take me
half an hour just to dig it out."

"Why bother?" Upton said with a shrug. "You wouldn't be able to drive anywhere,
anyway. I'd say we're stuck here for the foreseeable future. Certainly for the night."

"I've never seen a snowstorm like this." The detective made a note in large letters on the
legal pad: "Call Meg."

They ate and talked about nothing in particular. Finally, Upton decided it was time to get
to the point. "There's something I want to mention about the murder."

Cameron glanced up from his plate. "Oh? What's that?"

"The garrotte. It's not exactly your garden variety murder weapon."

"True." Cameron's tone seemed evasive.

"I attended your presentation last night. You were using that display of weapons the
Lakewood PD has accumulated over the years. What was it called? The weapons of
destruction?"

"Mayhem," Cameron said. "The weapons of mayhem. You were sitting in the fifth row,
toward the north end of the room."

"Very observant. I suppose that as a cop, you never really go off duty, do you? Anyway,
there was a garrotte in that display case. You even mentioned that you can order them over the
Internet."

"I remember."

"I wouldn't swear to it, but it seems to me it was the same color as the one wrapped
around the victim's neck. Have you checked the display? It's possible that it's the same one."

Cameron swallowed a bite of roast beef. He set his fork down on the table and spoke
quietly. "It's more than possible. Someone stole it from the case." He met Upton's eyes. "In fact,
that's not the only thing that's missing."

"Oh?"

"There was a knife. A nine-inch stiletto. It's gone, too."

"Good God! You mean there may be some nut running around this place with a
nine-inch stiletto?"

"It's a distinct possibility," Cameron admitted. "I don't want to cause a panic, so I'd
appreciate your keeping it under your hat."

"Of course, I will. Jesus, this thing has all the makings of a disaster!"

Immediately after lunch, armed with two of the pictures Cameron had taken of the dead
man, Upton began circulating among the conventioneers. He posed the same three questions to
everyone he approached:

"Do you recognize this man?"

"Did you attend either of the two morning sessions in the Aspen Room?"

"Did you notice the man on the floor against the wall in the back corner?"

He tried to create the impression that this was part of a mystery game, but he was fairly
certain he wasn't convincing anyone. By now, word had certainly leaked out that there had been a
real murder at the CFWA convention.

The answer to the first question was always the same. Nobody recognized the man in the
photograph. The second and third questions brought mixed results. Forty-three people admitted
having attended one or both of the two sessions. Two dozen had noticed the dead man. Upton
drew an asterisk next to each of their names, even though none of them added anything he didn't
already know. From what he was able to piece together, the body had remained in the same
location for at least three hours.

Even so, his efforts were not completely wasted. Nine people told him they had enjoyed
his presentation. Three complained about Zachary Tuck, the literary agent. One woman said, "I
invited Mr. Tuck to join two of my friends and me for lunch. You know what he told us? Eating
with a bunch of hack writers would upset his digestion."

Upton felt himself flush with anger.
Damn that Tuck.

The last person to answer Upton's three questions was the fellow in the black jeans and
Metallica sweatshirt who had approached him after his presentation. The muscular young man,
whom Upton judged to be in his early twenties, had also attended the agent presentation--sitting
only a few seats away from the dead man.

"Did you notice the body?"

"Yeah, I did, but I didn't think anything of it. I'm not into mysteries."

Upton shrugged. "Everyone to his own taste. What's your name?"

"Brady Cameron."

"Interesting," Upton said. "One of our speakers this year is Mitch Cameron. I don't
suppose..."

"I know. That asshole is my father."

Upton was alarmed by the guttural ferocity of the young man's response. Suddenly he
seemed wild-eyed and dangerous. "Your father?"

"Yeah. At least, in theory. He divorced my mom six years ago. Dumped her flat on her
ass. For another woman. I haven't heard from him in over three years."

"Does he know you're here?"

"If he does, he sure as hell didn't hear about it from me." He squared off aggressively, his
eyes boring into Upton's. "Why are you asking me all of these questions?"

Upton smiled. "As I told you, I'm the President of the CFWA. We're always looking for
new members. I hope you'll decide to join us."

Brady Cameron stared at Upton. "You know, I just might. I just might at that."

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Upton was sprawled across the green captain's chair in the
honeymoon suite, studying the notes he had made. Real police work required him to question
more than just the paltry sampling of people he had interviewed. The problem was, they were all
starting to look alike. On three separate occasions, he began posing his questions to someone,
only to be reminded they had already had that discussion with him.

He had concluded that any further effort would be a waste of time. Not to mention
embarrassing. There must be a better way to find out who the dead man was. As Upton mulled
his options, he heard the sound of someone jiggling the door handle. Thinking of the missing
stiletto, he suddenly felt trapped--and helpless. He leapt to his feet, looking frantically around the
room for something he could use as a weapon. Nothing. There might be something in the
kitchenette. He pawed through the drawers until he found a paring knife.

It would have to do.

Someone had entered the suite.

He moved stealthfully back through the breakfast nook, practically holding his breath as
footsteps crossed the living room.

Then they stopped.

He lurched around the corner, hoping to catch the intruder by surprise.

He did. Rena Oberhaus was bent over in front of the television set, reaching for the
remote. She shrieked. "What--what are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" he asked blankly. Realizing that he probably looked like a madman,
he lowered his arm self-consciously. "Oh. Sorry. I heard noises. I guess I'm kind of jittery."

"Evidently," she said. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"I'm sorry, Rena. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Well, you certainly managed to." She pointed toward his hand. "What did you think you
were going to do with a paring knife?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know. It was all I could find. What are you doing
here?"

"I needed a place to think."

"Me, too," he said. "Would you rather be alone?"

