We’ll Always Have Parrots

Chapter 17

I fumbled, and nearly dropped the camera onto the cheering crowds below. Apparently I’d failed to notice the arrival of the Amblyopian Minstrels. Walker strutted up and down the front of the stage, belting out the lyrics to the ancient Troggs hit, while his fellow minstrels blasted an accompaniment on guitar, bass, and drums.

They weren’t bad, actually. Walker had a decent voice, and more than enough stage presence to carry off the act. The other musicians were pretty good. Actually, they were damned good, and I had the sneaking suspicion that they weren’t old buddies of Walker’s but the three best studio musicians he could afford to hire. Still, they seemed to enjoy themselves, and the crowd went wild.

The volume of sound made coherent thought difficult, but it did occur to me that if the police had turned Walker loose, maybe the other members of the cast and crew would follow. I scanned the crowd for Michael.

Of course, odds were he’d find a place backstage. And I really ought to cruise by the front desk and ask about our new room before going backstage to look for Michael.

Though I found myself staring, fascinated, at the stage. Walker had been so despondent earlier in the day, and now he was positively exuberant. Yeah, he was an actor, making a professional appearance, but he wasn’t that good. His happiness looked genuine. Understandable.

But dammit, didn’t he realize how bad it looked?

Would look, anyway, when the fans found out tomorrow about the QB’s death. Assuming word had leaked out about his firing.

Or if the police saw him tonight. And they would see him, one way or the other. If they weren’t watching live, odds were the con would videotape the concert, like everything else this weekend.

Were they? Yes. Apparently the cameras pretty much ran themselves. One pointed at the stage and the other at the dance floor, and the techs only glanced over now and then—more at the readout that showed how much tape remained than at the monitor.

Did Walker realize this? Probably not. Or if he did, he probably hadn’t thought through the implications.

For that matter, Maggie, now dancing exuberantly in the middle of the floor, was going to look pretty happy on the videotapes—though I wasn’t as worried about Maggie. She was up front about the QB being her enemy. If anyone taxed her with insensitivity for dancing away the night of the QB’s murder, she could simply shrug and say, “I didn’t like her, and I wasn’t that broken up.”

After all, she hadn’t gone around all day weeping and wailing to everyone about all the horrible things the QB was doing and then, when the QB actually appeared, doing an abrupt about face and sucking up to her. Like Walker.

But still, even Maggie’s exuberance might seem a little insensitive in the cold light of day.

And what if it’s not just exuberance, a small voice inside me kept asking. What if one of them really has a reason to celebrate?

Their problem, I told myself. I scanned the floor one more time. I didn’t spot Michael, but Chris Blair was standing at the side of the stage, looking a lot less exuberant than Walker and Maggie. Just then he glanced up, saw me, and waved. I waved back, and continued scanning for Michael.

Not there. Actually, a good thing; I’d have time to check with the front desk about our new room.

But on my way down the stairs from the balcony, I ran into Chris.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s not stand here blocking the stairs.”

Not that the stairs were a high traffic area, but I could tell from his unsteady posture that the beer he held wasn’t his first. The sooner he got back on level ground the better. I didn’t believe in the old superstition that deaths came in threes, but just in case I was wrong, I’d rather see two more aging starlets buy the farm than two more members of the Porfiria cast and crew.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, breathing hops into my face. “Is she really dead?”

“Did you think it was some kind of publicity stunt? Yes, she’s dead. Didn’t the cops interrogate you about it?”

“Yeah, but I figured maybe they were just trying to scare us, you know? You’re sure? She couldn’t have just been unconscious?”

“Chris, I saw her,” I said. “I’ve seen dead people. I know what dead looks like. She was dead.”

“Damn,” he said. He stared into space, shaking his head slightly. Then he took another long pull on his beer.

“You seem pretty upset,” I said.

“I am, kind of,” Chris said. “Upset. Feeling a little guilty.”

“Guilty?” I echoed.

“Yeah, guilty,” he said. “Because I can’t help feeling…well, not exactly happy. But definitely…relieved. I guess that sounds pretty terrible.”

“Actually, it sounds fairly normal,” I said. “At least where the QB was concerned. You’re probably not the only one who doesn’t feel heartbroken.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I bet she wasn’t trashing anyone else’s life as badly as mine, but I’m not the only one. Look at this.”

He opened his mouth, pulled his lower lip down with one hand, and tapped a tooth with his index finger.

“You see?” he said, his words slightly garbled.

“See what?” I asked. Chris had nice, even, white teeth. I couldn’t see anything in particular about the one he’d indicated.

“It’s a crown,” he said. He shifted his head slightly and paused for a moment, so I could get a better look before he took his hand away and gulped his beer.

“That’s nice,” I said. But I felt puzzled—had the QB knocked one of his teeth out? Seemed extreme, even for her.

“She’s got me so stressed that I grind my teeth at night,” he said. “I actually broke this one. I have to wear this mouth guard thing to bed if I want to have any left. She’s trashing my career; she’s trashing my love life; now she’s even trashing my teeth.”

“Well, not any more,” I said.

“No, not any more,” he echoed. “So I don’t see how anyone could expect me to feel all grief-stricken.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” I said. “Although it might be wise to postpone any actual celebration until after the cops catch the murderer. To avoid confusing them.”

It took a second, but he laughed.

“I get it,” he said. “That’s good. That’s what I like about you, Meg. You have this great sense of…sense of, um…”

“Sense of humor,” I said, backing away slightly, thinking that if he breathed on me one more time, I’d absorb enough beer fumes to skew a breathalyzer test. “Thanks. Look, I have to—”

“No, not just a sense of humor,” Chris said. “You have a sense of…life! The sense that life goes on. I mean, even at a time like this…especially at a time like this, with death all around us, you have to affirm life! And grab it with both hands.”

“That’s not life you’re grabbing, Chris, it’s me,” I said, pulling away from his hands. “I’m not available for affirming. Go back to the ballroom; I’m sure you’ll find any number of nice women who’d love to affirm with you.”

“But Meg,” he protested.

“Chris,” I said, “I’m serious. Go away.”

Something in my tone got through to him, and he stumbled away, still mumbling protests and casting hurt glances back at me.