Bimbos of the Death Sun (14 page)

Miles Perry stared. “I very much doubt it,” he said. “Why?”

“Well, we wondered. There was a priest asking for admittance to the room, and I thought he might want to administer the last rites.”

“Hmm. Long black robe with a rope belt? Skinny guy with a beard?”

Lieutenant Ayhan nodded.

“Don’t let him in. That’s Monk Malone. He’s not a priest; he’s a fan.”

“One of the members of your convention, then?”

“Yes. But we haven’t told anybody that Dungannon is dead, so how did he know?”

“We’re not all that inconspicuous,” smiled Ayhan.
“I think he must have seen us come in, and followed to see what was going on.”

“If he knows, it’ll be all over the hotel soon,” said Miles.

Louis Warren had missed his plane, but that was the least of his worries. Sometime during his frantic review of things to be done, it suddenly occurred to him that the manuscript he had come for was lying in a room that was now sealed and guarded by the police department. He rushed to the door of the conference room, but unable to think of anything he could actually do about the situation, he sat down and tried to think up arguments for getting the detectives to return the manuscript. Ought he to call the legal department?

He looked up as Diefenbaker came in, carrying a couple of Cokes. “I got Jay Omega to take over the lecture,” he said, puffing a little from the unaccustomed haste. “Have the police spoken to you yet?”

“No. I suppose they’ll insist on it, since I found the body, but there’s really nothing I can tell them.”

“Do you know who would have wanted to kill him?” asked Dief.

“Sure. Get a copy of the
Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers
and start with A. You could have raffled off chances to kill Appin Dungannon.”

Diefenbaker thought about last night’s performance at the costume competition. “He didn’t seem to mind making enemies,” he conceded.

“No. He had quite a gift for it,” Warren agreed, sipping his drink.

“I suppose your company will miss a best-selling author, though.”

“They might, but I won’t,” said the editor. “Imagine
being able to edit a Tratyn Runewind book without having to wrangle over every semicolon, or justify every deleted adjective. It’s going to be wonderful!”

“I suppose a woman could have shot him,” said Diefenbaker thoughtfully, “Didn’t he have an ex-wife?”

“Yes. Doubleday is bringing out her book this spring:
Beauty and the Beast: A Marriage Made in Munchkinland
. If it’s still in galleys, they’ll probably want to do a rewrite on her last chapter.”

“You don’t think she’s in town, do you?”

“She lives in California. She’ll be easy to find. Check the talk-show circuit. I don’t think she did it; no motive, really. The same goes for all the relatives. Alive, they got all the money they needed. But Dungannon stipulated that, upon his death, the estate would go to the Scottish Archaeological Society. Everybody knows that, especially the ex-wife. Still,” he mused, “It would make great publicity for the book if she did! I wonder who has the paperback rights?”

Jay Omega had stressed the value of reading to improve one’s writing style; he had recommended a computer for ease of corrections; and he had urged them to write what they knew, insisting that in today’s world of high technology, a knowledge of science could not be faked.

The audience of would-be writers had countered with questions about publisher’s advances, agents’ percentages, and movie rights. Jay Omega, whose experience in all of these was limited, advised them to hold such questions until after the rewrite of the first draft.

“Any more questions?” he asked, trying to sound cheerful.

A clean-cut young man in a suit stood up. “I am interested in becoming a writer,” he said, with the unctuous charm of a business major. “And I was wondering about this business of setting up an office in your home in which to write. I know it can’t double as a guest room, but I was wondering whether you can deduct the entire cost of your computer and office furniture in the first year, or if you have to spread it out over several years. And also, can you begin to deduct depreciation on the equipment in the year of purchase?”

Jay Omega, who doubted that his royalties would ever equal his advance for
Bimbos
, blinked at the questioner. He hadn’t expected to see a yellow spotted tie in this crowd. “Well…” he said at last, “I think that depends. Not all writers bother with home offices…”

“Since most of them couldn’t afford the furniture.” muttered Marion.

“What have you written?” Jay Omega asked the young man.

“I haven’t written anything,” came the reply. “I’m sure I could, but I wanted to get all the business aspects straight before I became a professional.”

Jay Omega was beginning to understand why Appin Dungannon threw folding chairs. He wondered how to answer someone who thought of writing as just another business, and then he remembered a line that might apply. “Uh … well… it’s like this,” he stammered, “Being a professional writer is a lot like being a hooker. You’d better find out if you’re any good at it before you start charging for it.”

Marion giggled to herself. If he doesn’t stop quoting me, I’ll charge him for speech-writing, she
thought.

The rest of the audience was still snickering appreciatively when Monk Malone mounted the steps to the stage. He was still wearing his black friar’s habit, and beneath the dark, matted hair, his solemn face seemed to burn with purpose. Probably wants to start a children’s crusade, thought Jay Omega.

“Excuse me, Mr. Omega,” he said with ecclesiastical dignity. “I must make an announcement.”

“I don’t think—”

Monk Malone commandeered the microphone. Raising both hands as if he were offering an invocation, he called out, “I have an announcement of the utmost gravity!”

“How many G’s?” yelled a NASA freak.

Monk Malone silenced him with a smoldering stare. “The Force is with us in the person of its darkest horseman. You may see it as a judgment, or as the caprice of the goddess Weird, but it has come to pass. I must now inform you that Appin Dungannon is no more.”

Marion’s jaw dropped. For once, she found herself speechless.

Jay Omega clutched the lectern and looked down at his shoes, half in embarrassment, half with genuine regret.

For a stunned second no one moved. Then a voice near the back row blurted out, “Holy shit!” and the audience sprang to life.

“Cut down in the flower of his creativity …” Monk Malone was saying.

“What was it? Heart attack?”