"No. Although I'd appreciate you putting that knife back where it belongs."

"Will do." He crossed toward the kitchen and returned the knife to the drawer where he
had found it.

Rena had turned on the TV. "I came back for an update. They're telling people to stay
home unless it's an emergency."

"That means we're really stuck here," Upton commented.

"I guess so. DIA is still closed. There's also some maniac holding people at the Heritage
Center. They say he's already killed a couple of hostages."

Upton felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he watched the ticker move along the bottom
of the screen.

Four dead in Colorado hostage crisis.

"How awful!" Rena said. "Those poor people!"

"Now I understand why Cameron can't get any backup." He grimaced. "I went through
one of those situations back in New York. It was ugly." He turned his attention to the TV, but
there was nothing more about the Heritage Center. After a while, he said, "Tell me, what do you
make of this killing?"

She kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs out on the couch. "Well, it's definitely a
strange one."

"I agree. Very unconventional."

"Oh, that's a terrible pun!"

He had to think about it before he realized what she meant. "Oh. It is, isn't it? Sorry.
Although, think about it:
An Unconventional Murder
. It might make an interesting book
title."

"Maybe. But nobody would ever accept the premise. A dead body decked out in items
stolen from each of the members of the Executive Board? I mean, who would ever believe
that?"

" Of course, it's not just any body," Upton pointed out. "It's an unidentified body. In a
locked room. I've spent the last hour going around the hotel, asking everybody I could find if they
know who he was."

"Any luck?"

"Nothing. Nada."

"Somebody must have known him. They're just not admitting it."

Upton said, "Oh, somebody knew him, all right. Well enough to slip that garrotte around
his neck and strangle him."

"That's true, isn't it?" she said pensively. "Someone had to get close enough to be able to
do that. Do you think he was actually killed in the Aspen Room?"

"You know, I haven't really thought about it. If he was killed somewhere else, then the
killer had to drag the body into the room. I didn't notice any marks on the carpet. And then there's
the business about the doors. Jimmy seemed pretty sure he unlocked those doors at 7:00 a.m.
Royce says they were locked at a few minutes before nine. Yet when he and I returned at about
9:30, they were unlocked."

"Meaning that the murderer had a key?"

Upton frowned. "That would make the killer a hotel employee. Or, at least, someone
with access to keys."

"Which would certainly limit the number of suspects."

"It would eliminate our members. That would give me tremendous comfort. I've got a
feeling it's a dead end, but I'll follow it up, just in case."

"Why would it be a dead end?"

"Because what hotel employee would know who all of the board members are? And
which coats and hats and so on belonged to whom? Stealing all of those things took time and
some planning."

"I see your point. That limits the field considerably, doesn't it?"

"It sure does," Upton said. "And since my hat was stolen last night, it presumably means
somebody who was here yesterday."

Rena pulled her knees to her chest and shuddered. "You know, I love reading--and
writing--murder mysteries. But it sure is different to be living inside one of them. This gives me
the creeps!"

"Me, too. And to make matters worse, that garrotte came from Detective Cameron's
weapons display."

"It did?"

"It was stolen out of the display. And there's something else. You have a right to know.
The garrotte wasn't the only thing stolen."

"What do you mean?"

"This is just between you and me. Not Royce, not Suzanne, not anyone else. I need your
absolute word on that."

"Of course." she said. "You can trust me, Art. You know that, don't you?"

"I certainly hope so. There was also a stiletto. With a nine-inch blade. It's missing.
Cameron has no idea what happened to it but, presumably, it was taken by the same person who
stole the garrotte." He gestured toward the paring knife he had set on the glass-topped table.
"That's why I grabbed that when you came in."

She clutched herself again as another shiver ran through her. "I don't like this at all. It's
like waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Speaking of which, have you spoken with that woman who claims Randy stole her
book? What's her name?"

"Thelma Ridgeway," Rena said. "I tried to, right after lunch, but she was heading into
another session. She said that whatever I wanted would have to wait."

"Well, will you try to talk to her again? Maybe we can head this thing off before it gets
out of hand."

"I will. She said she'd meet me at 2:30."

"It's almost time," Upton said, suddenly standing. "Why don't you go--"

"It's only two." She eyed him suspiciously. "Are you trying to ditch me?"

"Something just occurred to me," he said, trying to make it sound unimportant. "I need
to check it out."

"What kind of something? You look like the cat that just caught the canary."

He grinned sheepishly. "Maybe a way to identify the dead man."

"Great. I'm coming with you." She took him by the hand and led him toward the
door.

To his surprise, he didn't resist.

"So what exactly are we doing?" Rena said in a conspiratorial whisper as she and Upton
crossed the hotel lobby.

"You'll see."

At the front desk, a clean-cut young man in a blue Marquis Hotel uniform said, "May I
help you?"

"I hope so. I'm Arthur Upton, the president of the Colorado Fiction Writer's Association.
We're trying to account for one of our members. Does this man look familiar to you?"

The desk clerk studied the photograph in Upton's hands. "Is this some kind of
joke?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're the second person to ask me about this guy in the last half hour."

"I am? Who else--"

"Beats me. He said he was a cop. Cameron, I think he said."

"Tall and thin, clean cut, wearing a plaid work shirt?"

"Yeah, that's the guy."

"I should have known he'd think of this angle. So what did you tell him?"

"The man in the picture doesn't look familiar. But I only work Saturdays and Sundays. If
he checked in any time before this morning, I wouldn't have seen him."

"Is there anyone here today who was working the desk yesterday or--"

"No, sir. The regular clerk is named Larry. He didn't make it in today. He lives up in the
foothills, and he's snowed in."