“I saw some cops in the lobby!” someone called out. “I figured it was a disturbing-the-peace rap.”

“Cops! —Was he murdered?”

Suddenly a clarion voice rang out like a battle cry above the babble. “The hucksters’ room! While we still can!”

In the row in front of her, Jack Larson snatched up his cloak and prepared to join the stampede to the door. Marion leaned over and touched his aim. “The hucksters’ room?” she echoed. “What does that have to do with Appin Dungannon’s being murdered.”

The Dungeon Master smiled at her. “Not a thing,” he replied. “But life goes on. And now autographed copies of Appin Dungannon’s books are worth triple what they were five minutes ago.”

M
iles Perry didn’t think that homicide detectives ought to giggle while investigating a murder. Still, he supposed it was better than a granite-faced Joe Friday look that radiated suspicion. Beneath his salt-and-pepper crew cut, Lieutenant Ayhan reddened with suppressed chuckles. Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes, and he kept taking deep breaths that would almost turn into whoops.

“I’m glad he wasn’t stabbed with a broadsword,” he managed to say. “I’d hate to have to book an elf!”

“Elves use shortswords,” said Miles Perry.

Ayhan continued to chuckle. “Or pixie dust poisoning. That would have been a toughie!”

Mile endeavored to look stern. “We are seriously concerned over Mr. Dungannon’s death, both personally
and as a reflection on the integrity of our convention,” he said stiffly.

Ayhan dabbed at his eyes. “Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “After years of winos with their heads bashed in, and a slew of unpremeditated bar brawls, this does make a change. The captain asks me, ‘So who do you have for suspects?’ and I say, ‘Dopey, Bashful, and Doc!’” He shook his head. “This is one for the memoirs.”

“I trust the murderer will turn out to be someone sufficiently colorful,” said Miles politely.

“No matter,” said Ayhan. “We’ll get him. People watch too much TV these days. They think if they wipe off the fingerprints and ditch the murder weapon, they’re safe. Nah. We got all kinds of fancy lab tests. Did you know that firing a pistol leaves a minute powder residue on your hand? True. All we need are a few likely suspects. Now if this was one of them Mystery Writers of America conventions, I might be worried. Those folks are all hopped up on police procedure, but here? Not to worry. Twelve hours of legwork and a little questioning, and it’ll be a wrap.”

“It will be all right to go ahead with the con, won’t it?” asked Miles with a worried frown. “We have a banquet tonight that can’t be canceled, and we couldn’t afford to give refunds.”

Lieutenant Ayhan considered it. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “It’ll keep everybody in one place, which will be nice from our point of view. My people will probably be finished with the death scene soon anyhow. The hotel people always want the room back post haste. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. Will you want to question everybody? They’re all in the auditorium now. I could
make an announcement.”

Ayhan grimaced and looked at the ceiling. “Everybody?” he sighed. “All the Merry Men? That would take forever; waste of time. Why don’t you tell me what the victim has been up to here? Any quarrels? Anybody have a grudge against him?”

Miles Perry’s lips twitched. “And that’s going to narrow it down?” As quickly as he could, he described Appin Dungannon’s general outrageousness, from the Yorkie bars to the breakfast croissants, hitting all the tantrums in between.

Lieutenant Ayhan noted it all very carefully in his little blue book. “So if annoyance is a motive, you could be in the suspect semi-finals, right?”

“If you could kill by mental telepathy, I’d probably be guilty, but physically I wouldn’t lift a finger toward anybody.”

Ayhan glanced up at Miles Perry’s comfortable bulk. Physically he probably lifted as little as possible, the detective was thinking. “So he insulted everybody last night, in a general way? How about this kid he threw chairs at? What’s his name? Morgan?”

“Oh, he wasn’t angry about that,” Miles assured him. “Clifford Morgan was thrilled to have drawn so much attention from an Eminent Pro. He’ll be famous now.”

“Famous? How? He’s going to sue?”

“No. I mean in fandom. People will write up stories in fan magazines describing the incident, and it will become part of fannish history. Some cons may pay Cliff’s way now, just to have him on hand to tell the tale.”

Ayhan frowned. “Are there any drugs floating around this thing?”

“Of course not!” gasped Miles, indignant. “The fen are not into drugs, except maybe the old ones, left over from the ’Sixties. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I wasn’t worried,” said Ayhan. “I understand drugs. Drug killings are straightforward. All this elf-and-image stuff is a real bear, though. But I’ve heard of it. My kid, when he was in junior high, got into a
D&D
group for a while. I think he was a warrior.”

Miles Perry looked interested. “Your son is a fan?”

“Nah. He was. But then he got to tenth grade, and discovered girls and JV football. I guess you could say he outgrew it. He’s at Wake Forest now, in pre-law. Now, did Mr. Dungannon attend the con by himself? No wife, girlfriend, agent?”

“He was alone. He is or at least
was
married. He was divorced a few years ago. She is writing a book about her life with him, and we had hoped to have her as a guest at one of our future cons.”

“Hmmm, who did he spend time with while he was here?”

Miles Perry thought about it. “When he wasn’t sort of being available—you know, for autographs and that sort of thing—he was in his room finishing his book. I guess the only people who really saw much of him were at dinner last night.”

“Ah! I’ll start with them.” He flourished his notepad. “Their names?”

“Uh, Walter Diefenbaker—you’ve met him. Jay Omega, he’s also a guest author. Marion Farley, she’s a professor who teaches science fiction, and is also Jay’s—what do they say nowadays—‘significant other’—”

“S-i-g-n-i-f-i-c-a-n-t O-t-h-e-r,” wrote Ayhan.

“—and, er, of course,” clucked Miles guiltily, “myself.”

“Oh?” Ayhan raised an eyebrow, and scribbled furiously.